by Jim Melvin
The banquet hall was filled with all kinds of nasty-looking Tugars and black knights, each of them gasping frantically and looking mad as wet hornets. Tew wasn’t sure what scared him more: these guys or Mala.
“Will you protect me if they think I’m still a bad guy and try to kill me?” Tew said in a trembling voice.
“Only if you continue to behave,” Dhītar responded.
“There’s no worries about that, pretty lady,” Tew promised. And again he meant it. He really did.
6
NOT EVEN TORG’S magic was a match for Mala now. The trident and ring bloated the Chain Man with too much power. Still, the wizard’s attack had knocked Mala down, and he needed a little help from the Kojins to stand back up. Though his face was stinging and he felt a little dizzy, Mala took back control of his senses with surprising ease.
After regaining his feet, he prepared himself for another assault from the Death-Knower. But then he noticed that the cowardly Death-Knower had vanished, so Mala paid both him and the fallen Utu no more heed. Instead, he stomped toward the interior of the city, his trident and ring aglow. The remaining Kojins and a contingent of trolls followed. Newborns by the thousands—as well as witches, ghouls, vampires, Mogols, and wolves—flanked his sides. They rushed onto the main causeway, striking the black knights and Tugars from behind. The chase was on.
Mala guessed where the enemy was headed—to the catacombs beneath Nissaya. The only other ways to escape were the inner stairways of Hakam, and as a precaution, Mala already had ordered a sizable force of Mogols and wolves to remain outside the fortress, patrolling the plains for any evacuees who might somehow slip through the broken gates or climb down the walls on rope ladders.
When Nagara finally came into view, Mala saw that many of the bastards already were escaping inside.
“Cut them off, you flea-ridden dogs,” he screamed. “I’ll skewer anyone who lets them reach the keep.”
But Mala could see that despite his best efforts, a few of the enemy would make it inside the great spire. In some regards this enraged him, but in other ways he didn’t really care. He could fight them here or at Jivita. Either way, he would win. Whoever survived the slaughter at Nissaya would flee to Jivita and there face doom on the Green Plains.
The doors at the base of Nagara slammed shut. The newborns huddled hungrily outside, some of them pounding against the ancient wood with their metallic fists. Mala came forward and stood before the nearest opening. He raised his trident and aimed the tines at one of the doors. The monsters around him grew quiet in anticipation of another enormous display of power, and Mala took pleasure in the spotlight. But then he sensed something that caused him to grunt and step back.
Far, far back.
“Huh?” he finally said.
Unexpectedly, the exterior of the keep began to glow, and for a moment it eerily resembled Uccheda. Then the black granite cracked and crackled and moaned before bursting asunder.
Nagara fell upon itself.
7
AFTER KILLING THE three-headed giant and the Kojin, Torg struggled back toward the broken gate of Hakam, where he found himself alone in a sea of monsters. All other defenders of the fortress had been driven from the courtyard into the city. Had the enemy made a concentrated effort to slay him, Torg would have fallen. But most of them seemed more concerned with the prey that fled before them, which allowed Torg to slip by without too much confrontation. Still, he had not advanced this far without considerable fighting. In a short distance he had slain several dozen newborns, a Warlish witch and her hags, a Stone-Eater, a demon incarnated as a constricting snake, and a nasty pair of wild men who had fought with surprising ferocity despite their small stature.
Like a tidal wave rolling over an island, the monsters swept past Torg and left him behind. Now he was alone just a stone’s throw from the gate of Hakam, except for a dozen or so newborns that surrounded Utu, waiting like vultures for him to die. In a frenetic rage Torg dispatched the ones that didn’t flee. A contingent of Mogols and wolves left to guard the broken gate witnessed his wrath and scattered; they were not his match and knew it.
Soon after, Torg found the snow giant lying within the deep depression. Setting Obhasa aside and sliding the Silver Sword into the scabbard on his back, Torg knelt next to Utu and lifted his huge head in his lap. The top of Utu’s skull was cracked open, revealing an inflamed portion of brain tissue. Blood oozed from his mouth, nose, ears, and even the corners of his closed eyes. Both of his enormous fangs had been blown apart, and his gray hide was charred and shriveled.
