by Jim Melvin
Before Elu dared approach Torg, the bear went first, swaying his huge head nervously. The tree was gone, and in its place lay the wizard, naked and whimpering. Rathburt was next to him, resembling a corpse that vultures had stripped partially clean. Though Elu had seen his share of carnage in his lifetime, he still could barely bring himself to look at his friend’s remains—mostly because of Rathburt’s face, which bore an expression of horror despite being little more than a skull with a few shreds of dangling flesh.
When Ugga nuzzled Torg, the wizard sat up and screamed. Then he smacked the bear on the snout with his hand. Ugga squealed and backed away before squatting on the grass and snarling.
“Get away from me,” Torg shouted. Then he buried his face in his hands.
The bear backed up another few paces and sat again.
Now it was Elu’s turn to approach, though the Svakaran was warier than ever. “Great one?” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He took a few steps nearer. “It’s Elu. Do you remember me?”
Though he did not look up, Torg removed his hands from his face. In a dangerous voice he said, “Come no closer . . .”
Elu felt a chill run up his spine. It was so dark he couldn’t tell if the wizard was even whole. Perhaps his lower legs were still covered with bark or his feet still buried in the soil.
“As always, I will do what you ask,” Elu said timidly. “But are you certain you don’t need some help? I have a skin of wine Rathburt left me. There’s not much left, but at least there are a few sips.”
The wizard seemed not to be listening. Instead, he had returned to a heart-wrenching whimpering.
Despite Torg’s warning, Elu edged closer, finally coming within a few paces before dropping to his hands and knees and literally crawling toward the wizard. Before he knew it, the bear was beside him.
When Torg looked up and saw them, his face softened—if only slightly. “Rathburt’s dead,” he said, as if stating the obvious might somehow lessen the tragedy. “He sacrificed himself . . . for me.”
Elu sat down next to Torg. Ugga did the same, his tongue lolling from his mouth.
“We saw,” the Svakaran said. “Rathburt was . . . determined.”
“He threw his life away,” the wizard said, his voice again dangerous. “I was better off the way I was before—and no more helpless than I am now. Rathburt wasted his life . . . for a lost cause. He was a fool.”
“He chose to save you,” Elu said, gripping the shaft of Ugga’s axe. Anger flooded into his own voice. “He wasn’t forced. His final act was one of bravery. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
In one swift motion, Torg stood. Steam poured off his naked body. “Do not banter with me, Svakaran. I’m in no mood for debate. And if you choose to use that axe, do so at your peril.” Then he strode eastward into even deeper darkness.
Elu looked at the bear and shrugged. “Do we follow?”
Ugga licked him on the nose. Despite all the turmoil, the Svakaran chuckled. “Before we do, we should bury Rathburt,” Elu said. “Our friend deserves at least that.”
The bear grunted.
Where the tree had stood, the ground had been disrupted. Elu used the axe as a shovel, scraping out chunks of dirt and sod in an attempt to create a trench large enough to contain Rathburt’s remains. The bear joined in, his powerful front paws digging far faster than the Svakaran could manage. Elu gently laid the skeleton in the grave, covered it, and then scattered wildflowers upon the mound. The Svakaran used Rathburt’s staff as a marker, driving the dense wood deep into the soft ground, so that only the head remained visible. When he was finished, the first hints of dawn were creeping over the grisly scene.
Elu loomed over the grave, head bowed, eyes filled with tears. The bear stood at his side.
“Somehow, this feels right,” the Svakaran said. “What better place to bury a warrior than in the battlefield upon which he fell? I’ll miss you more than you know, Rathburt. You rescued me from horror and gave me back my life, and though I was never able to properly repay you, at least you know that I loved you. May you find peace among the gods, my dear friend. You, more than anyone I’ve ever known, deserve peace.”
Elu turned to leave, but he noticed the bear clawing at the ground a short distance from where Rathburt was buried.
“Come, Ugga,” the Svakaran said. “The Death-Knower has a lead.” But the bear wouldn’t listen. “What is it?” Elu said. Then he noticed that Ugga had uncovered a sliver of metal that glimmered in the growing light. The Svakaran grasped it with his hands and drew a long blade from the soil.
