by Jim Melvin
Torg again kissed Laylah on the mouth, but even then she did not respond.
“Paccagacchissāmi, me piyā. TamÈ patisuЇāmi. (I will return, my love. I promise thee.)”
Torg, holding Obhasa in his left hand, grasped the bare tang of the Silver Sword with his right and drew it from the scabbard. Then he raced through the doorway into the dark hall. A dozen blond-haired girls who had been huddling together beneath a single sputtering flambeau screamed at the sight of him. Several golden soldiers arrayed in full armor stood nearby, but they too shied from Torg, sensing the extent of his anger.
Torg went to the nearest soldier and pressed the point of his sword against his breastplate. “Remove your helm. I wish to see your face.”
The soldier complied. It didn’t surprise Torg to see that he was crying. “What’s going on outside?” the newborn mumbled, his face red and swollen.
“Never mind that,” Torg said. “Just show me the quickest way down.”
“There is no quick way, great sir. Since the sky went dark, the cages aren’t working no more. The only way down is the stairs, unless you want to jump from one of the windows, which many already have done.”
“Show me!”
The soldier pointed toward the end of the hall.
Trusting that Jord would protect Laylah from whatever threat these men might present, Torg shoved past them and entered a spiral stairway lighted sporadically by flambeaus. He sprinted down, taking five steps at a time, though his boots still were caked with mud from his journey in the swamp, causing him to slip several times on the slick stone and nearly fall. The way seemed endless, and he encountered no other beings, though he made no attempt at stealth.
Several thousand steps later, he emerged huffing and puffing into a massive lobby that he guessed was at ground level, though he could not be certain because there were no windows. Hundreds of exotic lamps hung from the ceiling of the circular chamber on golden ropes and glowed without the use of fire. But the darkness seemed to weaken even the lamps, which now were so dim they produced barely enough illumination for Torg to see the entire lobby.
During a less hectic time, Torg would have been fascinated by the decorations and furnishings, which were as unusual as they were decadent. But at this moment, he could not have cared less. Frantically, he searched for the stairwell that would lead to the underground. Yet despite repeated efforts, he could find no door or portal other than the one that led to the stairwell he had just descended.
Then he took a step back and gasped. A gigantic figure sat with its back against the curved wall. How Torg had missed seeing it was mystifying. At first he mistook it for another sculpture, but then he saw its glowing eyes. The creature slowly stood and straightened to its full height, more than twice as tall as the wizard and several times his girth.
Though Torg took a defensive stance, he somehow did not feel threatened.
“Torgon,” came a baritone voice. “Will you not say hello to an old friend?” The beast chuckled, but its mirth was steeped in sadness. “I suppose I should not blame you if you did not.”
“Yama-Deva,” Torg said. “So you have at last been released from the torment of the chain. When I last saw you in the Green Plains, you were near death. How came you here?”
“Snow giants have the ability to feign death, if they so choose,” Deva said. “In that regard, at least, we are like you.”
“And what of Mala?”
Deva sighed. “He still resides within me, but in memory alone. He no longer controls my mind.”
Torg lowered the sword, and the snow giant came forward, looking down at Torg from above. “You are responsible for this darkness, I presume.”
“One of those responsible.”
“Let me guess. Vedana also played a role.”
“Larger than mine.”
“You have always been modest,” Deva said. “An admirable quality. One that I lacked, at least as far as snow giants are concerned. If I had been humbler, I never would have wandered in the foothills.”
“I try to speak the truth,” Torg said. “Modesty has little to do with it. But I have no further time for chat. I am on a quest to slay Invictus. You may help me, thwart me, or leave me to my own devices. But choose one—and quickly!”
Deva’s eyes narrowed. “If I do not help you, your quest will fail. Only I know how to find the hiding place of Invictus. But it just so happens that my goal is the same as yours. I owe it to Yama-Utu to avenge his death. I guess then that it comes down to which one of us performs the deed.”
“We shall see what we shall see,” Torg said.
“Indeed.”
