Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (28 page)

The Kojin squealed so loud, those nearby had to hold their ears. Even Mala lost his temper, pounding the tail of his trident onto the gravel road.

“You bastard! You . . . you . . .
ass
!” Mala screamed. “How
dare
you! Invictus has already exposed you as a weakling. And yet you speak to me like this? You should be kneeling before me . . . begging!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the king said calmly, “but I am the one standing on top of Balak while you are the one at its feet. Who is the beggar?”

At this, Harīti leapt about like a Dhutangan ape, and Wyvern transformed back and forth between beautiful and hideous. Even the Mogols and wolves, ancient enemies of Nissaya, got into the act, hooting and howling. Globs of golden fire spewed from Mala’s chain, sizzling on the ground. The golden soldier who huddled behind him danced away and then fell flat on his back, banging his helm on the surface of the road.

“You . . . you . . . son of a . . . a . . .
whore
!” Mala shouted, ignoring all else but his own anger. “You will
suffer
for this . . . this . . .
insolence
! Do you think just your
death
will satisfy me? There are far worse things, I assure you.”

Throughout the tirade, Henepola remained calm. As he was about to respond again, an enormous figure rose up beside him and leaned out over the parapet.

WHEN YAMA-UTU heard King Henepola announce Mala’s approach, his introspection was broken. Never before had he experienced such intense alarm, not even when he had left the berm and begun his slaughter of the Warlish witches near Lake Ti-ratana.
Mala approaches
! Utu had waited more than three decades for this moment—and a part of him, he just then realized, had believed it would never occur.

But because of the ring, everything was different. His motivation to destroy the being that inhabited his brother’s body had been . . .
dampened
. Purity was a state all its own, caring naught for violence or vengeance. Utu felt his resolve wavering, and it was taking supreme concentration to maintain a desire to slay Mala. After all, what purpose did it serve? Perhaps his wife, Yama-Bhari, was right. The words she had spoken to Jord on the icy peaks of Okkanti replayed in his mind.

“You do not comprehend us . . . Violence is not in our nature; we are not capable of it. Nothing can result from violence but more violence. If you are asking us to fight on your behalf, then our answer is no . . . Of all our kind, only Yama-Deva strayed from the peaks, and even he never left the foothills—until the day he was stolen from us forever.”

Stolen from us forever.

When Utu leaned over the parapet, he was horrified—and for the time being, Bhari’s whisperings were quieted. At that terrible moment, Utu witnessed firsthand the ruination of Yama-Deva. His lovely brother—once the greatest snow giant ever to exist—had become more hideous than a devil and more ridiculous than a buffoon. But that was not the worst of it. What troubled Utu far more intensely was that he still could recognize aspects of Deva: the shape of his brow, the silkiness of his mane, the square set of his shoulders. It was heart-rending. And maddening.

Stolen from us forever
?

Perhaps. But shouldn’t the snow giants avenge this theft?

“You . . . you . . . son of a . . . a . . .
whore
!” the blasphemy that had formerly been his brother shouted. “You will
suffer
for this . . . this . . .
insolence
, little man! Do you think that just your
death
will satisfy me? There are far worse things, I assure you!”

Utu took a deep breath, and then spoke. “You and I both know . . . all too well . . . that there are far worse things than death, my brother.”

THESE WORDS SHOOK Mala. The eerily familiar timbre of the voice from above staggered his resolve, making him feel dizzy and unsure.
My brother
. How peculiar hearing this made him feel, as if the forgotten past had come to pay a surprise visit.

Mala found himself looking around for Invictus. The sorcerer would help him to eliminate these strange feelings. But then he chided himself silently and regained a bit of his swagger. “
You
sounded the horn,” Mala said, gripping the shaft of the trident with ferocity.

“Yes, my brother.”

“Why do you call me brother, old fool?”

“You no longer know me, but I know you. We have loved each other for millennia. The hatred you hold so dear is only a recent thing, after all.”

As usual, Mala’s ire got the best of him.

“You ramble, old fool . . . I don’t know you. But I know well the rabble at your side. And soon I will teach you all a lesson.”

“Now . . . do it
now
. You’ll never have a better chance!” Mala heard a man shout, recognizing the annoying Asēkha chieftain from Dibbu-Loka.

“Hush,” the pathetic king said. “Only the snow giant will know when the time is right.”

Now, sensing a threat, Harīti and Wyvern stepped in front of Mala. But he paid them no heed, continuing to stare upward at the battlement, his expression perplexed.

“What are you little rats up to, anyway? Tell me quickly, before my patience withers.”

“You no longer know me, but I know you,” the familiar voice repeated. “You are Yama-Deva . . . my eldest brother. I am Yama-Utu—and I love you.”

“Shut up, you ass!” Mala shouted at the apparition. “The last person who dared call me by that name was made to suffer. Do not use it in my presence again . . . or I will see to it that
you
also pay the price.”

