by Jim Melvin
“Bhavissaama anuvattatum (Thy will shall be done),” Bhayatupa said.
“Indeed.”
They flew for more than a bell without further discussion, but as the quarter moon plunged beneath the western horizon and the fortress grew near, it was Invictus who broke the silence. “Do you believe that fate plays a role in our lives?”
Bhayatupa puzzled over this before saying, “Until I met you, it never seemed so. I had always been able to direct my own destiny, in whatever manner I chose. But now I’m not as certain. Why do you ask, my liege?”
Invictus sighed and pointed toward the stars. “Sometimes, it feels as if there are beings out there that are—how should I put it?—scheming behind my back. Perhaps when our task here is finished and we return to Uccheda, I will have you tell me what you know of Vedana’s plan, after all. If you do so, without resistance, I will reward you.”
“Reward me first, and then we shall see.”
“Ha!” Then, “Maybe . . . but only if you behave until then.”
“I’ll be as obedient as a whipped dog.”
“Yes, you will.”
WHEN THEY FINALLY arrived at Nissaya, Invictus watched the proceedings unfold far below. It wasn’t so much what he saw as what he felt that disturbed him. Just as Torg had a psychic connection with the Tugars, Invictus had one with Mala—and he could sense that his pet was faltering.
Of all the rage Invictus had ever experienced, none compared to what he felt now. If the Maōi wielded by this new snow giant had the power to defeat Mala, might it not also threaten even him? Barely realizing it, Invictus’s body began to glow so brightly that the entire sky became filled with yellow light.
Bhayatupa howled and reared, but not before Invictus unleashed a beam of magical energy as torrential as the vomit of a star. The great dragon, no match for such a godlike expenditure of power, was pummeled backward; and the two of them tumbled across the sky and then fell for a long, long way before smiting the base of a mountain many miles north of the fortress. Afterward, both lay still.
2
HEEDLESS OF THE quicklime dust that poisoned the air, a company of monsters tore through the portcullises, boulders, and debris that clogged the entrance of Hakam, the largest of the three bulwarks that guarded the fortress named Nissaya. But it was taking longer than Mala expected. Some of the stones were too heavy even for the Kojins and trolls to lift. And the iron gratings in the interior of the gate were crafted in such a way that not even the three-headed giant could break them. Again and again, Mala was forced to blast the most difficult obstacles with golden beams from the tines of his magical trident.
The thick iron gratings, never before assailed, put up an admirable fight. But eventually they grew red hot, liquefied, and sank into the ground. The most troublesome boulders also succumbed, splattering like clods of dirt. Even then it took from midafternoon until well into the evening to clear a sizable opening through the gate’s long tunnel. When only about twenty cubits of debris stood between Mala and his enemies, Mala impatiently unleashed a continuous stream of power that seemed to shake the very bedrock of the fortress. Finally, the rubble could no longer tolerate the abuse, and it blew apart.
With the ruthlessness of a conqueror, Mala entered Nissaya. Behind him came the snarling newborns, angry and oh, so hungry.
At first the smoke and dust obscured Mala’s view, but soon it became evident that a sizable force of Nissayans had been strategically arranged in a courtyard that lay beyond the gate of Hakam. Thousands of torches were raised in challenge. Polished blades glimmered in the moonlight. Much to his dismay, Mala sensed little fear.
The defenders immediately loosed a locust-swarm of arrows, dozens of which struck him. Even without his magic to protect him, the arrows would have done Mala little harm, but the essence of the ring Invictus had named Carūūl formed a magical sheath over Mala’s flesh that was impregnable to ordinary weapons. The newborns also remained unharmed, their metallic flesh far tougher than the finest armor.
The arrows signaled the beginning of a ferocious battle. Mala stomped forward, prepared to crush anything in his path. In no way would he be a passive commander, cowering behind his troops while they did the dirty work. What pleasure would there be in that? Murder and mayhem were Mala’s favorite pastimes, and he would take on any and all challengers, including the Death-Knower, if he dared to show his annoying face. With the addition of the trident and the ring, Mala had grown beyond all but Invictus. None among this pathetic rabble could stand against him.
