Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (39 page)

Torg leaned down and whispered in Bhojja’s perked ear. “Better?”

The mare nickered.

But gave no other answer.

WHEN THE GOLDEN soldier died, Kusala wasn’t surprised. The newborn’s face was grotesquely swollen, making it obvious that he had been close to death even before Mala heaved him skyward, though why he had been so cruelly tortured was beyond Kusala’s comprehension.

When Bhayatupa had appeared in the skies over the fortress, Kusala
was
surprised. Though he had lived long in the world, he had never before seen a great dragon up close. Far worse was the sight of Invictus riding on his neck. Not until the dragon soared out of his vision to the east did Kusala feel able to take a full breath.

The monsters had a different reaction, cheering with gusto. At first, Mala had appeared to be in terrible pain, but then he also had cheered. The spirit of the fortress deflated even further.

Kusala decided to do something about it. Leaping upon a merlon, he turned toward the interior of the castle and let out a screech so high-pitched it was barely audible. The desert warriors also screeched, and the black knights joined them, screaming, hollering, and clanging their swords. The monsters went quiet. Mala’s army was greater in number and strength, but it was not as great in courage.

When the clamor died down, King Henepola looked at Kusala and smiled. “Well done, chieftain.”

“Agreed!” Madiraa said.

Kusala hopped off the merlon and faced them both. “It was a small gesture, at best.”

Indajaala remained kneeling by the golden soldier. The conjurer had removed one of his own gauntlets and was running his fingertips along the newborn’s breastplate.

“See how pliable it has become,” Indajaala said in a puzzled tone. “The heat is causing it to soften.”

Henepola knelt down and also touched the golden metal. “What good is armor if it weakens thus?”

“Which makes it even more senseless for the sorcerer to tamper with the weather,” Madiraa said.

“This heat tortures my flesh like fire,” Utu said, “but I am unused to warmth of any kind.”

“Sire,” Commander Palak interrupted. “There is movement on the field!”

It appeared the long-dreaded assault was about to begin.

FIFTY TREBUCHETS were on Balak and one hundred more on Ott, each capable of hurling flaming balls of pitch and other missiles more than one thousand cubits. For now, the interior border of Mala’s army remained just beyond their range, while the circle of golden soldiers was well beyond. The monsters, forty thousand strong, gathered in the fields outside Balak’s gate, except for the Mogols and wolves, who rode all about, making sure that none of the tormented newborns entertained thoughts of desertion.

Mala was elated and bemused. The surprise appearance of Bhayatupa had stunned him, especially when he had seen Invictus upon the dragon’s neck. His own chain had flared in response, increasing the usual pain enough to drop him to his knees. But the physical agony hadn’t been as bad as the jealousy. Had Invictus chosen another favorite pet? Mala couldn’t help but notice that the chain upon the dragon’s neck was more beautiful than his own.

Still, he had no time for self-pity. Instead of begging for mercy, the white-haired king and his bony band of followers had dared to insult him. Oh, how they would regret their insolence. Invictus was the most powerful being in the world, of that there was no doubt, but Mala was next in line. If his enemies doubted it now, they wouldn’t by the end of this day. Did the scrawny fools have any idea of the extent of his might?

Mala’s plan to topple Nissaya contained several phases. He had no siege machines, trebuchets, or catapults. Nor could he scale the walls with ladders; they were too tall and well-protected. It also was impossible to tunnel beneath them; the bedrock of Nissaya was impenetrable. The fortress could not be assailed by ordinary means, even by an army ten times the size of the one he commanded. But Mala had never planned to use ordinary means.

“THE STONE-EATERS are moving to the front,” Churikā said to Kusala.

“They appear to be forming a line just out of range of fire,” Kusala agreed.

“What can they do from there?” Henepola said.

“Several of the Mogols have presented Yama-Deva . . .
Mala
 . . . a pouch of some sort,” Utu said. “It appears quite heavy.”

“What’s he doing with the pouch?” Kusala said.

“He is removing objects—black and shiny—and placing a dozen or more at the feet of each Stone-Eater.”

“I see them too,” Kusala said. “But what are they?”

“Obsidian,” Henepola said.