“Ugga! You’ve found Torg’s sword.”
The bear rose up on his hind legs and roared.
“Shhhhhh . . .” the Svakaran said. “Don’t draw too much attention.”
Then Elu started eastward, with the Silver Sword—minus the wrappings of its hilt—in one hand and Ugga’s axe in the other.
The bear followed.
Rathburt stayed where he lay.
58
TORG FELT AS if the weight of the world had been returned to his shoulders. And even as he left Elu and Ugga behind and strode into the darkness, his thoughts returned to Laylah and the suffering she must be enduring at the hands of Invictus.
Torg began to jog, then run, then sprint. He reached the western bank of Lake Hadaya just as the uppermost rim of the sun was peeking over the eastern shore of the massive lake. A staggering array of colors sprang forth from the horizon, as if using beauty to pry darkness from the world. The loveliness overwhelmed Torg, and the pathos staggered him. He stopped at the water’s edge and collapsed to his knees, then took his face in his hands and sobbed again.
Torg never heard them approach. When they finally chose to speak, Torg had no idea how long they had been standing behind him.
“You have come far,” said a voice he instantly recognized. “The worst is over. If you will trust us just a little longer, there is hope for you . . . and Laylah.”
“She speaks the truth, Father,” said a second voice. “If you can find it in your heart to forgive us for what has occurred, much damage can yet be undone.”
Unabashed by his nudity, Torg rose to his feet and turned to face them. Jord and Peta stood side by side, like a mother and daughter. The Faerie was holding black clothing, neatly folded, and the ghost-child a pair of large boots. They took one step forward and laid them on the sand at his feet, as if presenting gifts. Then they backed away.
Torg dressed silently, never taking his eyes off the two of them. Finally, he deigned to speak. “Where’s Vedana? Answer truthfully.”
This seemed to startle both of them. It was Peta who answered. “She watches over Laylah.”
Torg grunted. “And this is supposed to make me feel better?”
“The demon is the only one among us with the ability to avoid detection,” Jord interjected.
“I don’t believe you . . . either of you,” Torg said. “Neither do I trust you. Hatred is the only emotion I hold dear. I suggest you both leave while you still have the chance.”
“If you reject our aid now,” Jord warned, “Invictus will prevail, and Laylah will remain his prisoner for as long as she lives.”
“To one who has already lost everything, your threats are hollow.”
“These aren’t threats, Father,” Peta pleaded. “I promise you . . . Invictus can be destroyed and Laylah saved. But if you turn us away, the sorcerer will win.”
“And if that occurs,” Jord said, “then everyone else—everything else—will lose.”
Torg sighed. “A demon scripted these words.”
Jord started to respond, but a flash of black smoke caused her to step back and gasp. Peta did the same. An instant later, the mother of all demons stood between the Faerie and the ghost-child.
Vedana stomped toward Torg unafraid, her wide mouth full of teeth that resembled miniature stalagmites and stalactites. “Listen to me, Death-Knower . . . and listen good! If you ever want to see your sexy little l
ady again, then you had better do what the three of us say when we say it. I’m not about to have you ruin my plan just because you’ve chosen to hold a grudge, you whiny imbecile.”
Filled with snarling rage, Torg slapped the demon’s physically incarnated face, knocking her onto her back on the sandy bank of the lake. Then he leapt upon Vedana and grabbed her throat, squeezing with enough force to pulverize stone. At the same time, he unleashed a torrent of blue-green flame that entrapped the demon in a ball of fury.
Unable to free herself from Torg’s grip so that she could flee into the Realm of the Undead, Vedana howled for help.
Torg felt Jord pound on his back first with fists and then with hooves. When that didn’t work, her beak and talons ripped at his flesh.
Vedana screamed, wriggled, squealed, but still Torg strangled her.
Then Peta was wrapping her thin arms around his neck and squeezing. Her flesh felt like ice, and it burned him in a way he had never felt before.
Torg gasped and fell away, gagging and spitting.
“Father! I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry! I knew of no other way to make you stop.”
Torg lay on his side in a fetal position and closed his eyes. Suddenly he no longer had the strength to fight. It was time to give up. And die.
