Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles)

by Jim Melvin

  Years of misery and guilt had wrested Utu away from Santapadam (the Path of Peace). But it took only a single moment to turn Deva off the path. He stood and stomped toward Nissaya’s interior.

  “Where are you going?” Ukkutīka said.

  Deva had forgotten the Asēkha still was with him. “I have changed my mind,” he growled. “Before I can return to Okkanti, there is work to be done.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Deva grunted. “Don’t fret, Asēkha. Your enemies remain my enemies.”

  Now, with his remaining fist, Deva battered down the wooden door of the tower. To squeeze into the opening, he was forced to bend at the waist. When he stepped inside, the scent of evil assaulted his nostrils, but he did not fear it. Instead, he was flooded with a desire for vengeance. The creature known as Mala had enjoyed killing. The one known as Yama-Deva now experienced a similar urge. Down the stairs he went, his head bowed low, his broad shoulders rubbing against the walls on both sides. Far below, he heard growling, meant as a warning. But he was a snow giant, whose strength was limited only by his hesitation to wield it as a weapon.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Deva entered a storeroom with a ceiling high enough to enable him to straighten to his full height. Without warning, a fountain of crimson fire struck his face, driving him backward a single step. The next moment, molten liquid splashed on his chest and abdomen, burning like acid.

  The resultant agony reminded Deva of Invictus’s chain, though the pain was not nearly as severe. How could these pathetic creatures hope to match what Invictus had already done to him? Deva laughed, and the sound caused the chamber to quiver. He heard the witch whimper and the Stone-Eater squeal. But he would not show mercy. He was Deva, but he also was Mala. And beyond both of those personas, he was an enraged brother seeking vengeance.

  Deva strode into the room, kicking aside brooms, buckets, and boxes. The witch, now in her hideous state, tried to scurry past him. If she had chosen his left side, she might have made it, but she went to his right, and Deva reached down and snared her by the waist. When he lifted her, she swung her oaken staff at his head. He blocked it with the stump of his forearm. When the staff struck his flesh, the wood exploded.

  With his remaining hand, Deva squeezed. Though the witch was engorged with demonic magic, she remained at her core a creature of flesh, bone, and blood. The flesh compressed, the bone pulverized, and blood spewed from her mouth. Deva dropped her crumpled corpse, which landed on the stone floor with a thud.

  Next, the snow giant turned on the Stone-Eater, who cowered somewhere in the far reaches of the chamber. There were plenty of places to hide in the smoky room, especially for a creature several spans shorter than an ordinary human male. But Deva could sense the heat of his presence, and he clambered toward it.

  As if convinced of his doom, the Stone-Eater emerged from a pile of debris, his arms held high in surrender.

  “Wait . . . wait!” the creature said. “I am Glax, brother of Bunjako, who fell at Nissaya! I am and will always be your faithful servant. Please, Lord Mala. Do not slay me.”

  “Is that who you think I am?”

  “Lord?”

  “When you look at me, you see Mala?”

  “To be honest, Lord, I can’t see much of anything through the smoke. But who else could you be?”

  For a moment Deva felt his rage begin to cool. If the Stone-Eater had remained quiet, he might have spared him. But Glax, sensing an opening, stepped much closer.

  “Shall we leave the chamber together, Lord Mala? We will slay anyone who stands in our way.”

  Deva smiled. “For the last time, my name is not Mala.”

  Then he smashed his fist onto Glax’s skull.

  When Deva emerged from the spire, Podhana approached, almost timidly.

  “They are no longer,” Deva said, his voice angry and dangerous. “See for yourself.”

  Though it now was well past dawn and the storm had passed, the stone streets of Nissaya still contained puddles and pools. The sun rose warm and inviting, but there was little else pleasant about the day. In fact, Deva found the heat threatening. He was in no mood for anything but the dark obsession of vengeance.

  “I go now to Avici,” Deva said, asking for neither advice nor permission.

  “And once there, what will you do?” Podhana said, leaning wearily against Obhasa.

  “I will seek out Invictus—and end his existence.”

