by Jim Melvin
“You seem in no hurry,” Nīsa said, startling Vikkama from her reverie. “Do you sense danger?”
“No,” she said. “In fact, quite the opposite. After all the horrors of the past few days, I’m surprised to find that I am still capable of enjoying the splendor of the land. I’ve always adored the Green Plains, especially in spring. They remind me of an oasis with no boundaries.”
“And as you know, I prefer the open waters of lakes and oceans to seas of grass and flowers,” Nīsa said. “Even from here, I can smell the salt air of Akasa.”
“We make quite a pair,” Vikkama said. “Have there ever been two Tugars with such disdain for sand?”
Nīsa chuckled. “Let’s just say that our tastes are more worldly than most.”
The other Asēkhas also chuckled. They seemed to be enjoying the leisurely pace as much as Vikkama. The Twenty had been under enormous stress since being ordered to abandon The Torgon in the mountains west of Kamupadana. In the ensuing forty-four days they had fought battles in the Gap of Gamana, on the western shore of Lake Ti-ratana, on the border of Java, at Nissaya, and in the Green Plains east of Jivita. And despite all their efforts, they had lost their beloved king, whom they were sworn to protect. Even warriors of their caliber needed occasional moments of relief.
“Jivita can wait for our arrival until tomorrow,” Vikkama said. “For now, let us take pleasure where we can.”
At midmorning, a squadron of white horsemen thundered westward along Iddhi-Pada. The Asēkhas hid in the grass, not yet willing to reveal their presence. Once the horsemen passed, the desert warriors continued their march, stopping at noon to munch on Cirāya and sip Tugarian nectar.
“The last time I was in Jivita, Burly Boulogne showed me the secret place where he stores his wine,” one of the Asēkhas said. “We should each steal a barrel before we leave.”
“If we leave,” Vikkama said. “We know naught what we’ll find in the White City. It might be that at least one of us will need to stay.”
“Then it should be you,” the warrior said. “You love the Green Plains more than the rest of us.”
Vikkama shrugged. “We shall see what we shall see. For now, let’s lie down in the grass and take a nap. I can’t remember the last time I slept properly. I am so exhausted I can barely stand.”
In late afternoon they awoke refreshed, ate another small meal, and continued westward, choosing to walk barefooted in the grass rather than booted on the hard stone road. For the most part, the Green Plains were devoid of activity. Occasionally, the warriors came upon a wagon the Jivitan army had abandoned, and once they encountered a limping destrier still burdened by heavy armor. Vikkama caught up to it, spoke soothing words, and then removed the barding. Afterward, the Asēkha found that a vampire’s claw was imbedded in one of the horse’s meaty forearms. Vikkama removed the claw and rubbed Tugarian salve on the wound. Relieved of the pain and poison, the great beast nickered affectionately, then turned and cantered westward, its limp barely noticeable.
“Should we not have kept the stallion?” Nīsa said. “We could have taken turns riding.”
“He has been mistreated enough for one lifetime and has earned a taste of freedom,” Vikkama said. “Let him run.”
“Ema . . . Ema . . .” the Asēkhas chanted, including Nīsa.
They continued at a leisurely pace, at least by Tugarian standards. The evening sky was clear and sparkling. The quarter moon rose at midnight, its left side aglow. All through the night they sauntered, speaking seldom. When they reached the wondrous white bridge that spanned the Cariya River, it was nearly dawn. They were greeted—suspiciously, at first—by a dozen white horsemen, who were obviously so exhausted they could barely mount a challenge. But when they recognized the Asēkhas, they cast off their helms and cheered.
“An entire army come to our rescue would not be more welcome,” proclaimed one of the Jivitans, his broad smile revealing a set of straight white teeth that was perfect except for a blank space where his middle incisors had been knocked from his upper jaw.
“Well met,” Vikkama said. “If I might ask, how go things in the White City?”
“We are not under assault, if that’s what you mean,” the Jivitan said. “But most of us are still in shock. So few survived the battle, and none escaped unscathed. Now that Queen Rajinii is dead, the general commands that we remain in the White City and defend it. Soon you will hear the blessed bells of Annusati, calling Ekadeva’s faithful to an important gathering.”