Unexpectedly, a milky illumination formed before his eyes, so bright it was blinding. Then a proud voice rose above the rising tumult.
“Yama-Deva! To slay the others, you must destroy me first.”
Once again the unease he had experienced when he had first heard the sounding of the horn reared its ugly head. How dare this fool attempt to thwart the glory of his coming?
“Who are you?” Mala screamed.
“I am the end of all things . . . and the beginning.”
Then the mysterious snow giant approached him, arms spread wide.
AS UTU STRODE toward his brother, the chaos that surrounded him came to an abrupt halt. All eyes focused on him and the Chain Man. Even the maddened newborns, driven by Mala’s will, temporarily lost their desire to rend and devour. Until Utu’s encounter with Deva was over—whether in victory or defeat—it appeared there might be no other fighting.
Commander Palak, among others, had been concerned that Mala might flee, but Utu knew this would not be the case. Whatever else he had become, the Chain Man was no craven. He would fight at the front of his army, not tremble at its rear. And indeed, Mala more than held his ground, mocking Utu as he approached.
“I am the end of all things . . . and the beginning,” the Chain Man said in a high-pitched voice. “Oooooooh! You’re so . . . deep!” Then he gestured toward Torg and Kusala, who flanked the snow giant. “Do you think these fools can protect you from me?”
Utu came even nearer, finally stopping a single stride from his ruined brother. The pair stood eye to eye, and for the first time since they had last spoken in Okkanti, decades ago, Mala got a close-up view of Utu’s face. Momentarily, the mocking tone was replaced by puzzlement. “Wait, I know you . . .”
“You know me as Yama-Utu. And you are Yama-Deva, whom I love more dearly than any other save Bhari, my wife.”
As always, Mala became enraged by the mention of his former name. The Chain Man’s grip tightened on the shaft of the trident, and Vikubbati’s tines responded to their master, glowing so hot that smoke slithered off their tips. The ring on the middle finger of his left hand also glimmered, casting multicolored light, and the chain around his torso caused his tortured flesh to sizzle.
Utu absorbed this with the keen sight of hyper-awareness: all senses blended into one. He could see blood coursing through the veins that riddled Mala’s eyeballs, hear his tortured breath rushing in and out of wide nostrils, smell his gray hide sizzling beneath the molten metal. The beating of his brother’s heart—always so much faster than his own—was as audible as spoken words.
“How many times do I have to tell you pathetic morons not to call me by that name?” Mala shouted. “How many skulls do I have to bash before you finally learn your lesson?”
Utu’s response proved disconcerting. “Brother, may I take you in my arms? It would be well for you to receive me without resistance.”
Mala took a step back, an extreme rarity for one with such a monumental ego. Then debauchery got the best of him. “I’m not that type, old fool! But I’m sure the Death-Knower would be interested.”
A Kojin who stood nearby let out a squeal that resembled a cackle, but Utu was not dismayed. “I desire to hold you, as one brother holds another.”
“I’m nobody’s brother, old fool.”
“You once were . . . and can be again. Deva, listen to me! A part of you still exists. I can see you behind the mask. Do not fear. Cast aside your chain and
come forward, into the light. For your own sake, allow me to take you in my arms—and heal you.”
AT THESE WORDS, Mala began to feel woozy. The chain that had tormented him for so many years seemed to cool, and a disturbingly pleasant dizziness entered his awareness. He staggered, not from pain but from lack of it.
“Utu?” he said, but the voice was not his own. Rather, it came from a shadowy corner of his mind. “Is that you?”
Now there was no doubt: the chain had cooled considerably, and it didn’t feel quite so tightly wrapped around his torso and thighs.
“Yes, Deva . . . it’s me. Come forward. Allow me to take you in my arms. If you do, everything will be as it once was, I promise you.”
“Utu? Utu? I should never have left the mountaintops. Where am I now? What have I done? Tell them . . . tell them I’m sorry.”
“For what you were made to do, you mean? Tell them yourself.”