  “I am not Invictus and do not have the might to thwart you,” Podhana said. “But are you so certain that you have the strength to slay the Sun God? Even Lord Torgon failed in the attempt.”

  Deva snorted. “As I have so recently been reminded, certainty is a luxury shared by the sheltered and naïve. I am certain of nothing, other than my desire to punish the being who murdered Yama-Utu.”

  “Allow us to join you,” Podhana said. “The Asēkhas are not weaklings. We will fight to the death at your side.”

  “Join me if you will,” Deva said, “but I will not tarry on your behalf.”

  And then he thundered through the city, sprang up an inner stairwell of Hakam, and leapt from bulwark to bulwark, much like Utu had done not so long ago. The snow giant landed in the gray grass a quarter mile from Balak and sprinted eastward, leaving Podhana and the Asēkhas far behind.

  Without the chain to weigh him down, Deva ran almost as fast as a dragon flies, reaching the southwestern border of Java by noon. Before dusk he approached the forest’s northern range, and there a strange assemblage of beings greeted him: two hundred score Pabbajja rising from the turf like ghosts. Though Deva’s mission was urgent, he stopped to hear what they might say. One of the Pabbajja waddled forward, apparently their leader, though eerily similar in appearance to the rest.

  “My name is Bruugash, and I am overlord of this cabal,” the strange little creature said.

  Deva’s memories from his time as Mala included the slaughter of Bruugash’s people at Nissaya. Now Deva’s guilt was renewed, and he gasped when Bruugash added, “Yama-Utu once walked among us, and we melded our minds with his. Therefore, we know you, Yama-Deva . . . through your brother’s memories.”

  “My brother’s memories are from a time long past,” Deva said. “Pay them little heed.”

  “Yama-Utu was obsessed with rescuing you. I see that he succeeded.”

  “My brother is dead . . . slain by Invictus,” Deva said. “Could I have saved him? Perhaps. Did he save me? That is a question I am not in a position to answer. But let it be known that I intend to avenge his murder. I go now to Avici to confront the Sun God.”

  “We will come with you,” Bruugash said. “Some of us already have gone that way. The rest are through with cowering.”

  “The Tugars also wanted to join me, and I told them the same thing I now tell you. Do as you please, but do not expect me to tarry.”

  “You are Himamahaakaayo,” Bruugash said. “But even you cannot confront Suriya alone. Wait here for the Tugars to arrive, and we will march on Avici together.”

  “Numbers mean little to Invictus. Above all others, I should know. The only thing that gives me a chance is my knowledge of his habits. My only hope is to catch him unawares. To do that, I must go alone. Feel free to follow, but do not do so if you value your safety.”

  “No place is safe anymore,” Bruugash said.

  But Deva did not hear, racing off again.

  By midnight, he had left Java behind and now sprinted alone down the middle of the long stretch of the road called Iddhi-Pada that ran from the forest to Avici. During all this time, he saw no living beings, as if the foulness that arose from the tower named Uccheda had frightened everything off. Deva did not doubt it. If it weren’t for his rage over Utu’s murder, he too would be running in another direction. A part of him craved to veer east, rush across the Gray Plains, circumvent the Salt Sea, and return to the peaks of Okkanti. This was the truly wise course: the Santapadam (Path of Peace). But the part of him that
controlled his decision-making would not allow it. He would face Invictus, even if he stood little chance of defeating him. And this time, if chance allowed, he would not show mercy.

  As he ran, Deva replayed his years spent as Mala, cringing at the litany of atrocities he had committed. Then he remembered, all too clearly, a moment when his sanity temporarily had emerged from the chains of its imprisonment. Invictus had lain helplessly in his arms, sickened and weakened by the solar eclipse, and Deva had been presented with the opportunity to slay the sorcerer.

  Then, mercy had stayed his hand.

  Now, how he wished it had not. It staggered him to realize the suffering he would have prevented had he performed a simple act of murder.

  This time, mercy would not prevail. Either Invictus would die. Or Deva would die. And if the sorcerer attempted to enslave him again, Deva hoped that he would be able to take his own life while he still was capable of doing so.

