by Jim Melvin
“Lord, it is bitter not to be able to fight by your side one last time. I love you.”
“You can do more for me here than anywhere else.”
The chieftain sighed. “I will do my best.”
Torg turned away, but then looked back. “I love you too, Kusala. You are my brother.” There was nothing more to be said after that. Torg swung around and strode toward his doom.
Just a short distance away, there was a swell in the plains north of the road. On it stood an average-sized man, adorned in golden robes. At the base of the swell was a ring of Daasa, each snarling and slavering but hesitant to attack. On one side of the wizard rode Rajinii, Manta, and the remaining necromancers. On his other walked Ugga, Elu, and Burly, all of whom had chosen to dismount. The Asēkhas fanned out and joined the Daasa. Bhayatupa circled high above.
Finally Torg came close enough to make out the details of Invictus’s face. The whistling had stopped, creating an eerie silence. The Sun God wore a wry grin, as if a pathetic gathering amused him. His demeanor betrayed no signs of concern, but Torg could sense anger boiling just beneath the surface.
Invictus was the first to speak, but it was to Lucius, not Torg. “General Lucius, we meet again. It has been long since you and I last spoke. You have changed.”
The firstborn growled. “You have not.”
“I am a Sun God,” the sorcerer said. “Why should I change?”
“You are a monster!” Lucius rasped. “Worse even than those you employ, though most of them are now dead, including Mala.” With a lumpy hand, the firstborn gestured across the corpse-riddled battlefield.
Invictus chuckled. “I am a monster . . . and you are not?”
Lucius had no answer.
The sorcerer smirked, as if his former general had been properly dismissed. Then he turned his attention to Rajinii. “How fare you, Pale Queen?”
“I am not well,” she said, her voice quivering. “But after you are slain, I will feel much better.”
“Knowing me as well as you do, you still dare to threaten me? Would it not be wiser to beg for mercy?”
“Unlike before, I am not alone.”
“No?”
The sorcerer bent back his neck and gazed upward. “Lord Bhayatupa,” he called in a loud voice. “I was witness to your demise, yet you still live. How can that be? And where is your necklace? You would so blithely discard such a beautiful gift? I am insulted.”
“Your gift lies in the dirt, where it belongs,” the dragon called back, his voice also magically amplified. “As for why I still live, you will soon learn the answer.”
As if disinterested, Invictus grunted. Then he returned his gaze to those on the ground and focused his attention on Torg. “Death-Knower, we meet again . . . at last. You’ve taken good care of my sister, I presume?”
“Your jokes are pathetic,” Torg replied.
“Perhaps I am not joking.”
“In that case, you were successful.”
Invictus grunted again. “I am always successful.”
“Only a child believes such things of himself.”
The sorcerer’s eyes flared, and the tiny hillock seemed to tremble. “This is not the first time you have accused me of immaturity.”
“I speak only the truth, but you will not listen.”
When the sorcerer sighed, Torg felt the air temperature increase at least five more degrees. Never, anywhere on Triken, had there been a day so hot. Sweat gushed out of his black eyebrows into his eyes, and he noticed that Ugga’s thick beard was as wet as if he had just stepped out of a tub. The barded destriers breathed heavily through flared nostrils.
Invictus raised his arms and spoke to them all. “You have defeated my army . . . but not me. All of you combined are not my match. I am Akanittha, wielder of the Highest Power. Compared to me, even the dragon and Death-Knower are weaklings.”
“We’d rather die than be your slaves,” Ugga bellowed.
Invictus cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is!” Churikā shouted.
“Ema! Ema!” the Asēkhas chanted.
The sorcerer smiled, exposing teeth so white they glistened like desert sand. “You underestimate me. Not all my slaves are mistreated.” Then he pointed his right index finger at Elu, and a thin yellow beam sprang from the tip and enveloped the diminutive Svakaran, causing him to scream.
Ugga reached for him, but the golden aura cast him aside.
The Asēkhas leapt forward, but Torg shouted, “Not yet!” And they froze.
Meanwhile, Elu writhed in apparent agony, collapsing to his knees and pressing his hands against his ears. The tiny suit of Jivitan armor split along the breastplates and backplates, and then the cuisses burst asunder. Now naked, Elu’s body began to bloat. Bubbling lumps formed on his shoulders, first oozing viscous blood and then vomiting bizarre chunks of flesh and bone.