The snow giant turned and walked to the middle of the lobby. A golden stanchion—three times as broad as Deva was tall—anchored the center of the room. Torg already had recognized it as a likely entry point to whatever chambers lay below, but had found no evidence of any kind of portal on its metallic exterior.
“The pillar extends all the way to the roof and is the main interior support for the tower,” Deva said. “But it is only half as thick as it appears. A false wall encircles the stanchion, and behind it is a stairwell that leads down to the passageways and chambers bored into the bedrock. Without me as your guide, you could not find him if you had a month to search.” Then the snow giant winked at him. “Truth . . . not immodesty.”
Using the index finger of his remaining hand, Deva leaned down and pressed six different points on the pillar’s surface, though Torg could discern no knobs or protrusions. This produced a hissing sound, and a portion of the wall seemed to evaporate, revealing a portal as broad as the snow giant and almost as tall. Torches near the entrance illuminated a chiseled stairway.
“Invictus bored the holes in the stone,” Deva explained, “and ordered his slaves to pretty them up. Unless everyone has fled, it is likely we will encounter resistance. When my army marched on Nissaya, we did not leave Avici entirely undefended. Even then Invictus was not satisfied. In my absence he created a new army. You should take a look at what’s wandering around outside Uccheda’s walls.”
“Another time,” Torg said. “As for resistance from below, I fear it not. Lead on.”
The stairway dove steeply into the bedrock, spiraling into the cool recesses of the underground. Torg’s claustrophobia momentarily dug its ugly claws into his awareness, but he concentrated on the image of Laylah lying helplessly on her bed, and the sensation vanished. There was too much at stake to permit his mind to play games with him.
The stairway spilled into a cylindrical chamber almost as large as the lobby at the base of the tower. More than one hundred stone pillars supported its high ceiling, each ornately carved with perverted images of sexual atrocities. Twelve golden doors were spaced equally apart, and a pair of guards flanked each door. All were golden soldiers except for two cave trolls standing in front of the largest door.
One of the soldiers left his post, removed his helm, and rushed forward, shouting “General Mala!” in an agitated voice. But then his expression grew puzzled. “Who are you?”
“Who we are is our business,” Deva said. “Leave the tower, and we will let you live.”
“Leave the tower? No, thank you. Have you seen what’s out there?”
By now, one of the trolls had stomped forward to investigate. With the speed of a striking snake, Deva reached out with his right hand and grasped the beast’s skull so hard that its bones cracked. Torg removed the soldier’s head with one swipe and then went for the rest, but they were spread too far apart. Torg managed to kill only four with blasts from Obhasa before the others escaped.
“We’ll have company now,” Deva said.
“Which door do we choose?”
“Several open to chambers that can take us to Invictus, but the largest one is the most direct.”
“Will it be barred?”
“Does it matter?”
“Between the two of us, I suppose not.”
Deva raised his bare foot, which was almost two c
ubits long, and kicked the golden door. It bent inward but otherwise held. The snow giant grunted, then kicked it again. Still it withstood the blow.
“Hmmmm, stronger than I thought,” Deva said.
Torg sheathed the Silver Sword and positioned himself in front of the door. Then he grasped Obhasa’s shaft with both hands and aimed its rounded head at the dented area, unleashing a blast of crackling, blue-green fire. The door blew apart, casting shards of gold-coated bronze. The explosion revealed a passageway that was pitch black.
“Is it always this dark?” Torg said.
“The guards must have taken the torches when they fled.”
Deva grabbed a brand from the outer chamber, though it appeared tiny in his hand. Then he stepped inside, kicking aside twisted chunks of metal.
“There are many places Invictus could be,” the snow giant said, “but I believe he will be in the most likely. Hundreds of fathoms below where we now stand, the sorcerer has a special bedchamber where he passes most nights. He went there during the eclipse. I’m sure that’s where he is now. Come . . . the way is yet far.”
The sloping passageway was broad and tall, and it wound in many directions, as if a gigantic worm had bored it. Every ten paces or so there was a door on the left or right, but Deva ignored them all, striding forward so confidently that Torg was forced to jog to keep pace. The torch the snow giant held provided scant light, but Obhasa more than made up for it, illuminating the tunnel, front and back, for at least fifty cubits. Finally, the passageway leveled into a large rotunda with a domed ceiling lighted by magical traceries.