Harīti, sensing that her master was weakening, let out an angry shriek and pounded toward Utu, her six arms outstretched. A black blur, wielding an icy blade, struck her down. This tore the other monsters and newborns from their reverie, and they rushed forward. But more black-clad warriors encircled Utu, forming a formidable barrier. The snow giant wrapped his arms around Mala and pressed his bare torso against the cooling chain. Where his right hand touched the chain there was a flare of light, and then the links went cold. Again the hidden presence seized control of Mala’s mouth.
“Utu,” it shouted. “Save me, before it’s too late. I beg you . . . save me!”
UTU RECOGNIZED Yama-Deva’s voice, though he had never before heard his brother plead. Much to Utu’s pleasure, he no longer doubted that Deva could be healed. The chain already was defeated, and the ring and trident seemed not to recognize the pure Maōi as a threat. If Torg and the Tugars could buy him more time . . . if Utu could hold his brother for a while longer . . . then the blessed purity of the ring would absorb the evil like a limitless sponge.
“I will save you, Deva,” Utu crooned. “Cling to me, and all will be well.”
“Utu . . . where am I? Tell them I’m sorry. Tell Bhari . . . tell Gambhira . . . tell Sampakk . . . tell them all!”
“There is no need for me to tell them, Deva. You will tell them. When this is over, we will return to Okkanti together.”
When Mala sagged in his arms, Utu’s confidence grew. Though a wild and terrible battle had begun to rage all around him, Utu had never felt more at peace.
The trident fell from his brother’s right hand, rattling on the black stone at their feet. The ring on Deva’s left middle finger went dim. Utu could sense—no, feel—the horrific magic of Invictus being drained from his brother’s tortured body. It was going to work. Yama-Deva would be healed.
But then the night sky suddenly became like day, and from the firmament leapt a dense beam of golden power as thick as the trunk of an ancient tree. With supernatural intensity, it struck Utu on the top of his head, causing him to cry out.
Deva fell back. All others were cast violently aside.
WHEN THE BEAM of magic blasted upon the fortress, Mala fell onto his back, his thick skull thudding on the stone floor. He lay there confused, while the strange voice continued to come out of his mouth: “Help me! Save me!” But a portion of the golden energy that fell from the sky surged into his chain and superheated its links to levels of agony beyond any that had come before. The madness returned. And when Mala regained his feet, Yama-Deva had been chased back into hiding. Mala knelt and grasped Vikubbati in his right hand. Carūūl glowed on his left. Once again, he was complete.
The disturbing creature who had claimed to be his brother lay crumpled in the base of a deep depression blown into the stone by the power of the magical discharge. Eerie wisps of smoke oozed from Utu’s scorched hide, and he shivered and moaned. But his sounds and movements were barely perceptible. The ring that had clung to Utu’s right middle finger had been cast off his hand—and it now rested a few cubits away, still glowing and thrumming like a thing alive.
Mala understood he had been given a second chance to retain his identity. Invictus had reached down from above and rescued him from peril. His survival depended entirely on what he did next. Nothing within the fortress—save the ring at his feet—could stand against him.
If he could destroy it, Nissaya would fall.
Invictus would be so proud.
Mala strode over to Utu’s ring, aimed the trident just to its left, and willed a beam of golden energy to burst from each tine, striking and then punching into the solid bedrock. The repercussion shook Mala’s huge arms, but he held firm. Carūūl joined its strength to the trident, increasing the intensity of the trio of bolts. Deep they bore into the bedrock, a dozen cubits, then a hundred, before Mala finally released the flow of power.
“Hmmm . . . which hole should I bury it in?” he mused, as the battle raged around him.
A Tugar charged and was swatted aside.
An arrow bounced off Mala’s forehead, denting its iron head and shattering its shaft.
Mala heard a familiar voice, The Torgon’s, screaming, “No. No!” And Utu saying, “Deva . . . I’m dying. Goodbye.”
“How many times do I have to say it?” Mala said. “My name is not Deva.” Then he used the tail of the trident to nudge the Maōi into the middle of the three holes.
The maw was just wide enough to swallow the ring.
Which fell and fell.
Beyond mortal reach.
“I’m not Deva,” Mala repeated. “I’m not Deva!”