A skull. A foot. An eyeball. Wiggling fingers.
Still screaming, Elu rose to his full height, which was now just a span shorter than Ugga or Torg. Then the Svakaran stopped screaming and looked down at his new body. He was as large as a Mogol.
“I’m whole,” Elu said, puzzled but not displeased.
Even Ugga was impressed. “The little guy isn’t little anymore.”
“You see?” Invictus said from above. “I am not evil.”
Torg ignored the sorcerer and turned to Elu. “When the fighting begins . . . run,” he said in a near-whisper. “If you can get far enough away, he might ignore you.”
“After all you’ve done for me, you ask me to flee?” the new version of Elu said, his voice much deeper than before.
“If any among us survive this day, it will be a victory. Perhaps you might even reunite with Rathburt. Can you imagine how pleased he will be to see you like this?”
“What’s all the whispering about?” Invictus said in a voice loud enough to cause the destriers to squeal. “I don’t like it when people talk behind my back. Let me show you what happens when I’m displeased.”
“No . . . wait!” Torg said.
But too late. Another beam leapt from the sorcerer’s finger, this time enveloping Ugga. The crossbreed dropped his axe, arched his back, and cried out. Then his armor blew apart, casting angry shards of twisted metal. Ugga collapsed onto his side, first screaming, then whimpering. Grotesque body parts spewed from his broad back, including a pair of human heads. When Ugga rose on all fours, a great black bear stood in his place. The bear snarled at Elu and then sprinted northward toward Mahaggata.
“Go with him, Elu . . . help him!” Torg said.
With one final look of regret, the Svakaran hoisted Ugga’s massive axe over his shoulder and ran.
“A chastisement,” the sorcerer said, his voice again proud. “As you can see, it is not wise to cross me.”
Without warning, Arusha and the other destriers bolted in such hysterical panic that Rajinii, Manta, and the necromancers were cast from their barded mounts, landing heavily on the grass in a series of thumps.
Invictus laughed. “At least your beasts have sense.”
Rajinii stood, held her staff aloft, and strode toward the hillock, her gray eyes ablaze. She passed by Torg, squeezed between a pair of Daasa, and started up the hill.
“No more . . . no more!”
“Rajinii!” Torg said. “We must fight him together.”
Either the queen didn’t hear, or she refused to listen. Instead, she aimed the head of her staff at Invictus, who simply shrugged. A torrent of energy leapt from the fist-sized jade, scorching the air with its fury. Suddenly, the sorcerer was bathed in green fire. Surely not even he could survive such an assault.
All others, even the Daasa, seemed paralyzed.
Rajinii howled hysterically, pumping more and more power through her staff, though not without personal cost. As the magic that had kept her young was ferociously drained from her body, her face aged rapidly. Suddenly, her oaken staff split down its middle, and the chunk of jade f
lew into the air and burst into sparkling shards. The conflagration was so bright, even Torg was forced to cover his eyes. Then, for a time there was so much smoke it was difficult to see.
When it cleared, Invictus remained standing, a broad smile on his boyish face. He was unharmed. Even his robes were immaculately intact. “I am Akanittha,” he said calmly.
Rajinii lay on her side, sobbing. Manta went to her and helped her to sit up. Torg gasped. The queen’s face was worn and wrinkled, and her long hair, once the color of ebony, had become as white as her skin. Rajinii’s magic was gone.
“Your highness,” Manta moaned. “What has he done?”
“What have I done?” Invictus countered. “I did nothing. Why blame me?”
Without prompting, the Daasa attacked next. Torg would have stopped them if he were able, but their rage could not be denied. For too many years they had been the sorcerer’s helpless victims. Now they intended to tear him to shreds.
“Hmmph!” Invictus said, before flicking his right hand. A circular band of yellow energy sprang outward. The Daasa, some of which had approached within a single pace, were tossed back like tumbleweeds in a desert storm. Yellow magic continued to cling to their pink hides, sparkling and sizzling. Soon after, every Daasa had reverted to its original self: smaller and far less dangerous. In unison the pink-skinned, purple-eyed creatures looked at Lucius with bewilderment.