“Day or night, this room was usually so bright even I had to squint,” Deva said. “It is obvious that Invictus has been weakened, but will it be enough?”
“The Faerie thinks so,” Torg said.
The rotunda also contained twelve doors, though some were too small for the snow giant to enter. Even Torg would have had to bend over to squeeze inside.
“Many kinds of creatures wander these stone halls,” Deva said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Where are they now?” Torg said.
“There are countless tunnels and chambers,” the snow giant explained. “If they wish not to be seen, it can be accomplished. Still, there are monsters among them with the courage to confront us. When I departed for Nissaya, I left behind a Kojin, several dozen trolls, and a handful of Stone-Eaters and witches. That’s not to say they all stayed in Uccheda, but it’s likely that a few of them are still here.”
“They can’t stop us, but they can slow us down,” Torg said, “which in the end, might be just as damaging.”
For the second time, Deva chose the largest door, but this one he was able to burst asunder with a single kick. The passageway also wound back and forth, though it was far narrower than the previous one. This time a few torches had been left behind, as if the guards had been in too big a rush to grab them all.
The tunnel dove so steeply that steps had been chiseled into the stone in several locations. Doors also lined these walls. All were closed and apparently barred. Some had small windows, but no light shined through them. If creatures hid behind them, they cowered in the darkness.
Deva and Torg saw the spider at the same moment. It was much smaller than Dukkhatu—about halfway in size between the snow giant and the wizard—and it bore a pair of oversized human heads with disturbingly intelligent eyes. Apparently sensing Torg to be the weaker of the two intruders, the spider leapt at him.
Torg raised the Silver Sword above his head and slew the creature with a mighty stroke. Black gore splashed Deva and Torg, sizzling on their skin but causing no harm, except for a speckle of tiny holes in the snow giant’s loincloth and Torg’s mud-stained clothing.
Torg wiped his face with his hand and spat. “Thanks for the warning,” he said sarcastically.
“To be honest, with me standing next to you, I didn’t think it would have the courage to attack. But you certainly handled yourself well, and the sword you wield is impressive. Deva knew little about such things, but Mala was learned in the art of weaponry.”
“Many swords have been more exquisite in appearance, yet none are the equal of this one. Even the most finely crafted uttaras pale in comparison.”
Around the next bend, a score of golden soldiers—armed with steel crossbows—met them. The jittery newborns released a slew of poorly aimed quarrels before fleeing, their clanging armor echoing in the passageway. The few quarrels that found their mark bounced harmlessly off the snow giant and Torg, except for one that slipped inside one of Torg’s nostrils and drew a drop of blood. This embarrassed more than hurt him, and he unleashed a shower of blue-green energy that cooked six soldiers inside their armor. The others escaped into the darkness.
“Do they still have the ability to transform?” Torg said.
Deva shrugged. “Without the magic of the trident, probably not. If they were exposed long enough to the Daasa, it might happen. But Invictus was always ordering the Mogols to keep the newborns separated from the Daasa whenever possible, and there are few if any Daasa now remaining in Avici, that I know of.”
They journeyed downward for many fathoms before encountering the stoutest resistance yet. Two cave trolls, bearing golden hammers as long as Torg was tall, stood within a high-ceilinged vestibule that opened into a far larger chamber. Unperturbed, Torg started forward, but Deva stopped him with the stump of his left arm.
“Those hammers are dangerous, regardless of Invictus’s condition,” Deva said. “We used similar ones to bash down the gates of Nissaya. Even you and I might suffer harm from such a weapon. And there’s more. I sense creatures of magic in the dark chamber beyond. And worse . . . a Kojin among them.”
Torg was in no mood for caution. Wielding both Obhasa and the Silver Sword, he shoved past Deva’s outstretched arm and strode toward the trolls. Torg’s boldness seemed to disconcert the great beasts, and they attempted to back out of the vestibule. But something blocked their escape from behind, and they realized that their only chance was to fight. In an instant, they changed directions and stomped forward, grunting and slavering, their golden hammers aglow.
