Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (42 page)

UTU TURNED AND looked into the glowing eyes of
The Torgon
, who wielded both Obhasa and the Silver Sword. Beside the wizard stood the white-haired Faerie, wearing a glowing white dress magic had woven.

Jord was the first to speak. “I see you bear a new ring. Do you treasure it?”

“It grows on me.” Utu rose to his full height of ten cubits. As if in response to both the wizard and Faerie, the
Maōi
ring glowed. The snow giant clasped his other hand over it, wincing at the additional touch.

“You probably don’t remember me,” Utu said, eyeing the wizard carefully, “but you and I met centuries ago, which must seem like a very long time to you. You have changed little in your appearance.”

“I do remember, Yama-Utu. We spoke long, and the joy of your company remains one of the fondest moments of my lifetime, which must seem like a very short time to you. But I must admit—without insult or derision—that you
have
changed. You look old and weary, as if all the burdens of the world have been placed upon your shoulders.”

Utu grimaced. “The
himamahaakaayo
say, ‘Nothing can result from violence but more violence.’ For millennia beyond count, I believed the same. But the ruination of Yama-Deva changed me. Now the snow giants believe that I am insane with grief. What say you, Death-Knower?”

“Many times, I have slain living beings,” the wizard said. “That makes me a poor judge of anyone, much less a being of your caliber.”

“That is no answer.”

“Is it not? Very well. I will try again. In the ways of the world, some act, and some do not. Often, those who act are accused of madness.”

“Then you also are insane?”

Torg chuckled. “I have sacrificed personal gain for the greater good.”

“Aaaah, now I understand.” Then Utu’s eyes brightened. “Would you care to touch the ring? None others, not even the king, have dared.”

“Nor did I, the one time Henepola showed it to me,” Torg said. “Now I would be honored, but allow Jord to touch it first. And remove it from your finger before you do.”

The snow giant frowned. “I am reluctant to try.”

“Do not be,” Torg said.

“You have not worn the ring,” Utu said.

“No . . . but I sense its purpose.”

“What is that, Death-Knower?”

“The ring is pure,” Torg said. “But that is only part of its power.”

“You intrigue me. Please go on.”

“You already know . . .”

“Say it, anyway,” Utu said.

“More than pure, the ring is . . . empty,” Torg said.

Utu smiled knowingly. “Before the king gave this to me, I had become a creature consumed by rage. Given the opportunity, I would have throttled Mala with my bare hands. Now I am not so sure. Did Henepola blunder?”

“That depends,” Torg said.

“On what?”

“Your previous weapons were strength and anger. Now you wield awareness and clarity. Which would Mala find more difficult to defeat?”

Utu looked at Jord, who stood by in silence. “You have seen the fruits of my strength and anger. And you see me now. What say you?”

“You are more beautiful than before,” Jord said.

The Faerie’s answer satisfied Utu. The ring, which heretofore had been seared to his flesh, slid off his finger easily. When he placed it in Jord’s hand, he sighed with relief.

The
Maōi
seemed to have no effect on Jord. The Faerie shrugged as if disinterested and then dropped it into Torg’s large palm.

Instantly the wizard’s skin sizzled, oozing white vapor. The pain appeared to be excruciating. Torg stared at the ring, his eyes smoldering. “If . . . there were no Mala . . . no Invictus . . . no evil in the world . . . I would take this ring . . . and wear it until my death. All emotions . . . love and hate, joy and sorrow, pleasure and anger . . . are revealed as illusions by the scope of such blessed emptiness. But if I were to take possession of this thing,
The Torgon
would no longer exist. I, too, would be revealed as an illusion.”

With a jerky reluctance, the wizard handed the ring to Utu, who grimaced as he slid it back onto his right middle finger.

“You withstood the agony far better than I,” Utu said. “Why is that, I wonder? But I ask you again, Death-Knower: Did Henepola blunder by giving me this ring?”

“We shall see what we shall see,” Torg said, his eyes glistening.

“Yes,” Jord agreed.

UTU FOLLOWED TORG and Jord along Ott’s wide battlement. Balak loomed below, lonely and deserted. A short time past midnight, Torg encountered his first Tugar, a female warrior named Dalhapa.

“Well met, Asēkha,” Torg said, easily sensing her ascension.

Dalhapa gasped and went to her knees. “
Lord
Torgon.
Beyond hope, you have returned to us.”

“I congratulate you,” Torg said. “But tell me, who among the Asēkhas fell?”

“It is not known to us, lord. But only Tāseti, Rati, and Dvipa are not accounted for.”

“Tāseti?” Torg said. “Why is she not here? Did she journey with Kusala and the noble ones to Anna?”

“Your words confuse me, lord. The chieftain is but a short walk from where we stand.”

Torg felt as if he had been slapped. “Take me to him.”

“Yes, lord.”

Torg followed Dalhapa, his shoulders tense.

“Do not be rash,” he heard Utu say from behind. “There were . . .
circumstances
 . . . of which you were unaware.”

