Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (27 page)

“I don’t like the sound of this,” the general said.

“As you should not.”

Torg described the new incarnation of Urbana, causing Laylah to shudder. “She was horrible enough before,” Laylah said.

The Svakaran perked up when he heard mention of the vampire. “Elu killed the vampire lady with this blade,” he said, displaying the Tugarian dagger.

“I thought so too,” Torg said. “The druid queen must have revived her.
Kattham
’s will is formidable and now will be even more powerfully focused.”

He turned to Laylah. “The vampire is full of hatred.”

“I’m not afraid,” Laylah said.

“Do not say those words until you see what she has become,” Torg said sternly, but then his expression softened. “You and I will face her together.”

“Don’t forget
me
,” Rajinii said. “The vampire and her horde will assault
my
lands. I’m not helpless to defend them.”

“None of you need fear,” the Svakaran said in a squeaky voice. “Elu will slay her—again.”

For the last time in a long while, there was laughter aplenty.

Above it all, Ugga could be heard shouting, “I just loves that little guy!”

AT THAT MOMENT, Urbana was laughing too, though cackling was a more accurate description of her mirth. Soon she and her army would reach the southern border of Dhutanga, and before midnight, the great battle would begin. Her staff had been carved from the black heartwood of a Dhutangan tree, but the glowing jewel on its head had come from the tail of a great dragon, and more recently from the pommel of a magnificent sword. Paramita, the sword had been called, and
The Torgon
had once wielded it. The irony was not lost on the vampire. A piece of the weapon that had slain
Kattham
’s mother now would be used to destroy her ancient enemies.

SINCE DONNING THE ring the previous night, Yama-Utu had not spoken. With trepidation, Kusala had watched as Utu ascended the narrow stair from the inner chambers. A milky glow of blinding intensity emanated from his right hand. Though it was difficult to judge the age of a snow giant, it seemed to the chieftain that Utu had grown considerably older since he and the others had last seen him. Rather than appearing ready and able to defeat Mala, he seemed feeble and unenthusiastic. To make matters worse, the snow giant reeked of charred flesh, much like Mala.

“How are you, my friend?” Kusala asked timidly.

Utu smiled but did not otherwise respond.

“He is as he should be,” Henepola said. “However, I must warn the rest of you to avoid physical contact with the snow giant. The ring will infect anyone he touches.”

Kusala didn’t like the sound of that. But the king would say no more, and Utu seemed unwilling or unable to elaborate. Afterward they returned to the first wall. During the walk back, nary a word was said. Even Madiraa, who usually was cheerful and talkative, seemed depressed. Kusala began to feel as if he were part of a death march.

“Which perhaps I am,” he remembered thinking.

Now, as dawn crept upon them like an enemy from the east, Kusala again stood on the battlement of Balak and stared out at the Gray Plains. Mala and the other monsters, some two thousand score, were jammed into a surprisingly small area fronting the first gate. But the golden soldiers remained in their bizarre circle, standing side by side like children holding hands. As far as Kusala knew, they had not moved from this position since noon of the previous day. Even more puzzling, there were reports that the newborns were receiving no food and little water, as if Mala were using starvation and thirst to defeat his own army. To Kusala, it made no sense—but what really did these days?

Black knights had brought armor for the king, conjurer, and princess, and they had donned it in view of all. Henepola and Indajaala wielded their
Maōi
staffs, while Madiraa bore only a long sword of exquisite make. Including Indajaala, a slew of conjurers were stationed nearby, each eerily resembling both the king and his assistant, their long white hair flowing from beneath their helms. Most of the Tugars also were in attendance, including the Asēkhas, though they disdained armor in favor of black cloth. All told, more than thirty thousand manned the battlement of Balak, while fifteen thousand remained on Ott and five thousand on Hakam, keeping fresh defenders in reserve.

Churikā nestled up to Kusala and whispered in his ear. Since making love, the pair had spoken little, as if embarrassed to be in each other’s presence. But Kusala knew that it had little to do with shame. Both had been too busy preparing for the battle to indulge in further frivolities.

“He hasn’t moved or even opened his eyes since he sat down,” the young Asēkha said to her chieftain, gesturing toward the snow giant, whom she continued to distrust. “It’s as if he’s attempting a Death Visit.”

“We are not to touch him, under orders from the king.”

“And you think I want to? Chieftain, you underestimate me.”

“Never.”

Churikā smiled. “Why, Kusala . . . that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Proof, only, that you’re young.” But he smiled too.

Then Churikā’s mirth faltered. “Dalhapa came to me today . . . with news.”

“Yes?”

“She has ascended to Asēkha.”

Kusala’s eyes went wide. “Obviously none in Nissaya have fallen. That leaves only Rati, Dvipa . . . and Tāseti.”

“I’m sorry, chieftain. Dalhapa does not know which of them is no longer, only that an event has occurred.”

Kusala fought back tears.

“Nowhere are we safe,” he finally said.

AS THE EARLY morning darkness slinked away, Balak’s battlement bustled. Thousands of lightly armored bowmen took their positions along the crenulated parapet, interspersed with heavily armored swordsmen. The trebuchets were manned and loaded with granite balls coated with a magically concocted pitch that would explode on contact. Heavy vats filled with acidic oils were stationed every ten cubits along the battlement. The oils would not harm the black granite, but flesh was another matter. And they left a slippery mess at the exterior base of the wall that even monsters would find difficult to traverse.

When the sun finally showed its face, heat billowed over the fortress. Even Kusala gasped and turned aside his face, as if a god with a hand of fire had slapped him. This was more than just unseasonable warmth. Sorcery was involved on a scale beyond comprehension. Invictus had the might to control the weather. Was there nothing he could not accomplish? It was demoralizing, to say the least.

