by Jim Melvin
Now Sankāra and Deva were wrestling in the middle of the room, one giant against another. Torg moved closer, looking for an opening to stab the ogress without harming the snow giant. But the remaining pair of witches—both in their hideous states—stepped in front of him and lashed out with their staffs. Their combined power forced Torg back into the arms of a cave troll, and the beast latched onto him with such force that he lost his grip on Obhasa. When the staff left his hand, the illumination that had lighted the chamber went dim, casting the room into semi-darkness.
Immediately, one of the witches grabbed the ivory staff, but Obhasa reacted with offended ferocity, searing her hand to the bone. The witch cried out and dropped the staff, then fell to her knees and continued to howl.
Torg managed to wrench his right hand free of the troll’s grip and punch the Silver Sword deep into the beast’s side. The troll dropped Torg, bent over, and vomited several buckets of black blood. Torg whirled around and took off the troll’s head with a ferocious downward stroke.
Meanwhile, the battle between Sankāra and Deva had intensified, the snow giant struggling with his opponent more than Torg would have expected. Having the use of just one hand versus six was an obvious handicap, but Torg wondered if hesitation also hampered the snow giant. Deva was battling the very creatures he had once commanded. And he was—at heart—a being of passivity. Torg felt a wave of pity for the snow giant. So great had been his ruination, could he ever fully heal?
Torg slew the injured witch with his sword and then picked up Obhasa, willing it to re-illuminate the chamber. Then he shoved past soldiers and Mogols in an attempt to reach the snow giant, but again he was a step too slow. The remaining witch snuck up behind the grappling giants and swung her staff with both hands, striking Deva on his right calf. Though she lacked the might to harm him significantly, the blow was fierce enough to cause the snow giant’s leg to buckle. Deva crashed onto his side on the stone floor with the Kojin on top of him, using all six of her hands to strangle and rend.
A sudden rage consumed Torg, and he leapt past them all and landed on the Kojin’s back. Then he ran the point of the blade along the ogress’s spine, splitting her from the base of her neck to the crack of her hideous buttocks. Purple flame exploded from the gaping wound, casting Torg into the air.
Deva shoved the dying Kojin to the side and stood, his face visibly shaken. “Such hatred . . .” he murmured, his eyes glassy.
Torg wasn’t sure to whom he was speaking.
Perhaps ten score of the enemy remained alive, though none except the witch had the might to make a stand against such a fearsome duo. Even the surviving Mogols wanted no more of this battle, and they fled along with the others through a variety of doors and passageways.
To Torg’s surprise the witch didn’t run or fight; instead, she moved away from the foul poisons gushing from the Kojin’s carcass, laid her staff on the floor, and fell to her knees. Then she transformed to her beautiful state and bowed in obeisance, choosing to assume a position that gave Torg a clear view of her suddenly marvelous cleavage.
“Great one,” she said directly to Torg, knowing that the snow giant was unlikely to find her attractive, regardless of her appearance. “Sankāra commanded that we stand and fight, but now that she is no longer, I am free to choose my own path.” Then she looked up at Torg and smiled, her perfect white teeth glistening. “Might I become your slave? I will serve you tirelessly . . . in all ways . . . of that you can be certain.”
Torg smiled, took a step forward, and cleaved her skull with the Silver Sword. Foul smoke filled the air, joining the reek still issuing from the Kojin. “Your death serves me better than your life ever could,” he said bitterly. Then he turned to Deva, who appeared sickened by the entire affair. “How much farther?”
There was no response.
“Deva! How much farther?”
The snow giant looked down at him and then began to mewl. “She is evil,” he said, nodding toward the Kojin. “They all are evil. But I could not bring myself to mangle her. I am weary of . . . killing.”
“I don’t blame you,” Torg said. “I’m sick of it too. More than you might imagine. But at least one more has to die before any of us can rest.”
“Violence begets violence,” Deva said, his voice trance-like. “This is the law . . . immutable.”