Torg was far too fast. He leapt into the air, somersaulted over their heads, and landed behind them before driving two lightning-quick backstabs into the meat of their thighs and severing their hamstrings. Howling, they fell forward and were dispatched by Deva, whose memory also included Mala’s ability to kill.
The room beyond was dark as a cave, except for dozens of glimmering eyes set at varying heights. Torg stepped into the chamber and willed Obhasa to glow to its full magnificence, illuminating the entire room, which was as large as the chancel of a Jivitan cathedral. All told, Torg guessed that twenty score of the enemy stood at the ready, including golden soldiers, Mogols, ghouls, and vampires. No matter their numbers, these beings posed little threat to Torg and Deva. But against the far wall stood the real dangers: a Kojin flanked by Warlish witches and a Stone-Eater.
The blinding glow from Obhasa seemed to freeze the enemy in place. Torg watched them warily, considering his next move. Deva came up beside him, bearing in his blood-stained hand one of the trolls’ massive hammers.
“Killing is an ugly business,” the snow giant whispered.
“You are free to leave,” Torg whispered back.
Deva grunted but did not respond.
Torg took another step into the room. “You are not our concern,” he shouted in a voice almost as deep as Deva’s. “Stand aside, and you will not be harmed.”
In response, at least two dozen golden soldiers skittered past Torg and Deva and into the vestibule beyond. But Mogol arrows impaled several who tried to flee, the iron tips piercing the back plates and punching between their ribs. This halted any further attempts at flight.
Deva spoke next. “Sankāra!” he shouted to the Kojin. “Do as the Death-Knower requests and stand aside. I must speak to the king. Would you thwart your general?”
The Kojin stomped into the middl
e of the huge room, her bulbous face even more contorted than usual. To Torg it was clear that she was puzzled. In some ways Deva was similar in voice and appearance to the Chain Man, but in other ways he was far different than before. Torg saw little resemblance, though the ogress might have been able to sense more of the Chain Man buried in Deva’s psyche than Torg realized.
Sankāra pounded her fists against her swollen breasts. Three witches and a Stone-Eater stood by the ogress, their faces filled with malice. Apparently their loyalty to Invictus was not feigned, and they were prepared to fight on his behalf. Torg wondered how much they knew about what had occurred to the witches and Stone-Eaters in the Green Plains. Had messengers returned with news? Or could they psychically sense the demise of their own kind? Torg believed the latter was probable, which meant that the monsters had to be in the mood for vengeance.
“Sankāra orders that we drop our weapons and surrender,” Deva said to Torg. “What say you?”
“Tell her that I’ve already slain several Kojins,” Torg said. “As for witches and Stone-Eaters, I’ve killed my share of those, as well. Any and all who choose to thwart me will surely die. And I will not be gentle.”
Deva slapped the iron hammer against his ruined forearm. In his hand, the weapon glowed with far more intensity than it had when the troll had held it.
“You heard him,” the snow giant said.
The Kojin became enraged, shrieking so loudly that many of the golden soldiers cast off their helms and held their ears.
Torg lowered Obhasa, aimed its rounded head at the densest concentration of the enemy, and unleashed three blasts of fire that cast bodies of all sizes and shapes about the room. Then he waded into the fray, stabbing and hacking with the Silver Sword in his right hand while bashing skulls with Obhasa in his left. Deva joined him, swinging the hammer side to side.
Golden soldiers, Mogols, vampires, and ghouls were no match for such ferocity, and dozens fell. Arrows, quarrels, and blades crashed against Torg and Deva, but they harmed neither. Crimson fire from the staff of one of the witches splashed Deva in the face, but it only served to make him angrier, and he dealt her a death blow with the hammer. At the same moment, the Stone-Eater emerged from a tight group of soldiers and grabbed Torg from behind, wrapping his stubby but powerful arms around him. But Torg looped the sword back and over his shoulder, punching the point of the blade into the crown of the creature’s head.