“Go . . .” the firstborn said. Then louder: “Go!”
To Torg’s surprise and relief, the Daasa rushed off in the direction of Dhutanga. Torg doubted he would ever see them again.
“Another gift,” Invictus proclaimed. “And you, Lucius, are next.”
Yellow energy encased the firstborn. Torg reached for him and was battered back, but Bonny, filled with desperate love, fought her way through the conflagration and hugged Lucius. The sorcerer’s wicked magic enveloped both of them and forced them to transform to their original selves, naked and helpless before the most powerful being in the world.
“What shall I do with you?” the sorcerer mused. “This, certainly, is not sufficient punishment for your traitorous acts.”
The firstborn stood shakily, still holding Bonny in his arms. Finally, evidently realizing that they could fight no more, they ran in the same direction as the Daasa. Invictus raised his hand as if to strike them, but then was distracted by Bhayatupa, who continued to circle above, as if waiting for a sign that had not yet come. Without prompting, the Asēkhas gathered around Torg, who advanced from below.
“It is time for the final test,” Torg said in challenge.
Torg lowered his ivory staff and willed blue-green flame to burst from its rounded head. At the same moment, Bhayatupa swooped down and hovered a stone’s throw above where Invictus stood, bathing the sorcerer with crimson fire laced with blue. Manta and the other necromancers added green flame. Even Burly the enchanter joined the attack, blasting the sorcerer with energy from his tiny wand. So powerful was the combined assault, the hillock collapsed, as if an earthquake had undermined it, and the sorcerer was knocked off his feet.
As Invictus attempted to stand, Podhana leapt upon him and slashed at the sorcerer’s neck. But before the Asēkha’s uttara could cleave flesh, it struck a pale shield of golden light that encased the Sun God from head to toe. The Tugarian sword—capable of chipping stone—was no match for the sorcerer’s magic. The curved blade incinerated. All that remained was the ornamented handle. The Asēkha stared at it in amazement.
“Move!” Torg screamed, prompting Podhana to dive to his left. Then Torg unleashed another gout of power, striking Invictus in the face. Again the sorcerer was knocked off his feet, and when he tried to stand a second time, Bhayatupa buffeted him with dragon fire. When the emanations of magic ceased, Torg towered over the Sun God and whipped the Silver Sword downward with enough force to cleave a slab of granite.
Their greatest hope lay in the result. Was the Silver Sword powerful enough to slay the Sun God?
The supernal blade struck the pale shield at the base of Invictus’s neck. The resulting fulmination raced up Torg’s arms and shook his entire body, flipping him backward. The Silver Sword was torn from his grasp, and it spun high in the air and flew far away. Finally, it struck tip-first fifty paces from where Laylah and Kusala stood.
This dazed Torg, but strong arms lifted him to his feet, Churikā on one side, Dalhapa on the other. Torg looked toward Invictus and saw that he also had stood. Without pause, Bhayatupa attacked again, but the sorcerer already had increased the strength of his magical shield, and the dragon fire now seemed to cause little damage.
“Podhana’s blade was ineffective,” Churikā shouted to Torg. “The Asēkhas are helpless against him.”
“There is nothing you can do,” Torg admitted. “The sorcerer cannot be harmed by blade or blow. Return to Laylah . . . and take her from here in haste!”
Podhana raced over. “Where should we go?”
“Anywhere but here!”
Without further delay, the Asēkhas sprinted westward toward Laylah and Kusala. Now, only Torg, Bhayatupa, Rajinii, the necromancers, and Burly remained to confront the Sun God. Rajinii seemed to have gone mad, writhing on the ground and alternating between desperate sobs and insane laughter.
To Torg’s dismay, Invictus withstood Bhayatupa’s assault, though now he stood in a smoldering depression several cubits deep that the force of the dragon fire had excavated. Torg unleashed yet another blast, but this time the sorcerer was able to retain his footing. The pale yellow shield expanded, encasing Invictus in a seemingly impenetrable shelter.
The Sun God smiled. “I am impressed. Your resistance was—how should I say?—stouter than expected.” Then he looked up at the dragon. “Bhayatupa . . . now I understand. You also wield Death Energy. How interesting. Sadly though, at least for your sake, it is still not enough. I am Akanittha. How many times must I repeat it?” Then he pointed at them, one by one. “All told, you are not my match. Why do you continue to resist? The Pale Queen, at least, has surrendered.”