“To hell with the law! Take me to Invictus. Show me where he is. After that, I don’t give a damn what you do.” Torg stomped the tail of Obhasa on the stone floor, casting blue-green sparks. “Laylah’s life is at stake. I’d kill everyone in the world, if it meant saving her.”
“If you performed such an act, she would not be saved.”
“I don’t care.”
With his remaining hand, the snow giant wiped tears from his large eyes. Then he pointed his stub at a door more enormous than any they had yet encountered. “That way leads to the theater where Invictus held his bloodbaths,” Deva said. “If we pass through to the other side, we will be just a stone’s throw from his lower bedchamber. But I do not wish to go to either place.”
Torg sighed. “You have done enough. I will do the rest. Return to Okkanti and seek out the Himamahaakaayos. Perhaps one day I will visit, and we will speak of these atrocities in a world that has since been cleansed of them.”
Deva shook his head. “You don’t understand, Death-Knower. It is not my memories I fear. There is something in the theater . . . now . . . that I find . . . appalling. Can you not feel it?” Then Deva staggered back. “No . . . no!”
To Torg’s surprise, the snow giant turned and ran from whence he came. Torg called after him, but Deva did not halt. Soon he disappeared from sight. This stunned Torg, but he had no desire to chase after his newfound ally. Instead, he went to the enormous door and pulled on its ornamented handle. It was not barred and swung open with a long, eerie creak.
The theater was devoid of illumination, but when Torg willed Obhasa to glow, the huge chamber became awash in blue-green light. He stepped inside, and a strange odor greeted him—not entirely foul, but nonetheless unpleasant. It reminded Torg of meat that had hung in storage a day too long—not yet inedible, but getting there.
Fifty rows of stone benches led downward to a broad stage.
Torg estimated that the chamber could contain an audience of several thousand. On the stage far below was a stone platform—with something large heaped upon it. Otherwise, the theater appeared empty, except for the memories of horror that clung to the floor, walls, and ceiling like lichen.
Though his legs felt leaden, Torg forced himself to walk down one of the wide aisles toward the stage. Whatever lay on the platform filled him with a dread that made claustrophobia feel like child’s play. Torg shuddered, then gasped, all the while wanting to turn and run, as Deva had. But if he did so, Invictus would live and Laylah would be doomed. No horror imaginable was frightening enough to justify that.
Torg reached the first row and walked up five stairs that led to the stage. Using Obhasa, he chased away the shadows that shrouded the object on the platform. For the first time, Torg recognized it as a living being—though a very large one, easily twice his size. And also for the first time, Torg sensed that the creature was still alive.
A female snow giant lay on her back on the platform, golden chains binding her wrists and ankles.
Sorcery had split apart her chest and abdomen, creating a horrific laceration. Intestines and other internal organs spilled from the gash. Torture of incalculable proportion had only recently occurred. It was possible that Invictus and his minions had been tormenting the poor creature even as the blue-black cloud was being unleashed.
Though a part of him was begging to flee, Torg willed himself to approach the creature’s huge head. Then he stopped and gasped. The snow giant slowly turned, gazed upon him, and found the courage to smile.
A voice from behind startled him. “Yama-Bhari . . .”
Torg spun around and saw that Deva had returned. The snow giant who h
ad once been Mala stood just inside the doorway that led into the theater, his now-beautiful body aglow. “Yama-Bhari . . .” he repeated.
To Torg’s amazement, the eviscerated creature responded.
“Yama-Deva . . . is that you?”
“Yes, my dear,” Deva said. Then he came forward.
“Is it true?” Bhari moaned. “Is my beloved dead?”
Deva stepped onto the stage. “Utu is gone. I’m . . . so . . . sorry. Next to you, my brother was greatest of all.”