“We are faithful only to what we see,” Vikkama said. “But we will respond to the bells, nonetheless.”
“Though unbelievers, you are blessed in the eyes of the One God,” the Jivitan said. “The Tugars have defended the City of Splendor at the cost of many of your lives.”
As if in response, the bells of Annusati began to chime.
“Enter, Asēkhas,” the Jivitan said. “Do you require an escort to the cathedral?”
“That will not be necessary,” Vikkama said. “We have ears.”
This was met by raucous laughter, as much from relief of the recent horrors as from mirth. The Asēkhas passed over the bridge and between a pair of double-leaf iron gates flanked by modest watchtowers. The rooftops, chimneys, and church spires of the main business district loomed in the distance, but first they strode along a thoroughfare paralleled by a manmade canal.
When they finally entered the district, the shops and houses that framed the street had a peculiarly empty feel. Those who had remained already had answered the summons of the bells. Vikkama felt as if she were walking through the streets of Arupa-Loka in daylight, when the ghosts and demons remained hidden behind warped doors and shutters.
Eventually, Annusati loomed before them.
The Asēkhas stepped into its broad entrance, with the hesitance of those who feel unwelcome in such places. Thousands of Jivitans filled the pews, sitting on plush cushions dyed green and stuffed with wool. Beyond the pews, General Navarese stood near the front of the chancel.
“I will not fail Jivita,” the general was saying. “We will not fail Jivita. Those who remain will be fully outfitted and given honorable assignments. No enemy, no matter how strong, will pass through our gates unchallenged.”
There was loud applause. Navarese seemed to revel in it. But when the Asēkhas approached, the cheering faded, and all went silent. Vikkama again was reminded of Arupa-Loka.
“General,” Vikkama said, bowing low. “We have come to be of service, if you will have us.”
“Six . . . and no more?” Navarese said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Even the Tugars can do only so much,” was Vikkama’s response.
Navarese grunted, swirled about, and left the stage.
AFTER THE GENERAL departed, there was an uncomfortable silence.
The Asēkhas remained on the chancel and turned to the large gathering, as if expecting support. The thousands who watched from below did not respond, other than to slowly depart the massive cathedral through a variety of elaborate exits. But at least one remained, his face bearing an expression of melancholic amusement.
Archbishop Bernard finally rose from his cathedra and approached the Asēkhas, his bulbous cheeks as pink as a Daasa’s hide. “Great ones . . . do not take offense,” Bernard said to Vikkama. “More than ever, the general is not himself. So many have fallen. There is not an unbroken heart among us. Anything short of a thousand Asēkhas would not have brought comfort to Navarese.”
“The most we could have brought is twenty,” Vikkama said.
Nīsa watched their exchange with a tinge of amusement. He knew from experience that Vikkama was more tolerant of rudeness than most of the Asēkhas. Chieftain Kusala, had he still lived, already would be ranting and making threats, especially considering all that had so recently occurred. Nīsa felt a powerful pang of sorrow. He had loved Kusala like a father.
“Six Asēkhas are as great as six thousand ordinary knights,” Bernard said. “I know t
hat, and so does Navarese. He is not as uncouth as he appears. Never has a man desired, so intensely, to perform God’s duties . . . on a worldly stage—so much so that he demands nothing of God at all, other than to provide a comfortable resting place once his life is over. I, on the other hand, expect more of our creator and keeper. If I am to be a loyal servant, then I want results.”
“Dear sir,” Vikkama said, her tone characteristically polite, “I’m afraid you have lost me.”
Bernard laughed. “I have lost many, brave warrior. But I have saved a few, as well.”
Vikkama only shrugged, which caused the Archbishop to laugh even louder. “Well met, Asēkha. We are not as unalike as you might think. Let me give you some advice. Return to your people. They need you more than we do.” Then Bernard sauntered toward the back of the chancel, disappearing into shadows resembling mist.
“What now?” Nīsa said to Vikkama.
“I can answer that,” came a shrill voice from below.
Burly Boulogne entered the stage, his magic wand sparkling. The tiny enchanter’s eyes were wide with mischief. Nīsa couldn’t help but smile.