  Suddenly, Deva stopped.

  Then he collapsed to his knees in the middle of the road. And cried out.

  The other snow giants were calling to him—with their minds. Though Okkanti was more than one hundred and twenty leagues from where he stood, Deva could hear their voices.

  “Violence begets violence,” they chanted, over and over. “This is the law . . . immutable.”

  Deva couldn’t stand it. He fell onto his face on the hard road and sobbed. A being of peace—whose simple curiosity had led him into dangerous territory—had been subverted into a monster.

  So many had suffered because of it.

  Deva could hear the snow giants lecturing him: “Absolute power corrupts.”

  And then Sister Tathagata joined in: “Without enlightenment, suffering is inevitable.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  The chanting continued.

  But one familiar voice was silent. Bhari, wife of Utu, was not among them.

  The Druid Queen

  64

  WITH THE YELLOW light of dawn bathing his back, Torg stared westward at an unusual assortment of characters: a demon, a Faerie, a ghost-child, a man, and a bear. Torg wrestled with conflicting emotions. He was filled with joy that he had heard Laylah’s voice, but riddled with anguish that she was being tortured in a faraway place. He strode first to Elu and reached out his hand.

  “Give me the Silver Sword,” he said.

  “I found it and brought it for you,” Elu said happily, yet he hesitated to comply.

  “Give it to him, you shit-eating savage,” Vedana snarled, her physically incarnated voice still raspy from the choking she had received. “The Death-Whiner has caused enough delays already. We don’t need any more.”

  Elu looked at the demon with hate in his eyes, and Ugga growled.

  Torg ignored both. “The sword is mine,” he said, this time more gently than before. “Please give it to me.”

  “Please, smease,” Vedana said, rolling her ugly eyes and sighing deeply. “I have to go. Peta, tell the Death-Whiner what to do . . . and then do it fast. A lot has to happen in a short time.” Then Vedana swirled her robes and leapt into a dark hole that appeared in the air beside her.

  While Elu was watching the demon vanish, Torg took a step forward and snatched the sword from the Svakaran’s grasp. Elu gasped and then angrily swung his fist at Torg’s face, but Torg avoided the blow with ease.

  “Enough!” he shouted, his voice so powerful it caused the Svakaran to stumble. “The sword is not for you.”

  Elu’s face reddened. “I meant no harm. But it was I who found it.” Then his arms fell limply to his sides.

  “You have done well, my friend,” Torg said, peering intently into the Svakaran’s eyes. “Give it no further thought.” Then he turned to Peta. “The demon is right. There’s no time to waste. Tell me. Where do I go . . . and what do I do?”

  Peta’s relief was obvious. “I have foreseen what must occur, Father. Though you will not want to hear this, there are deeds you must perform—away from Avici—before your desires are achieved. Bargains have been made . . . between higher powers.”

  “And what of Laylah? How much must she suffer while I dally?”

  Jord chose to spoke. “You cannot prevail without the help of all involved . . . including Vedana.”

  Torg grunted.

  Peta walked gently forward until she stood just a pace away. “Father, when you sacrificed your freedom to rescue the noble ones from Mala, you set powerful forces in motion . . . as was your intention. But the destruction of a god does not come without a price. All three aspects of existence—life, death, and undeath—have demanded payment, of sorts . . . from you. Until all three debts are satisfied, you and Laylah will not be truly free.”

  “I don’t understand,” Torg said. “But if it saves Laylah, I will do what you say.”

  “Jord will take you to your first task,” Peta said. “I will rejoin you when it is time to do so.”

  “What about me and Ugga?” Elu said.

  “You are to deliver a message to Nissaya,” Peta said.

  “That’s it?”

  “That will be enough,” Peta said. “And I will come with you.”

  Elu seemed not at all satisfied, but Torg had no time to succor him. Jord was already moving away and beckoning him to go with her. Ugga attempted to follow, enamored of Jord even in his current state, but Jord hissed at the bear, causing him to stop and squat in the grass, his small eyes mournful. Torg could hear Elu still arguing with Peta, and he turned around for a moment out of concern for both. When he looked back, Jord was gone. Bhojja stood in her place, her jade coat shimmering in the late-morning sun.