Podhana approached Kusala next.

“Chieftain, I have urgent news,” the Asēkha said. “King Henepola should also hear this.”

“I am present,” the king said. “Speak.”

Podhana glanced at Kusala, who nodded ever so slightly.

“We all know that without the aid of the eagles, there has been little communication between Jivita and Nissaya,” the Asēkha said. “Even pigeons trained by Tugars have not been able to find their way safely between the cities. But just a moment ago, a bird I raised myself was able to return from Jivita. And it carried dire news. Yesterday morn, the druids were massing near the southern border of Dhutanga, and it was believed that they would assail the Jivitans before last midnight.”

“One way or the other, it might already be over,” Kusala said.

“May God’s glory be with them,” Henepola said. A long period of silence followed. “But we can do nothing for Jivita. We have enough to worry about here.” Then the king turned to Kusala. “Have you ever felt such heat?”

“Only during
Majjhe Ghamme
(midsummer) on the dunes of Tējo. Midspring in the Gap of Gati? Never.”

“And it is only the break of dawn. What does the sorcerer hope to accomplish with this devilry?”

“I do not comprehend how it might benefit Mala’s army,” Kusala said. “If anything, it harms them more than us. The fortress provides shade and a ready source of water. The fields outside its walls have little of either. If my eyes do not betray me, a number of golden soldiers have already collapsed.”

“I have seen at least a dozen hauled away by Mogols,” Churikā said.

Captain Palak joined the discourse. “Not even Mala is stupid enough to destroy his own army,” the senior commander said. “There is a method to his madness—of that we can be certain.”

“Perhaps our questions will soon be answered,” the king said. “Behold! Mala approaches.”

At those words, Utu’s eyes sprang open.

WHEN A MOGOL passed out of earshot, the golden soldier resumed his litany.

“They’re trying to cook us; that’s what they’re doing. Bake us nice and juicy so that Mala and his monsters can have a royal feast.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the man on his right. “They wouldn’t have wasted all this time training us to fight, if our only function was to be their dinner.”

“The only thing they trained me to do was to put on my armor and march—this way, that way, every way,” the whiner said. “All I got out of it was a pair of stout legs.”

“Keep your mouth shut, will ya?” said the man on his left. “You’re just making it worse. Soon it’ll be clear enough what the bosses are up to. Moaning about it won’t speed nothing up.”

“I’m
thirsty
!” Whiner said. “It’s going on two days since I’ve had a sip of water, much less something to eat. As if that’s not bad enough, it’s so hot I can barely breathe. And here we are, standing around in enough armor to roast a boar. I’m getting
dizzy
, I tell you! I could barely fight a baby, much less one of them nasty black knights.”

“You’ve always been a baby,” Right said.

“Aren’t
you
thirsty?”

“I haven’t pissed in a week, but thirsty’s better than dead.”

“Pretty soon, there ain’t going to be no difference.”

“Damn right!” Left said. “Because I’m going to kill you myself.”

“Look over there,” Whiner said, ignoring the threat. “Here’s more proof Mala couldn’t care less about us. There he goes up toward the gate to have a parley with the black king. They’ll probably talk for half the day—and in the meantime, he’ll leave us standing here like fools.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Right said. “Soon as they have their talk, then the real fighting will start—and when we take the fortress, we can go get us as much food, water, and wine as we could ever want.”

“That’s what I’m thinking too,” Left said.

“All I know is, I don’t feel so good,” Whiner said. “My face is hot, and everything’s getting blurry. We’ve been standing in this damnable ringlet all day and night. I think I’m going to faint. Maybe even die. Dying’s sounding better all the time.”

“Don’t hang around on our account,” Right said. “There’ll be more for us after you’re no longer.”

Whiner didn’t die, but his lips swelled up so much he lost the ability to speak.

FINALLY . . .
FINALLY
 . . . things were going to get fun. Mala had been waiting for this moment for two decades. The titanic blast from the horn still puzzled him, but even that mystery would soon be put to rest. And if not, who cared? The fortress would fall, regardless.

Mala’s entourage included Harīti the Kojin, Wyvern-Abhinno the Warlish witch, Bunjako the Stone-Eater, and Augustus the golden soldier, the last of whom staggered exhaustedly behind the others. Fifty Mogols on black wolves encircled them. When they came within one hundred paces of the first gate, Mala called a halt.

Mala’s heart pounded within his chest. Poisons dripped from his fangs, sizzling on the gravel road at his feet. Carūūl seared his left middle finger, and Vikubbati burned the palm of his right hand. These two agonies, combined with the constant pain from his golden chain, helped to calm him and bring things back into proper perspective. He stared up at the crowded battlement of Balak. When he spoke, his voice could be heard throughout the fortress.

“Keepers of Nissaya, I demand to speak to your king!”

At first this was met by silence, but then Henepola appeared above the gate, bearing his own staff.

“Your demands mean nothing,
Andhabaala
(Fool of fools),” the king responded, and though his voice was not as loud as Mala’s, it still could be heard for a great distance. “But the rules of parley require that I listen to your words, at least until they offend me.”

At that, Harīti pounded her chest with her six boulder-sized fists.

“Soon there will be only one set of rules . . .
my
rules,” Mala growled.

Wyvern, in her hideous state, cackled.

This did not dismay Henepola. “Already you overstep your bounds. But that does not surprise me.”

The Stone-Eater growled, spewing smoke from his nostrils.

“How bold you are . . . for such a
little
man!” Mala said to the king. “Do you not desire mercy for yourself and your people? If so, you will speak to me with respect.”

Henepola stood resolute, his white hair flowing regally in a suddenly fierce breeze.

“As for mercy, how can I desire something that is beyond you? As for respect, I give that only to those who have earned it.”