“Is that the ring speaking . . . or you?” Torg said gruffly.

“They are becoming one and the same,” was the response, but it was Jord who spoke the words.

This humbled Torg, and he relaxed. Soon they encountered denser pockets of defenders. Scattered Tugars bowed, their faces flushed. A piercing cry came from Hakam far above. Torg recognized Asēkha-Podhana’s voice. After that, the news spread fast. Tugars rushed to greet him, and black knights joined them. The battlement of Ott became so congested Torg could barely continue forward.

“A king has come,” Dalhapa shouted. “Let him through.”

More Tugars appeared, interspersed with Asēkhas, and they formed a narrow channel through which Torg could pass. “
Abhinandanena te garukaroma
(We greet you with great joy)!” the desert warriors shouted, tapping their blades together.

Torg was overjoyed to be reunited with these Tugars. He knew all their names, ages, and familial relations. The Asēkhas, especially, were a pleasure to behold. But it was Kusala he most desired to see. And suddenly the chieftain was before him. The men clasped muscular forearms.

“
Abhinandanena te garukaromi
(I greet you with great joy),” the chieftain said. “All must be well at Jivita.”

“As well as could be,” Torg said.

Henepola appeared. Madiraa and Indajaala followed.

“
Torgon
,” the king said, “how came you here? Have you learned to fly? And who is your guest? She is a stranger to Nissaya.”

“How I came here will remain a mystery, if you please,” Torg said. “As for my guest . . . she is an ally to all free peoples of the world and is to be trusted as much as myself. Her name is Jord.”

The Faerie curtsied and then swung toward Kusala. “We have met before, chieftain.”

“I was honored then and am honored now,” Kusala said.

Torg raised an eyebrow and started to speak, but Henepola interrupted.

“Behold,
Torgon
,” he said, gesturing downward with a wave of his hand. “You have arrived just in time to witness one of the great tragedies of our age.”

Mala and thousands of other monsters swarmed in front of Balak’s gate, which now lay shattered like a pile of black bones.

“They have not yet breached the portcullises, and the murder holes still hold some surprises, but it is only a matter of time,” Henepola said. “We could send a force to accost them, but it would only create needless death. Instead, we have chosen to concentrate our efforts on defending Ott.” Then the king’s expression soured. “If you had been at our side, Balak would not have fallen.”

“One hundred thousand druids were defeated, and it was no easy task,” Torg said. “I came as soon as I was able.”

“Now that the druids are defeated, will the White City finally send aid?”

“Jivita lost more than one thousand score horsemen, and many more are lamed. It would take half a month for reinforcements to reach the fortress. By then, the siege of Nissaya will be over, one way or the other. I’m afraid that Jord and I are the only aid you will receive.”

Henepola had no more to say and went off to be alone. Torg grasped Kusala’s arm and took him aside. Eventually he and the chieftain sat within a crenel, nibbling on Cirāya and sipping Tugarian wine as Kusala told the story of Henepola’s deterioration at the hands of Invictus.

“Tāseti will make an excellent chieftain when I am gone,” Kusala said, “but you and I know Henepola far better than she. So I sent her to Anna in my stead. I know naught of her progress or whereabouts; only that at least one Asēkha has perished, given that Dalhapa has ascended.”

“Dalhapa told me that Rati is also not at the fortress.”

“I sent him alone to patrol the Ogha north of Senasana. I believe he is the most likely to have been slain.”

Torg sighed. “We will honor the namesake of whoever has fallen. In the meantime, let us hope that the noble ones reach Anna safely.”

“Lord, I apologize for disobeying you. I have done it more in the past year than in the past four hundred. But I did my best, under difficult circumstances.”

“You need not apologize.”

Kusala sighed with relief. “Thank you, lord.” Then the chieftain added, “I assume all is well with your lady? If she had fallen, I would have seen it in your eyes. But how fare your other companions?”

“Not all news is good. Bard is dead, and Rathburt is missing.”

“That is dire. And the annoying firstborn?”

Torg managed a rueful chuckle. “Let it suffice to say that he has grown in stature since you last saw him.”

A BELL BEFORE the rising of the sun, the air once again became as hot as a furnace. The Tugars, with their keen night vision, reported that another five thousand golden soldiers appeared to have died during the night.

“Many of their number will not survive the coming day,” Henepola said to Torg. “You are a fresh face among us. Do you have any idea why Mala tortures them like this?”

“I am as puzzled as you, sire.”

“The golden soldiers have yet to play any part in the battle, other than to give us sore scalps from all our head-scratching,” the king said. “Yet I refuse to believe they will not play an eventual role.”

“Agreed,” Torg said. He turned to Jord. “What say you?”

“If Lucius were here, he could give you a better answer than I,” the white-haired woman said. “After all, he once was their general.”

“The people who
need
to be here never seem to be,” Henepola said.

Torg shrugged. “Even if Lucius solved the mystery, would it guarantee victory? We must make do with what we know.”

“Which is?” Henepola said.

“That we must not allow Mala to wander freely beneath the battlement of Ott.”