Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (47 page)

“They are more accommodating than my own squires,” Henepola grunted. “Though it appears our gigantic friend
never
needs to eat or drink.”

The king gestured to his left, where Utu stood a dozen paces away, staring down at Jord. Torg wondered if the snow giant might ask for the ring then and there, but he did not. Instead, he returned to Torg’s side.

“A skin of water and a bushel of dried apples would be fine,” the snow giant said.

“So you do eat and drink, at least a little,” Kusala said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you do either.”

“My appetite is boundless—for proper food,” Utu said. “But proper food can only be found in the peaks of Okkanti.”

The king laughed. “Gentlemen, your banter has lightened my mood. But my heart will again be heavy soon enough. The final battle is about to begin.”

WHEN THE SUN began its slow rise, Mala’s glee intensified. His assault of Nissaya had produced unexpected setbacks, but now things were going well. Between the three-headed giant, trolls, and Stone-Eaters, the clogged entrance of Ott was clearing fast; and he had quickened the pace considerably with occasional blasts from his trident. It wouldn’t be long before his army could claim the second bulwark for its own. The third would follow. By nightfall the fortress would belong to him.

Even better, his newborns—he liked them now—soon would have nice full bellies. He might even permit them to change back to their smaller selves afterward, just to get a full appreciation of what they had accomplished. This made him laugh.

However, he wasn’t entirely pleased. First, he had been surprised that the desert king managed to survive the blast from Vikubbati; Torg should have been cooked to the bone. Next, the damnable wizard had caught him off guard and nailed him with a burst of magic from his elephant tooth; the blue-green fire had burned even worse than Bhayatupa’s hot breath. If not for his ring, things might have gone really bad. But Carūūl had saved him. Mala realized that his newest gift from Invictus might be even more powerful than the trident.

Still, he could not take full pleasure in his achievements. The wizard wasn’t his only problem: The snow giant from Okkanti also disturbed him. Ever since the ugly ass-kisser sounded that horn, Mala had felt uneasy. What was the big-footed moron doing at Nissaya, anyway? He should have stayed where he belonged, all cold and cozy in Okkanti. Well, Mala would deal with the snow giant, too, along with the rest. In some ways, he was happy that Nissaya wasn’t completely helpless, that there were those within the fortress capable of putting up a fight. It would make his victory all the sweeter.

From within the tunneled entrance, he heard one of the trolls groan with stupid pleasure. There was a rumbling sound, and then hoots from the Mogols. Ott was officially breached.

The newborns had been lying quietly all around him, spread out along the base of Ott and even resting on the dead bodies of those skewered in the moat. But when Mala lifted the trident and spewed a shower of golden energy into the air, they came angrily awake and charged into the opening. So fierce was their coming, even the trolls were forced to stand aside.

Mala joined the surging throng, shouting and laughing like a playful child. Behind him came the Kojins, Mogols, and wolves. Like floodwaters careening through a break in a dike, the monsters rushed through the entrance—more than six thousand score strong. Many charged up the inner stairways to stand on the battlement of Ott, but most clogged the narrow gap between the two bulwarks.

At first, no reaction came from the defenders that lined Hakam. They stood silently, staring down like dark statues. This confused Mala. He had expected a violent response. Even the newborns—their minds ravaged by rage and hunger—seemed puzzled.

Mala pounded the tail of Vikubbati onto the floor of black granite. A booming sound seemed to shake the entire stone mountain. Then he called up to his enemy.

“Have you grown weary of fighting? I offer you one final chance for mercy. Open the door!”

WHEN THE MONSTERS poured through the entrance of Ott, the defenders of the fortress lowered their heads, as if doom itself had marched through the broken gate. Mogols, mounted on wolves, scrambled up the stairways that lined the second bulwark’s interior. Once on the battlement, the Mahaggatan warriors waved their war clubs and bows, taunting the enemy that stood silently above. The newborns swarmed about the base of the wall, attempting to climb its sheer side in fits of scrambling energy. All manner of growl, snarl, hiss, and scream echoed between the walls, and glowing eyes stared upward in challenge.