“Utu, can you hear me?”
The snow giant did not respond, but Torg could sense that he still lived. Then the large eyelids slowly opened, revealing a pale glow visible in the shadows beside the towering bulwark. “Is Mala destroyed?” Utu whispered.
Torg’s eyes filled with tears. “You were so close.”
“What . . . happened?”
“Invictus somehow intervened.”
“Aaaah . . . and the ring?”
The three holes that Mala’s trident had bored into the bedrock were barely visible from where Torg sat. From the middle one came a milky smoke, subtle but apparent.
“It is lost to us. I’m sorry.”
Utu’s face sagged. He closed his eyes and coughed up more blood. When he opened his eyes again, the glow was almost gone. “What . . . can be done?” the snow giant murmured. “Even if you defeat Mala, the sorcerer is too strong . . . for you or anyone.”
“All we can do is fight.”
Utu coughed again. Torg knew the snow giant had little time left. But Utu managed a few more words, and strangely his voice was steadier than before. “If you ever see Bhari again, will you tell her that I love her? More than Yama-Deva. More than anyone. Or anything.”
“If I ever see her again, I will tell her.”
The snow giant smiled, revealing teeth that Invictus’s power had shattered. “I’m worried for you, Torgon. My time is past . . . but great suffering awaits you.”
“Is that not so for all living beings?”
Utu smiled again. Then he enveloped one of Torg’s biceps with a massive hand and squeezed. “Torgon . . . I have seen the truth, and it is neither comforting nor frightening. It is simply . . . the truth.”
Then the glow left his eyes and he was no longer, his great karma already hurtling toward its next existence. Silently, Torg sat alone with Utu’s body for a few moments. Not far away, a slaughter of epic proportions was taking place. Obhasa glowed and thrummed, as if anxious to rejoin the fight, but the Silver Sword was cold as ice on his back.
Torg sensed Jord’s approach before seeing her. The white-haired woman stared at him with sad eyes.
“What can be done?” Torg said to her, mimicking Utu.
“As you say, you must continue to fight.”
“But why? Invictus cannot be defeated.”
“The sorcerer will fall,” Jord said. “But not here, not now.”
Torg gestured toward the city. “Hundreds of thousands must perish so that one can be defeated?”
“Life cannot exist without death.”
“You sound like Sister Tathagata. Since you seem to know so much, tell me how she fares?”
“The High Nun is no longer, but before her death she achieved Abhisambodhi (high enlightenment). She will never again be reborn. Jaati pariyaadinnaa (Birth is exhausted). She suffered terribly before she died; I cannot deny it. But in the end, her suffering paved the way. You should rejoice for your friend.”
“Rejoice? I don’t even believe you. And why do you say she suffered so?”
“Now is not the time to explain.”
“Peta told you this? About the enlightenment?”
“Yes.”
Torg turned away from her and gently laid Utu’s head on the stone and stood. “His body must not be desecrated.”
“His karma cares naught.”
“Still . . .” Torg used Obhasa to incinerate Utu’s rema
ins. Without the intensity of life energy flowing through its sinews, the massive carcass burned like fatwood. Torg bowed his head and said a quick chant. “Tumhe marittha bahuumaanena ca vikkamena. N’atthi uttara pasamsaa. (You died with honor and bravery. There is no higher praise.)”
“N’atthi uttara pasamsaa,” Jord repeated.
Torg turned and started back toward the city.
“Where are you going?” the Faerie said.
Torg’s voice sounded harsh, even to himself. “To snap at the heels of my enemy.”
“There is nothing left here for you to accomplish,” said a female voice, but it did not belong to Jord. Peta had joined them, and her eyes—though blind—also looked sad.
Torg was not surprised to see her. “I should flee . . . like a coward?”