“What suffering can you bestow upon me that I have not already endured? The one I admired most in the world . . . ruined. But I have come to rescue you, my brother. If you will allow me to enter your heart, all will be well. If not, I will have no choice but to force my healing upon you.”

The weight of the words caused Mala to wobble. If not for the support of the trident, he would have fallen. But it was Carūūl that truly saved him. As if sensing a threat from the power emanating from above, the ring blazed to life, searing Mala’s left middle finger. The pain shattered whatever temporary sway Utu had achieved. Once again, Mala’s voice boomed for leagues.

“Listen to me
now
, you slimy worms! Surrender was your only option, the only path to mercy. But instead of showing me the respect I deserve, you hurl insults. For that, all will suffer.”

And then he turned and stomped away, but not before almost tripping over the fallen soldier, who remained prone on the gravel road.

In yet another fit of rage, Mala reached down, lifted the soldier in one hand, and heaved him toward the fortress. It was an astonishing feat of strength. The large man soared high into the air and then somersaulted several times before clearing the towering battlement. He would have plunged into the moat on the other side had Utu not reached up and snatched him.

EVEN BEFORE THE march toward Nissaya had begun, the golden soldiers had felt the sting of deprival. At first, the rationing of food and water had been subtle, explained away as a symptom of war. However, soon after they left Avici the reduction of allocations worsened, though only for the newborns, not the monsters. At each camp, food was plentiful: goats, venison, fowl, boars, and even human slaves, all slaughtered and eaten, mostly raw. There was water and wine too, though many of the monsters tended to disdain anything except bloody flesh.

Regardless, the golden soldiers were given little: a sip of water here, a scrap of meat there. What few provisions came their way could not have sustained sixteen thousand, much less one hundred and sixty thousand.

“Why?” Augustus continually asked himself. It wasn’t like their army was poorly financed or ill-equipped. Mala had planned the assault on Nissaya for years, and Invictus had the wealth and influence to outfit an army many times this size; but for reasons the second in command could not fathom, the golden soldiers were being starved.

“Second in command,” he often whispered to himself. “That’s a joke. Not a single monster would do my bidding. I’m a figurehead, if even that. I despise Mala and he despises me—but he holds all the cards.”

When they finally reached Nissaya, many of the golden soldiers could barely walk. To make matters worse, Mala ordered them to form a ridiculous ringlet around the immense stone mountain upon which the fortress perched. Did the Chain Man expect the black knights to sneak out the back door and make a run for it? And even if that absurd event were to occur, the soldiers would be too thinly spread to stop them—and too weak with thirst and starvation to even try. All through the day and night, they were forced to stand in the horrendous heat, until a few actually began to drop dead, though not in sufficient numbers to make much of a difference . . . yet.

Augustus was surprised when a Mogol rode over to him on a wolf and told him to join the parley. Maybe things were about to change. At least, when Nissaya was overrun there might be food and drink to be salvaged within its walls, though how Mala believed he could defeat the fortress that stood before them also was beyond the newborn general’s comprehension. Perhaps the Chain Man had the power to batter down the bulwarks with his bare hands. Who knew anymore?

As it turned out, the parley didn’t go well. Fearing Mala’s anger, Augustus tried to back away, but one of his sollerets caught on a rock, causing him to trip. The back of his helm struck the ground with a
whump
! Though he was not seriously injured, he temporarily lost consciousness, more from overall exhaustion than from the force of the blow. Just as he was regaining his bearings, the Chain Man picked him up in one hand and hurled him toward Balak, armor and all, as if he weighed little more than a pebble.

In a bizarre state of calmness, he thought, “This is what it feels like to fly. Makes me wish I was a dracool.”

Then his momentary reverie was broken. Hands as large as shields plucked him from the air and laid him down on hard, black stone. Someone removed his helm. A diverse assortment of faces stared at him. A proud woman wiped his brow with a cool cloth, stunning Augustus with her gentleness. Water was offered. He drank, choked, then greedily drank more. But even as he did, his stomach burned. Something was wrong inside. He was damaged.

“Your name, sir,” came a respectful voice. Augustus looked into the eyes of a handsome but elderly gentleman with ebony skin and long white hair.

“Auh . . . Auh . . . gustus,” he managed through a haze of swollen pain.

“Welcome to Nissaya,” the man said. “I am King Henepola the Tenth. With regret, I must report that you are our prisoner, but you will be treated with respect as long as you do not attempt to harm anyone within my walls.”

“I . . . don’t understand,” Augustus mumbled.

The king laughed. “Sir, we do not expect you to comprehend us. Perhaps one day you will come to see our methods. But I must ask you a few questions before you are taken to a place of comfort. Are you injured so badly that you cannot answer?”

“I am . . . not sure. But I will try.”

“Very good. Solve this mystery, then. Why are the golden soldiers being treated so poorly? What does Mala gain from this?”

When Augustus chuckled, blood gurgled in his throat and spilled from the corners of his lips. “Your guess . . . is as good . . . as mine.”

Without further warning, Augustus mercifully succumbed to darkness.