Manta let out a howl and ran toward Invictus with her staff held high. But when her body, still fully armored, encountered the pale shield of magic, she was consumed as easily as a dry leaf tossed into a bonfire. One moment she was there, the next she was gone. Nothing remained, not even ash.
“Death-Knower,” Torg heard Bhayatupa cry from above. “We cannot win on this day. We must flee!”
“Flee to where?” Invictus said. “Anywhere you go, I will find you.” Then he cast his right fist forward, and a globule of golden energy erupted from the shield and struck the dragon full-force. The explosion threw Torg to the ground, and when he managed to stand and look about, he saw that Bhayatupa was no longer aloft. Though still alive, the great dragon lay on the plain, twisted and broken. Entire scales had been torn away, revealing bloodied flesh.
Invictus strode toward Bhayatupa, the pale shield following along obediently. The necromancers attempted to impede his progress, but they were incinerated, one by one. Torg felt something tugging on his breeches, and he looked down to see Burly standing timidly at his feet. Never before had he seen the Gillygaloo look so frightened.
“Torgon, I am outmatched. What would you have me do?”
“It is not your place to die here,” the wizard said. “Run . . . and never look back. Hide in the deepest, darkest places.”
With uncharacteristic cowardice, Burly sprinted off.
Now only Torg, Bhayatupa, and Rajinii remained. With barely enough strength left in his legs to walk, Torg grasped Obhasa and staggered toward the sorcerer.
“Invictus . . . wait! Don’t do this . . . wait!”
But the Sun God paid him no heed, striding confidently toward the broken dragon with a grin on his face.
“This time, you will not return,” Torg heard him say to Bhayatupa. “I will make sure of it.”
The dragon looked past Invictus at Torg—and managed to smile . . . knowingly. “Do not despair, Death-Knowe
r,” he gurgled. “Perhaps . . . one day . . . we will meet again.”
Before Torg could get any closer, the sorcerer unleashed another torrent of golden energy. The dragon was blown apart. Hundreds of his scales spun in the air like massive three-bladed disks. Bhayatupa the Great was no more.
The destruction of such a being stunned Torg, but he had no time for sorrow. Now only he and Rajinii remained. Torg sprinted to the queen and knelt by her side. “Stand . . . and run,” he whispered harshly. But she did not acknowledge his presence.
“And now, Torgon,” Invictus said. “It is time that you and I settled our differences. But I am not without the capacity for mercy. If you bow to me and beg my forgiveness, I will make your punishment as painless as possible.”
Torg stood, using Obhasa for support. “I would no more bow to you than I would to any god,” he said in a shaky voice. “And beg the forgiveness of a spoiled brat?” Torg spat upon the ground. “I will do no such thing. Even you are impermanent.”
Torg expected Invictus to explode with rage. Instead, the sorcerer only laughed. Then he started toward Rajinii. Torg moved between them.
“Out of my way,” Invictus said, and he waved his arm.
Torg was lifted up and over the fallen queen, and he flew through the air and landed in a heap on the grass, not ten cubits from where Mala, now become Yama-Deva, lay unmoving. The thick-linked chain that had long tormented the snow giant was within Torg’s grasp. Out of delirious fascination, he touched it with the tip of his index finger. Despite the ferocious heat, the golden metal now was as cold as the blade of the Silver Sword.
Torg struggled to his knees. By then, Invictus was towering over Rajinii and leering wickedly. Torg tried to stand but grew dizzy and stumbled face-forward. Finally, he did regain his feet, only to trip over what he mistook for a boulder but then realized was the decapitated head of a cave troll.
For the first time since the battle began, Torg took note of the enormity of the slaughter. Strewn all about as far as he could see was a bizarre conglomeration of broken, bloodied, and twisted bodies. He recognized witches and Stone-Eaters, ogres and vampires, Mogols and wolves—and of course, golden soldiers transformed to human form. Interspersed with the monsters were white horsemen and destriers, black knights from Nissaya, Daasa, and even Tugars. Within his range of vision he could recognize several dozen Kantaara Yodhas, and this filled him with misery. How many of his warriors had died on this day?