“It could be,” Utu said. Then, “Yes . . .”

“What does that mean, Father?” Madiraa said.

“The Stone-Eaters derive their powers from ingesting obsidian,” the king said. “But I still don’t understand what good this will do them now. They are strong already. Why do they need additional sustenance?”

“Yama . . .
Mala
 . . . is doing something to the stones,” Utu said.

“He’s touching each pile with the trident,” Palak said. “Even I can see that.”

“And the stones are glowing,” Churikā said.

“This is not done for show,” Kusala said. “We must be alert!”

“For what?” Madiraa said.

“For the worst.”

BUNJAKO, SON OF Gulah and grandson of Slag, was the first to lift one of the fiery coals of obsidian in his scaly hand and shove it into his mouth. The Stone-Eater’s tongue, which was the consistency of thick canvas, cradled the nearly molten stone, taking pleasure in the fervent heat. When he swallowed it whole, the acidic contents of his stomach came to a raging boil. A golden belt, a personal gift from Invictus given to him and the five-score of his kind who stood nearby, glowed in response. Bunjako felt his stomach expand, causing the belt to stretch. Though it was agonizing almost beyond his ability to bear, it was a pain he welcomed. A desire for revenge was a trait common to Stone-Eaters—and Bunjako craved vengeance more than any. To him, the fall of Nissaya would be just the beginning of a long-due restitution that would end in the death of
The Torgon
, murderer of his father and grandfather, the two greatest of his kind ever to live.

Bunjako spread his arms wide. The fibrous muscles of his neck, chest, and abdomen swelled to four times their normal size. Then his mouth opened impossibly wide, his jaws unhinging. Black smoke oozed from his flat nostrils and pointy ears. Bunjako gagged, softly at first, but then violently, arching his back and flinging his face forward, his upper torso snapping like a striking snake. From his mouth came a sphere of fire that flared when it met the air, then quickly expanded to the size of a boulder. The sphere soared upward and outward, as if the most powerful trebuchet ever built had flung it, and it whistled toward the first bulwark of Nissaya.

Bunjako leaned over and placed his hands on his knees, taking several deep breaths. His insides were seared but—because of the magic of the golden belt—not permanently damaged. Invictus, and therefore Mala, knew what they were doing. He and his fellow Stone-Eaters had chosen the right allies.

“Come on, you ugly little dwarfs! Don’t stop now. More! I want
more
!”

Bunjako sighed. Mala was as obnoxious as he was powerful, but for now the Stone-Eaters needed him. Without the Chain Man, Nissaya would not fall. Nor would Jivita and the horrid Death-Knower.

“The first one was for you, Father,” he whispered. He picked up a second chunk of obsidian. “And now, Grandfather, it’s your turn.” Then he swallowed it, again relishing the pain.

THE FIRST OF the fiery spheres plummeted onto the battlement. Kusala and the others could only watch, helpless to prevent its descent. The sphere struck a merlon and exploded into a thousand fiery shards that pierced anything in their path, including black armor. The defenders were scattered and several dozen killed, and yet ninety-nine more of the broiling balls already were on their way. Soon the battlement was a place of chaos.

In a panic, several defenders launched counter-attacks with the trebuchets, but the balls of pitch fell short. Mala had placed his army in the perfect position to take advantage of the Stone-Eaters’ superior range. The only way to stop them would be to drop over the wall on rope ladders and counterattack on open ground. And that would be suicide, even for the Tugars, especially without
The Torgon
to aid them.

A second sphere fell, and then a third, each with devastating results. There were occasional misses, but most of the spheres struck along the battlement within five hundred cubits of the gate. The stone of Balak withstood the barrage with minimal damage, but its defenders were routed.

To Kusala’s dismay, even a Tugar was killed when a shard entered his mouth and exploded, and at least half a dozen other desert warriors were injured sufficiently to require attention. If the Kantaara Yodhas were afflicted, then the black knights stood no chance. Kusala and the other Asēkhas fled out of range of the concentrated attack. Henepola, Madiraa, Indajaala, and even Utu were forced to follow. Soon a wide area above the gate was undefended, and several trebuchets and more than a dozen cauldrons of oil were destroyed or abandoned.