  “Peta says I’m to trust you,” Torg said to the mare.

  Bhojja snorted and shook her huge head up and down. Then she approached and knelt on her left front leg, inviting him to mount. Bearing only the Silver Sword, Torg leapt upon her bare back.

  Bhojja rushed northward and then veered to the west, galloping tirelessly for league upon league, though she held back her true speed, for reasons Torg could not discern. They did not reach the eastern shore of the Cariya River until past dusk. There, Torg dismounted, knelt by the water’s edge, and drank from the palm of his hand, while the mare immersed her entire muzzle in the rushing water.

  Afterward, she carried him across the river, spanning the treacherous currents as easily as a Daasa. Then she continued on at a canter.

  Torg ground his teeth over the relatively slow pace, but it was obvious that protesting would do him little good. He was at Jord’s mercy. It could take several weeks to ride an ordinary horse to Avici, and even longer to jog there on his own, while Bhojja or Sakuna, depending on the Faerie’s preference, could carry him there in less than two days.

  Near midnight, the quarter moon began its slow rise. The mare nickered loudly and then slowed to a walk. Torg spotted a figure emerge from the darkness, perhaps a large dog, though if so, its silhouette was oddly configured. Then he heard a welcoming nicker and was further confused. It wasn’t until he recognized the sparkle from the enchanter’s tiny wand that Torg understood who it was that approached.

  Torg leapt off Bhojja and greeted Burly enthusiastically, lifting the enchanter off the small pony’s back and holding him high in the air as easily as he would a toddler.

  Burly seemed equally pleased, the glow of his eyes illuminating the blushes on each round cheek. But he also was bemused. “Torgon, I sensed your fall . . . but not your rise. How is it that I was unaware?”

  “I have chosen to conceal myself,” Torg said. Then he gently placed the Gillygaloo on the ground, sat next to him, and unexpectedly began to sob.

  Burly caressed one of Torg’s huge knees with his tiny hand. “I know, I know . . . he has Laylah. I’m so sorry.” Then he stroked Torg’s face. “To be honest, I thought he had you too. How came you here, Torgon? And more importantly . . . why are you here and not headed to Avici?”

  To both their surprise, it was Jord who answered. She had transformed and now stood
before them in a magical gown that glowed like a shimmering jewel. “Peta has decreed what must be accomplished: one gift each for life, death, and undeath,” she said to Burly. “As always, life comes first. There is work to be done, enchanter. Do you understand my meaning?”

  “We’re to perform a deed that frees the Jivitans?” Burly said.

  “No,” Jord said. “What imprisons the Jivitans is beyond our ability to surmount.”

  “Speak plainly!” Torg said. “I have no patience for riddles.”

  Jord sighed. “For the second time in a millennium, it falls to you and me to destroy a druid queen.”

  “Aaaah . . . I think I understand,” Burly said. “In doing so, you will free not the Jivitans, but the druids.” Then he smiled. “A gift to life.”

  Torg grunted. “I have seen what happens to druids when their queen is slain. They wander aimlessly and then die. You call this a gift?”

  Jord smiled. “This time will be different.”

  “I care naught, either way,” Torg said. “I care only for Laylah. If destroying Kattham Bunjako brings me closer to rescuing my love, then I will slay the queen and be on my way.”

  Jord’s smile transformed to a grimace. “Kattham is still strong, Torgon. Victory is far from assured. For success to occur, Peta foresees that Burly must be with you. Will you join us on this quest, enchanter? There is great risk.”

  “Though I am ashamed to admit it, the sorcerer was an enemy I could not abide. On that day, I was proven to be a coward. In facing Kattham, I hope to redeem myself. Where The Torgon goes, I will go. But where is Obhasa? Will not the wizard need his staff as well as his blade?”

  “Before all is said and done, they will be reunited,” Jord said. “But Obhasa will play no role against Kattham. Now we must go. Both of you shall ride upon my back. Your pony must fend for itself.”