When Mala pounded his trident against the bedrock, the vibrations that ripped through the stone foundation of Nissaya felt like despair. Knights were knocked off their feet, and refugees deep within the city felt the reverberations. Even Henepola was intimidated, and when Mala made his final offer of mercy, the king did not respond.

Despite the hopelessness that the Chain Man inspired, Torg found the strength to answer. “No mercy would you show, and none shall we!”

Torg’s voice broke the hypnotic spell. Suddenly there again was a reason to fight. Hope was renewed in Henepola’s eyes.

“The fools loiter at our feet,” the king screamed to his knights, his voice as piercing as a trumpet. “With God as our witness, let’s give them a taste of Nissayan fury.”

Ten thousand archers leaned over the short wall, took aim, and loosed a torrent of war arrows, their thick shafts, each more than two cubits long, bearing narrow steel piles designed to pierce armor or hide. Sledges of rocks were dropped from the battlement, tumbling down with the force of an avalanche. Tons of quicklime and sulfur, stuffed into cloth bags designed to burst upon impact, were cast over the side. Vats of boiling oil and pitch were dumped down the sheer wall, followed by flaming bundles of straw that set it all afire.

Despite their great number and the force with which they were delivered, the arrows did less damage than Torg had hoped. Mogols and wolves fell, along with wild men, vampires, and ghouls, but many of the other monsters were not seriously injured, even if directly struck; and Torg witnessed the slaying of only one newborn when an arrow found its way between the slit.

The rocks were more effective, crushing dozens of newborns. To the most powerful monsters, the quicklime and sulfur were more nuisances than anything else, but when the oil and pitch caught fire, the sulfur also ignited, turning the gap between the walls into a maelstrom. Boiling water was added to the wicked mixture, causing the quicklime to emit a noxious steam. Some of the monsters appeared to be blinded.

The Mogols on the battlement of Ott loosed arrows at the defenders of Hakam. But it was a difficult angle, and most bounced harmlessly off the side of the granite. Soon after, they were slaughtered as arrows rained on them from above.

Torg lashed out with power of his own, sending blue-green bolts into the tumult. Henepola and his conjurers joined him. Utu lifted boulders five times as heavy as a man and cast them down. The Tugars unleashed thousands of beads from their slings. But with all the steam and smoke, it became difficult to determine how much damage they were inflicting. Ironically, their own assault had partially camouflaged the enemy’s whereabouts.

Then something unexpected occurred, surprising even Torg. The noxious vapor began to swirl, slowly at first, but ever faster—and in a short time, a titanic vortex lifted into the sunlit sky and was swept away in the upper heights. Mala stood at the bottom of it, holding Vikubbati high above his head. Now that the gap was cleared of mist, the extent of the damage was revealed.

Perhaps three hundred score monsters and newborns were slain, and that many more wounded, but ten times that many were unharmed. However, the assault had forced the majority of them to retreat through the entrance of Ott. Those that remained on its interior, including Mala, stood motionless and silent, as if in a trance.

“They have tested us and been bitten,” Madiraa said.

“Though the bite was far less severe than I had hoped,” Henepola said. “We exhausted a third of our armament, yet we barely dented them . . . especially the newborns.”

“We must save the rest to protect the gate,” Madiraa said.

“Which means we are at Mala’s mercy,” Kusala said. “We cannot react until he makes the next move. But we can continue to strike with arrows and beads at those who remain within our range. We have no shortage of either. At least we can rid ourselves of some of our lesser enemies.”

“Make it so,” Henepola said.

“And what about you, lord?” Palak said to Torg. “Must you ration your powers?”

Torg sighed—and then surprised himself by yawning. “I have limits. Remember, I am fresh off one battle and on to another. Obhasa will do as I command. But even I must rest.”

“I meant no offense,” Palak said.

“None taken. I wish I were more than I am.”

“You and the snow giant are the greatest among us,” Henepola said. “We can ask for no more. I am exhausted and yet have done little.”

“In some ways you have done more than any of us,” Torg said. “But enough talk. For whatever reason, the Chain Man has called another halt—and so should we. Let us rest a bit and take some sustenance before the heat of this brutal day destroys the last of our appetites. We must do our best to keep up our strength.”