“Your words are foolish,” the ghost-child said. “If remaining within Nissaya and continuing to fight would save those who are trapped within, I would not speak against it. But it will not. Besides, Kusala and Madiraa have reached Nagara, and soon its great doors will be closed. Even if Sakuna carried you to the base of the keep, you would not arrive in time to enter.”
“And what of the rest of the Tugars? I should abandon my own people?”
As if in response, Torg heard Kusala’s shriek, its order clear: flee the fortress by whatever means possible.
Torg pounded the tail of Obhasa against the bedrock. “I could challenge Mala now. His death would mean much.”
Peta sighed. “Trust me, Father . . . please. For now, Mala is beyond you. He has too much power and protection. The time will come when the Chain Man will fall, but it will not be at Nissaya. As foreseen, Mala has won the fortress.” Then she approached and took his hand. “Father, go with Jord and rejoin Laylah. For Invictus to be defeated, this must occur.”
“What else must occur?” Torg said. “Tell me now . . . or to hell with your schemes.”
“Trust me, Father . . . please,” the ghost-child repeated. And then she faded into the darkness.
But Jord remained.
“Should I trust her?” Torg said to the Faerie. “Should I trust you?”
“A way has been found to defeat Invictus,” Jord said. “If you trust us, it can be done. If not, you must find your own way.”
Torg groaned. “Can you tell me, at least, what role I will play? And what will become of Laylah?”
But Jord was no longer there. Sakuna, the mountain eagle, stood in her place. Torg mounted her, and they departed the fortress. From high above, Torg could see the true scope of the disaster. Nissaya had become a slaughterhouse. Even Tugars were dying.
As Sakuna carried Torg away from the fortress, he felt like a deserter. Far below, he could see the newborns swarming through the streets like molten gold poured into a stone mold, and he knew what this meant to those trapped inside the concentric bulwarks. The enormity of the massacre was beyond his comprehension. Thousands of scores would be slain this night, and the majority of those would not be soldiers. Countless children and elderly would be among the victims. It was all Torg could do not to lose his mind.
But Peta had pointed out the obvious: if he had remained within Nissaya’s walls, it would have accomplished little. He might have postponed a few deaths, but in the end he would have been slain, along with the rest. This time, self-sacrifice would have been a meaningless gesture. Nonetheless, he could not stop from sobbing.
8
WHINER THE NEWBORN was a whiner no longer. Now he was a killing machine, as full of pain, anger, and hunger as a ruined Daasa. Already he had eaten far more than his own weight, filling his burning belly with juicy flesh and crunchy bones. Killing and devouring consumed his primal mind, serving the purpose of temporarily distracting his awareness from the pain that enveloped his body like fire. Anything that gave him relief was preferable to the incessant agony, even if these acts guaranteed damnation.
Prey was everywhere, skittering about in a cacophony of screaming, sobbing, and moaning. Some fought hard, others ran hard. But Whiner and his brothers were relentless in their pursuit, smashing down doors, charging up stairs, finding prey in the cleverest of hiding places. No amount of begging made any difference. When the prey was cornered, they butchered and ate it. There were no thoughts of mercy. Mala had denied the newborns for too long for them to be denied any longer. It was time to feast until their bellies were bloated beyond what could be considered possible.
The newborns maniacally worked their way through the inner sanctums of Nissaya. They were too many for the Tugars and too strong for the black knights, which meant that the inhabitants and refugees were doomed. The fortress had changed from haven to holocaust.
Whiner didn’t care. He knew only two things: pain and hunger.
Mercy?
The concept was as foreign as salvation.
9
THE EXPLOSIVE collapse of Nagara killed more than a thousand newborns that had gathered near its base, crushing the golden monsters beneath its tumbling bulk. A sharp-edged shard of black granite as large as a longhouse bounced angrily toward Mala, causing him to grunt and then step aside.
When the dust finally settled, Mala stomped forward to investigate the residue of the catastrophe. In the dim light of early morning, it was difficult to get a clear view, but it was obvious to Mala that the escape route beneath the keep had been buried beneath titanic chunks of debris, eliminating any chance of quick pursuit. The clogged entrance of Hakam was child’s play compared to this. Even with two Kojins and dozens of Stone-Eaters at his disposal, it would take several days to clear a path. By then, whoever had made it into the catacombs would be far beyond their reach.