55
THE SECOND NIGHT after Torg had urged Burly the Enchanter to flee the Green Plains, the Gillygaloo had lain alone in his room above Boulogne’s, tossing and turning in his miniature bed. All night long, his dreams had been chaotic and frightening. Aboard a Sampati, Invictus went throughout the land, wreaking havoc from the skies with great bolts of golden power. But the sorcerer never attacked Jivita, veering north or south while laughing all the while. Yet the Gillygaloo took no comfort in it. A different threat—ancient and ominous—approached from the darkness. For reasons he could not explain, Burly feared this nameless danger even more than the sorcerer.
When he woke, it still was dark, though he could sense that dawn was not distant. Burly’s bedcovers were a knotted, sweaty mess, and he literally had to untie himself before he could rise. Now he stood over his basin and splashed water on his face. A polished plate of silver, the size of a Tugar’s hand, hung on the wall in front of him. With trepidation Burly looked at his reflection—and was startled. He had lived for a score of centuries, but never had he looked as old as he did now.
Being small of stature but powerful in his own right, the Kincaran enchanter had witnessed the deaths of Bhayatupa and Queen Rajinii from afar. Then he had been able to bear no more, fleeing westward like a hysterical coward. Burly sensed, as he fled, the demise of The Torgon—yet somehow the wizard’s fall lacked the feel of finality. Was Torg truly dead? The Gillygaloo couldn’t be sure, but something in him didn’t quite believe it. For this reason, he was not as distraught as he should have been. Besides, his kind seemed incapable of remaining depressed for long periods, even in the worst of times.
White horsemen had returned from the battlefield with the queen’s remains, along with a few grotesque bits and pieces of Manta and the remaining necromancers. Evidence of Bhayatupa’s brutal death was spread throughout the battlefield, but there was no sign of the Tugars, Torg, or Laylah. Most of this was explainable: Invictus must have kidnapped Laylah, accounting for her disappearance; afterward, the Tugars had returned and removed Torg and the rest of their dead from the bloodied plains. But where had the Tugars gone after that? Apparently they had chosen to remain hidden.
Burly put on a long-sleeved white shirt and brown breeches with red suspenders. His hat and boots were also red, and they sparkled in daylight or darkness, if he chose for them to do so. The enchanter was extremely rich, rivaling even Baron Kentigern. Pin-sized chips of Maōi created the sparkles, each cleaved as precisely as a diamond. Though they looked rather silly to some, the hat and boots alone were worth a fortune because of the Maōi.
The enchanter departed Boulogne’s through the front door of his tavern and scampered down the narrow alleyway that led to the main causeway of the business district. There were less direct—and more secretive—routes to be sure. But this was his best chance to catch a ride with one of the big people. When you were the height of a man’s forearm, distances took on a different meaning. A mile to most was like a league to Burly. Even his prized dwarf ponies were hard-pressed to keep up with the long strides of “ordinary” folk.
In anticipation of the ringing of the bells, the streets were already teeming, as Burly had hoped. A mounted horseman who frequented Boulogne’s saw him and cantered over. Then she removed her helm and treated him to a gentle smile. She loved Burly, as did most who knew him.
The horseman, feminine but powerful, reached low and scooped up the enchanter in a gauntleted hand. Then she sat him on her lap. “Good sir. Where are you going? And might I have the pleasure of taking you there?”
“Don’t tease . . . or I’ll have to refuse you the next time you request Tugarian nectar,” Burly squealed.
She laughed heartily. “The queen is dead, and the times are dire, but you are forever a joy, Burly Boulogne. Come, then, great one . . .” she said without derision. “You and I will ride together to Annusati.”
As if in response, the bells of the largest cathedral in the known world began to chime.
The horseman found Burly a seat in the front pew of the nave. Anywhere else, and it would have been difficult for him to see what was about to transpire. As he listened to Bernard, and then Navarese, speak to the gathering, the feeling of doom he had experienced in his nightmares returned. As if the horrors of the battle with Mala hadn’t been bad enough, Burly was convinced that something else threatened Jivita. And he was almost certain he knew what it was. Perhaps if he dealt with this thing, he could at least partially redeem himself for his earlier cowardice.