Mala and a thousand of his monsters, accompanied by five thousand Pabbajja, rushed the gate. Though it was not yet noon, the Chain Man had scored the day’s first victory.

BY THE TIME the Stone-Eaters launched their attack, Whiner and the other golden soldiers had lost the ability to produce intelligent-sounding words. Of the almost one hundred and sixty thousand newborns that had made it to Nissaya, ten thousand had already died and been dragged onto festering piles by the Mogols and wolves. Most of the survivors remained standing on trembling legs, the intense heat baking their golden armor until it seemed to burn through their padding and into their skin. Quite a few had fallen on their faces, but if they still breathed, the Mogols left them where they lay.

Whiner watched Mala and the monsters storm toward the gate. He and his buddies, Left and Right, stared through the slits of their helms with glazed expressions, no longer cognizant of their role in the proceedings. They had gone beyond thirst and hunger, into hopelessness. For whatever reason, the Chain Man intended to use them not as proud fighters, but as a tortured audience. The man next to Right fell and was dragged away. Whiner didn’t care. He just watched . . . and waited.

WHEN THE MONSTERS charged, Gruugash and five thousand Pabbajja rushed along with them. Their high overlord ordered his cabal into position, as Invictus and Mala had long planned. The black granite floor that slowly ascended toward Balak was slippery, causing Gruugash to fall several times. Bizarrely it felt like the days of his youth, almost sixty millennia before, when he and his brothers and sisters would skate on frozen ponds within the heart of Java. How beautiful their lives had been—and innocent. Now everything was twisted, except for their memories. Gruugash and his people would attempt to sabotage Mala’s efforts. But in order to wreak the most havoc, the timing had to be right.

The intense heat had little effect on the Pabbajja, their thickly matted hair shielding their flesh from the sun. They approached the bulwark and formed a V-shaped wall that encased Mala and the other monsters. When they lifted their tridents, a sheath of magic shimmered upward and then turned inward, creating a protective roof over Mala’s head. Just like that, the Chain Man had gained control of the precious area at the foot of the gate.

A shower of arrows crashed into the magical shield, each incinerating on contact. Mala and the other monsters paid the arrows no heed. The next stage of the Chain Man’s plan consumed all his attention. The assault on the gate of Balak was about to begin.

Gruugash watched as two dozen dracools waddled forward bearing Warlish witches on their backs. The dracools sprang from the ground, flew just beneath the ceiling of the magical sheath, and landed on the battlement. The witches hopped off, raised their staffs, and added their own magic to the shield, closing off the battlement from the front and sides. Balls of pitch, launched from Ott, smashed against the shield without result. Meanwhile, the dracools returned to the ground to transport more witches, as well as Mogols and other monsters, onto the battlement.

Soon after, the entire contingent of cave trolls, five score in all, was called forward. Though not as large as Kojins, they were huge nonetheless, standing eight cubits tall and weighing more than one hundred stones. Each carried a golden hammer with a long shaft. Besides weighing twenty stones apiece, the hammers were imbued with ores Invictus’ scientists had smelted. As the trolls approached, Mala touched each hammer with the tines of his trident, causing them to glow the color of crimson. Orkney, greatest of his kind, was chosen to strike the first blow.

Gruugash, who was about half the size of one of Orkney’s legs, cringed. The high overlord of the Pabbajja was not sure what to do. It was within his power to lower the shield and expose thousands of monsters to a barrage of arrows and bombardment from trebuchets. But at this point, such a move would have little effect. The monsters would flee out of range and regroup, and then they would turn on the Pabbajja. Despite the destruction that was about to occur, Gruugash decided to bide his time a while longer.

Orkney’s hammer smote the gate with a boom. Liquid fire from the head of the hammer crackled along the surface of the black granite, creating a web of crimson tendrils that clung to the stone. But the massive door did not yield.

Gruugash knew that Mala didn’t expect the first blow to destroy such a masterwork. But the Chain Man commanded one hundred trolls with one hundred hammers, and as long as they could operate freely beneath the gate, they could bombard the door with a relentless barrage of titanic strokes.