Permanently.
But there was too much noise to achieve the necessary level of concentration. Vedana was coughing, Peta and Jord pleading. He even heard the far-off growl of a bear and then Elu shouting, “Little girl . . . I have his sword!”
Torg ignored them all, instead focusing on the calming influence of his breath. This time when his heart quit beating and he left his body, he would not return. Without Laylah, nothing mattered.
Ironically, it was Laylah who brought him back. As if hearing the slightest of sounds from a faraway place, Torg sensed that she was speaking to him.
“Beloved,” the whispery voice said. “Do you live?”
Torg sat up and screamed. It had not been his imagination. Laylah was out there somewhere, calling to him. How he loved her. In an instant his demeanor changed. Now he was filled with a desire to save Laylah. Even if it meant communing with a demon or anyone else, he suddenly was more than willing to comply.
Laylah’s Suffering
59
THERE WAS POWER in the universe beyond ordinary power, strength beyond ordinary strength. When encountered, it was best not to resist.
In a distant corner of her mind, Laylah wondered if this were what it was like to be a fetus in a womb. Though the stars were suspended above her like pricks of light in a black-velvet ceiling, she felt removed from their presence, her body floating in a bubble of warmth. But unlike in the womb of a loving mother, she experienced no comfort or sustenance. Rather, Laylah felt as if she were trapped inside a demon’s belly.
She had little memory of the flight to Avici, even less of being lifted off the Sampati’s back and carried into Uccheda.
Iron hands laid her on her bed. And she was left alone.
Even then, she could not move—except for her eyeballs . . . and later her lips and tongue.
Somehow she managed to sleep, though nightmares troubled her. In one, the evil behemoths of Dhutanga surrounded and tormented Torg. Laylah awoke with a shout and looked about her room.
Through hazy vision, she saw that everything was as she remembered and in the same place as before, including the door to her closet where she had dragged Bhacca’s corpse the day she had escaped from Avici. Her dear friend’s death at the hands of Vedana had occurred less than a year ago, yet it seemed like a decade. Now Laylah was back in Uccheda, imprisoned more hopelessly than before. At least then, she still had believed in the possibility of a future. But with Torg misshapen by her brother’s demonic spell, she had no reason to live and no foreseeable way to escape. Laylah felt as doomed as a fly caught in a web. When the spider decided to eat, she would be helpless to stop it.
She fell asleep again, and this time dreamed she was sitting on the rope swing of her childhood, suspended from the branch of the sycamore. Invictus stood nearby, taunting her as she went higher and higher, like a pendulum out of control. To her horror, Torg was kneeling at her brother’s feet, and the sorcerer was strangling him. Laylah tried to stop the swing, but this only caused it to go faster.
Laylah again woke with a shout. She still was immobilized but found she could wiggle her toes and twitch her fingers. If she tried hard enough, could she do more? She was too exhausted to find out. Once again, she slept and dreamed. This time, Torg was standing deep inside the stronghold of the Hornbeam, the dead forest in the northern wilds. She approached him, suddenly afraid. Then he reached out to her, full of despair. This frightened her worse than the other dreams, and she woke to a room aglow with bright sunlight.
Laylah found that she could sit up, though her head felt as heavy as a boulder. When her vision cleared, she drew in her breath with a hiss. A young girl with blond hair and brown eyes sat dutifully in a chair next to her bed.
“Bhacca?”
“Yes, young princess?”
“Bhacca . . . how can it be?”
Silence.
“You’re alive . . .”
“No, young princess. I am not alive.”
Laylah felt a sudden pain in her chest, as if her heart were withering.
“I don’t . . . understand.”
“Nor do I.”
Then her brother’s disturbing voice leapt between them. He seemed to be able to appear out of nowhere.
“Aaaaah . . . dear sister. I see you have reacquainted yourself with your former chambermaid. She was mistress of the robes last you spent time together, is that not so?”
A growl rose in Laylah’s throat. “Invictus . . . what have you done!?”