The unexpected appearance of the Asēkhas delighted Burly. Whether male or female, they reminded him so much of The Torgon: huge, muscular, dark-haired, and blue-eyed . . . and so profoundly confident. The enchanter waited until Navarese and Bernard went their separate ways, and then he leapt upon the chancel and scurried over to the desert warriors.
“What now?” he heard a relatively small male say to an enormous female.
“I can answer that,” Burly shouted.
In unison, the Asēkhas looked down and smiled. Gillygaloos were not foreign to them. The Torgon had made sure of that.
“Burly, I haven’t seen you in years,” the female said. The Asēkha was larger and far more powerful than the greatest of the Jivitan horsemen, male or female. “Has it been so long since I last visited Jivita?” Then she smiled. “You have answers? That is well . . . for I have questions.”
“I believe I have at least one answer,” Burly corrected. “But here and now is not the place to divulge secrets. Let us return to Boulogne’s, where there is food and drink aplenty, though you’ll have to serve yourselves. Good help is hard to find these days.”
Not long after, the six Asēkhas were seated at a bench in Boulogne’s. The Gillygaloo stood on the wooden table, sipping Tugarian wine and “holding court,” as Torg would have teased. Burly found himself missing the Death-Knower more than ever.
“Is Jivita in danger?” Burly said. “General Navarese seems to think so. Already he plans our defense, with little regard for exhaustion or morale. But it is not Invictus who threatens us—at least not at the present. Rather I sense something else. Another danger looms.”
Vikkama took a long drink of nectar. That single gulp would have bloated Burly’s stomach. “What is it that you sense, enchanter?”
“You are Asēkha. I’m sure you can guess.”
Vikkama sighed. “It is the druid queen you fear.”
“And why not? Her army has been decimated, but her enemy has since suffered even greater harm. If the queen believes she outnumbers us, she would be wise to strike again.”
“You want us to go to Dhutanga and investigate?”
Burly sensed his opening. “Not all six of you. Just one.” Then he told Vikkama and the others about Lucius, Bonny, and the Daasa. “If just one of you will journey with me, we can investigate Dhutanga’s southern bor
der. Once there, I’ll be able to sense . . . truly . . . whether this perceived threat is real. And there’ll be a bonus. The Asēkha who joins me can then continue northward and eventually catch up to the firstborn. Is not Lucius’s quest worthy of an escort? I believe that Torg would think so, if he still were with us.”
A male Asēkha, small by Tugarian standards, waved his arms like a schoolboy. “I will go with him,” Nīsa said. “Vikkama . . . allow me!”
The female smiled, though there was sadness in her expression. “Very well, Nīsa. I will not deny you this quest—though it pains me that The Twenty appear destined to be cleaved.” Then she turned to Burly. “And the rest of us? What do you suggest we do?”
“Rest here at Boulogne’s, at least until I return from Dhutanga,” the enchanter said.
It was early afternoon before Burly, astride a miniature pony, and Nīsa, choosing to walk, departed Jivita through the north gates and journeyed toward Dhutanga. It was very late evening before they reached the first of the trees. The unusual pair lighted a fire and consumed a hot meal. Then they doused the flames and rested.
Burly was uneasy. “Can you feel it?”
“I feel something, I cannot deny it,” Nīsa said. “It watches . . .”
“The White City must be warned.”
“Go then,” the Asēkha said. “I’ll wait here . . . to make sure you’re not followed.” Then he looked down at the enchanter and bowed. “I have always loved the sea, Burly Boulogne. Akasa beckons like a temptress. I feel as if my destiny will not be fulfilled until I am astride the deep, deep waters. Thank you for providing me with this opportunity.”
Burly also bowed. “When you return, please come to Boulogne’s and tell me all about your adventures. I predict that greatness awaits you on your journeys.” Then Burly turned and headed southward. “As you’ve learned firsthand, my pony is no racehorse,” he shouted back to the Asēkha. “Please make sure I’m far from here before you depart. And Nīsa . . .?”