KUSALA SAT WITH his back pressed against the low wall of the battlement of Hakam, sharing a portion of cheese, dried meat, and warm ale with Churikā. Even the chieftain had a difficult time not staring at her exposed cleavage. But if the feisty Asēkha noticed his leering, she didn’t let on.

“It’s almost noon, yet Mala’s army just stands and stares,” Churikā said, her eyelids heavy. “What devilry is this, Kusala?”

“As my Vasi master likes to say, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ But something will happen soon. Will we be up to the task?”

“I wonder that myself. Never before have I felt so outmatched. Even the Tugars were hard-pressed against these horrid newborns, and that doesn’t even take into account the giants, Kojins, witches, and Stone-Eaters. I don’t know, chieftain . . . I don’t know.” The Asēkha lowered her head, as if ashamed to appear fearful.

“Look into my eyes,” Kusala said. “Do you not see respect? Your words are born of reality, not fear. I too cannot conceive how to stop them once . . .
if
 . . . Hakam’s gate is breached. I fear that our efforts will be barely enough to buy time for a few to escape into the catacombs beneath the keep. Otherwise, Nissaya will be our last stand. And it will be up to the Tugars who remain in Anna and Jivita to carry our banner.”

Churikā smiled, but did not speak. Soon after, she lowered her head and fell into a queer sleep. Kusala considered joining her, but curiosity overcame him, and he stood groggily and peered over the low wall. At first, nothing appeared to have changed. The monsters he could see remained still, staring upward like nightmarish statues. But then Kusala seemed to sense more than witness a subtle movement among the newborns. A sizable number of them shuffled inward toward the gate, drawn by a swirling wind that continued to originate from the tines of the Chain Man’s trident.

Kusala looked around to see if anyone else noticed. Thousands of knights and Tugars also were watching, but they seemed too sleepy to care. Torg was standing far off to the side, leaning against his staff. Utu was lying flat on his back, eyes closed.

Kusala shook his head and looked again. Now there was no doubt: At least ten thousand newborns had shuffled nearer to the gate. But even Kusala felt disinterested. All he wanted to do was join Churikā and Utu for a nap. Kusala knew something wasn’t right. It was as if the air had been robbed of vitality. He thought about conferring with Torg, but it seemed like too much effort. A deep yawn stretched his jaws to the limit.

“What do you see, my friend?” someone said to Kusala. “You wear the same expression as when Tathagata gave a lecture at Dibbu-Loka.”

Kusala turned slowly. Torg stood before him, his beautiful face blurry.

Kusala yawned again. “Nothing of import, lord.”

Torg smiled. “I too am sleepy. It must be the heat.”

Kusala felt pleased with himself.
Perhaps I drank too much ale. More likely it’s just exhaustion from day upon day of too little rest. What does it matter? A quick nap won’t hurt anything.

The swirling winds from Mala’s trident swept over the battlement and through the dense city. Kusala yawned a third time. He had no memory of lying down. Afterward he dreamed that he lay alone in a quiet cave. But a shuddering sound continually interrupted his reverie.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom
! Over and over.

Whoever made that obnoxious noise was quite rude.

VIRTUALLY EVERYONE on the battlement and in the city lost consciousness, including Utu and Torg. The monsters below did not sleep, but neither did they move. Even the dracools abandoned the skies, perching on the battlement of Ott. But Mala remained alert, continuing to wave the trident. And there was other movement. A few thousand newborns pressed ever closer to their master, linking arms and legs together like pieces of a golden puzzle.

One defender did not sleep. The magic of Vikubbati affected only the living, and in ways only she and her kind understood, she was not truly alive.

Jord wandered the battlement like a pale ghost. She knelt before Henepola and felt his brow. She rested her hand on Utu’s massive chest. She leaned down and kissed Torg tenderly on the cheek. But she made no effort to wake any of them.

A hole appeared in the air above the wizard, hovering like a black bubble. As if climbing through a window, a small girl slithered out of nothingness. She wore a glimmering dress, and her eyes were pure white, without iris or pupil.

“The ring is beautiful,” were Peta’s first words to Jord.

“How does it appear to you?” Jord asked.

“Purely black . . . and empty as a great void.”

“You are wise.”

Peta did not respond. They stood silently for a time. Finally, Jord began to pace.

“I should do something,” Jord said.

“It is not necessary.”