“Lovely Laylah, you sound upset. I’m taken aback. While you were gone, I went to so much trouble to ensure that things would remain the same around here. And why? So that you would feel comfortable upon your return. I’ve even kept young Bhacca intact, which is no easy feat, when you consider it’s been almost nine months. She’s a little rough around the edges, so don’t examine her too closely.” He leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially. “Especially around dinnertime. Her odor can ruin the appetite.” Then he stepped back and bellowed, “Still, I do all these wonderful things for you, and what do I get in return? Nothing but petulance.”
Unable to resist the urge to stare, Laylah studied Bhacca’s face. The girl’s brown eyes, heretofore sparkly and animated, were as lifeless as the eyes of a fish on a platter. Her cheeks—once round and ruddy—now were shrunken and discolored, as if gray ash had been brutally rubbed into her skin. Though her hair still was long and blond, Laylah could see that clumps of it had fallen out, especially above her ears. The outline of her body beneath her yellow robes was thin as a stick.
“Bhacca . . .” Laylah moaned.
“Yes, young princess?” she said, her voice emotionless.
Laylah shuddered. But Invictus seemed delighted, as if he had presented his sister with a wonderful gift. “I’ve taught her how to feed you . . . bathe you . . . brush your hair. And as long as she . . . holds together . . . she’ll be doing all these things, and more.”
Laylah leaned over the side of the bed and vomited. She had not eaten since the previous morning, so it was mostly just bile. Bhacca rose unsteadily to her feet, opened the drawer of a nearby chest, and drew out a towel. Then she knelt and began to wipe up the slimy mess.
“I . . . hate you . . . so much,” Laylah stammered to her brother.
Invictus was undeterred. “Whether you love or hate me matters little. All that matters is that you provide me with the heir I desire.”
The sorceress vomited again, which served only to make Invictus laugh.
“Lovely Laylah, do you know what damage you did to yourself when you had sex with the Death-Knower? Do you fully comprehend the ramifications? When you were here before, I couldn’t force myself upon you . . . because of my grandmoth
er’s little trick. But you and your ‘beloved’ took care of that problem for me. Now I shall have my heir. Only, I do hope that he’ll have my brown eyes. Blue eyes are so . . . unsightly.”
“I’ll kill myself . . .”
“No . . . sorry. As long as my magic envelops you, you’ll lack even that ability. Try whenever you like . . . even now, if it pleases you. But you’ll find that you’ll be unable to harm yourself. Isn’t that right, Bhacca?”
The chambermaid had returned to her chair. “I don’t remember,” she said blandly.
Invictus guffawed. “Bhacca, you’re the life of the party.”
Bhacca snorted. Puffs of dust blew from each nostril.
Laylah sobbed again. Her head pounded, and her body felt extraordinarily feeble. She collapsed onto her pillow.
Invictus leaned over her, his eyes ablaze with malice. “Till we meet again, dear sister.”
Before he left, he turned to Bhacca. “Feed her . . . as you’ve been taught.”
“I remember,” Bhacca said.
As soon as Invictus left the room, Bhacca’s eyes lit up like fire. She glared at Laylah and said, “Behave yourself, little bitch, and it won’t be as bad as you think. Allow him to impregnate you, and the rest will take care of itself. You’ll even get to be with your precious Death-Knower again, if you’re an especially good girl.”
Though most of her body was paralyzed, Laylah’s eyes opened wide. “What did you say?” she mumbled.
“I don’t remember,” Bhacca responded. Then the chambermaid stood and shuffled awkwardly toward the door, her body creaking like an old wooden floor. “I’ll be back with your dinner,” Bhacca said blandly.
After Bhacca shut the door, Laylah again was alone. The sorceress lay on her bed, expecting Invictus to return at any moment. Though her brother’s magic no longer rendered her immobile, she chose to remain still, her only movements the occasional blinks of her eyes.
When her door finally opened, she was surprised to find that she had fallen asleep, and she sat up in a panic, relaxing somewhat when she saw that it was Bhacca instead of Invictus. Only it wasn’t really Bhacca. Instead, it was her friend’s reanimated corpse that entered the room, shuffling awkwardly but somehow managing not to spill any of the food and drink she carried on the heavy silver platter. The dead version of Bhacca set the platter on Laylah’s dressing table and backed away.