Mala found this annoying, but only for a short while. When the rising sun introduced yet another broiling morning, his spirits were lifted to new heights. Highlighted by the fall of Nagara, the destruction of the fortress was an extraordinary sight. At first Mala believed that body parts were strewn everywhere, but then he realized with a mischievous grin that what he had mistaken for body parts were in reality pieces of armor cast here and there. The flesh and bone that the armor had once contained were gone, dissolving in pools of acid and goo in the bloated stomachs of his newborn soldiers. The entire scene filled Mala with such glee he could barely contain himself.
With the Kojins, Stone-Eaters, and witches at his side, Mala began a street-by-street and building-by-building scouring of the city. The newborns charged furiously to and fro, searching for the few remaining survivors who somehow had hidden cleverly enough to avoid being discovered. Occasionally, someone would be dragged screaming into the streets to be stripped and devoured, prompting Mala to laugh and clap and the Kojins to squeal in approval.
But not all news was good. According to reports from his scouts, The Torgon’s body was nowhere to be found, and it was believed that fewer than ten score Tugars had perished, with the rest having escaped either underground or via rope ladders over the walls. Several thousand black knights were also believed to have fled with them. Most of the Mogols and wolves that had been assigned to patrol the plains outside the walls had been found dead. Upon hearing this, Mala experienced another surge of rage. The desert rats were proving to be extremely difficult to squash, which would make the conquest of Jivita less simple than he had hoped. Then again, the harder they fought, the sweeter would be his victory.
By noon, it was hot enough to grill goat meat on the black granite, yet the foul odors of putrefaction were far less intense than they should have been. The newborns’ hunger had been so magically insatiable, even the fallen monsters had been eaten. However, the Tugar corpses had not been devoured, their flesh too tough even for the metallic teeth of the newborns. Mala considered incinerating the dead Tugars with his trident, but that seemed too honorable an ending, so he ordered their corpses piled in an open courtyard and left to slowly rot.
By midafternoon, Mala and his entourage had explored less than a third of the massive city, but Mala already was comfortable that there were few survivors. Even
if a small number of Nissayans still cowered in dark corners, what did it matter? The fortress was defeated. Mala chose to leave five score wild men to defend Nissaya, but now it was time to gather his troops outside the walls and assess his own losses.
Mala gave the surviving trolls another important job, ordering them to gather outside the entrance of Hakam with their golden hammers and batter apart the magical portico that had protected Mala and his minions from assault from above. Afterward, the trolls cast the horrid pieces of flesh and metal away from the foot of the gate, clearing even more room for the departing army. Meanwhile, wild men and Mogols had been hard at work reconstructing the drawbridge that spanned the moat between Ott and Balak. Appearance-wise, their work was crude, but at least the bridge now could bear considerable weight.
The thirty Duccaritans who had survived the battle turned out to be very good at counting. While Mala’s army funneled through the cleared entrance of Hakam, the pirates lined up a variety of different-sized pebbles to keep an accurate assessment. All told, only sixty thousand of the original one hundred and sixty thousand newborns still lived, as well as thirty thousand of the original forty thousand monsters, though the druids that remained with Mala were next to useless, wandering around with glazed expressions like dumb-asses.
Overall, Mala had not expected his losses to be so large, but considering that a sizable portion of the newborns had perished before the battle began, it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He still commanded a force that was three times as numerous, and many times as powerful, as the one he expected to encounter at Jivita, especially if the reports from the White City he’d received were anywhere near accurate.
By the time his host again gathered on the plains, it was past midnight. To passersby, it might have seemed wasteful that Mala’s army wasn’t availing itself of the luxuries of the fortress it had so recently conquered. But as far as Mala was concerned, there would be comfort aplenty in Jivita. If his soldiers wanted beds, they could find them in the White City, after it had fallen.