3
THOUGH MONSTERS attacked from all angles, Torg and the Asēkhas were thus far holding them back. Torg already had slain the largest Kojin he had ever seen, as well as a cave troll and half a dozen newborns. Despite this frenzy of activity, Torg sensed the pure Maōi draining Mala’s power, as if the infernal heat of a star was being absorbed by the blessed emptiness of eternity.
When the night sky turned bright as day, hope was again extinguished. An impossibly powerful blast knocked Torg off his feet. Only his warrior instincts enabled him to retain his grip on Obhasa and the Silver Sword. Fending off dizziness, Torg managed to stand and lean on his ivory staff for support. Meanwhile, the fighting continued all around him, Tugars and black knights against snarling newborns and a myriad of monsters.
From the tumult of clashing bodies, a dark shape emerged, small but formidable. Torg attempted to step past it, desperate to reach Utu. But the figure blocked his way.
BUNJAKO THE Stone-Eater had worried that Mala might fail. Whatever the other snow giant was doing seemed to be sucking the life out of the Chain Man—and perhaps with it, the will of his army. Like most of the others, Bunjako was a transfixed spectator.
The bolt from above changed everything. Bunjako was far enough away from the impact to keep his feet, but he saw the snow giant collapse beneath the force of the blast—and more importantly, the damnable Death-Knower cast brutally aside. Sensing an opportunity that might never come again, Bunjako fought through the tumult until he came face to face with the wizard.
“Do you know me, Torgon . . . ?” Bunjako said, still holding a glowing chunk of the magically imbued obsidian. Then he swallowed the black stone, arched his back, and prepared to destroy the enemy he had grown to hate so much, the one who had murdered both his father, Gulah, and grandfather, Slag. The golden belt around his waist expanded, and his head sprang forward. But just before the obsidian vomited from his mouth, something long and sharp punched cruelly into his side, misdirecting his aim.
KUSALA RUSHED TO protect Torg. More by luck than design, the Asēkha chieftain stumbled into the Stone-Eater. Without hesitation, he punched the point of his uttara between the creature’s foul ribs and twisted the blade before wrenching it out. The obsidian burst from the monster’s mouth, launched into the sky, and soared toward the interior of the city. Whatever damage it caused was beyond Kusala’s range of vision, but the Stone-Eater, at least, would cause no further harm
to anyone. He was already dead at Kusala’s feet, his carcass smoking.
“To Utu! To Utu!” Kusala heard Torg shouting, not just to him but to any Tugar within range. Then his king fought past him and disappeared into the slashing madness of the vicious battle.
KUSALA HAD REMOVED the threat of the Stone-Eater, and for this Torg was thankful, but now the courtyard was flooded with all manner of creatures from both armies—and Torg had barely room to move. The newborns fought with a ferocity born of hatred, pain, and starvation. If not for the Tugars, it would have quickly deteriorated into a rout. Using his sword and staff, Torg bashed, stabbed, and shoved his way through the throngs. Suddenly he burst into a clearing where even the monsters dared not enter. There he saw Mala just as he was nudging Utu’s ring into a hole in the stone.
With a rage he hadn’t felt since destroying the great spider Dukkhatu, Torg unleashed a flare of power from the head of Obhasa that surpassed all others he had ever conjured, striking Mala in the face.
The Chain Man collapsed.
But before Torg could approach any nearer to finish Mala off, a pair of Kojins came to their master’s aid, screeching in their peculiar fashion. Protectively, they huddled over him and were joined by more than a dozen cave trolls. Torg started forward, intent on killing them all, if possible, but a female Asēkha suddenly leapt in front of him.
“My lord, King Henepola is in danger!” Churikā screamed. “Only you can save him.”
Torg hesitated, torn between his desire to kill one being and his desire to save another, but then he left Mala behind and followed Churikā even deeper into the chaos of battle.
4
WHEN THE SKY lit up, Henepola’s first thought was that God had chosen that moment to arise from his sleep and vanquish the forces of evil. But when he saw Utu collapse, the king of Nissaya realized that a god other than his own had intervened. Then the newborns came in droves, and Henepola was driven away from the broken gate of Hakam.