For a brief moment Bhari was able to lift her head. Then it dropped onto the stone with a thud—and she sighed. “I sensed . . . his demise. And I came to . . . to . . . discover what happened. The Sun God bested me . . . with ease. And now, here I am . . . here I am—”
Torg interrupted. “Bhari, I was at Utu’s side when he died. He asked me to tell you that he loves you—more than anything or anyone. I promise you, for your sake and for your husband’s, that I will destroy the sorcerer.”
The tortured snow giant managed to chuckle, though the mirthful sound bubbled in her throat. “Violence begets violence. This is the law . . . immutable. Do not seek revenge on my account. Please . . . do not.”
Deva knelt before her and laid his head on her chest just above where the horrid laceration began. “The Death-Knower and I are lesser beings than you, my dear. Vengeance burns in our sinews. Invictus must pay for his crimes, including Utu’s destruction—and yours. Do not ask me to pity him. I cannot.”
“Pity yourself,” Bhari mumbled. Then her eyes closed, and she was no longer.
Deva wept.
As did Torg. But he could not afford the luxury of grief. Instead, he shook away his tears and started toward a set of doors at the other side of the theater.
“Stay with her,” Torg said to Deva. “Or if you like, take her body from this blasphemous place to somewhere you consider sacred. Regardless of any laws, I must find the sorcerer and destroy him. Anything less will not suffice.”
The doors were heavy, but Torg shoved them open with little effort. The passageway beyond was dark and empty. Torg strode down it, his expression grim but determined. He came to a cul-de-sac with five doors, equally sized and spaced. None of these were guarded. Without hesitation, he went to the middle door and pushed against it. It swung open with ease, whipping around and rapping against the wall.
Torg stepped inside.
The chamber was almost as large as the theater. More than a million candles illuminated the room. Torg no longer needed Obhasa to light his way. What he sought lay just beyond: Invictus, on his back on a bed of stone.
The sorcerer’s eyes were open.
Blood oozed from his mouth and nostrils.
He panted.
Wheezed.
Torg approached.
“Is that you, Death-Knower?” Invictus managed to say, though he continued to stare toward the ceiling.
“It is I,” Torg said.
Invictus coughed. “What have you done to the sky? The pain is great.”
“Nothing less than you deserve.”
The sorcerer tried to sit up, but had not the strength. He repeated, “What have you done?”
“Ask Vedana, the next time you see her.”
Still on his back, Invictus managed to smirk. “It seems I have underestimated my grandmother, once again. So . . . tell me . . . what now?”
“What now? I hack off your foul head.”
“How . . . uncouth . . .”
“You should know.”
“And you believe I cannot stop you from performing this deed?”
“That is exactly what I believe.”
“We could bargain.”
“No.”
“I could plead.”
“I would not listen.”
Invictus cackled. Then, hurtfully, he said, “Your stupid bitch carries my child.”
Torg took a step back, his face flushed. “All the more reason for you to die.”
“And what of Bhari?” came a growling voice from just inside the doorway.
“Ahhh . . . Mala,” Invictus said. “Once again you have arrived just in time to rescue me from unnatural darkness. Dispatch of this vermin, will you?”
“My name is not Mala. I am Yama-Deva.”
Invictus cackled again. “You are who I say you are.”
Torg crept forward, both weapons at the ready. Even at a fraction of his former strength, the sorcerer could be deadly. But if Torg expected a surprise assault, it came from the wrong source. Deva rushed forward and swatted Torg with the stub of his arm, knocking him against the far wall. Torg retained his grip on Obhasa but lost the Silver Sword, which clattered on the stone floor far from his reach. The snow giant scooped it up—and glared at the Death-Knower.
“He is mine!” Deva snarled at Torg. “Stand back . . .” Then he turned and towered over the sorcerer.
Sensing the imminence of his demise, Invictus tried to sit up. But it was too late.
“This is for Bhari and Utu . . .” Deva said.
“You believe that you can kill me,” Invictus said with laughter in his voice. “But you cannot. I am a god. You can destroy my body, but I will rise again.”
Ignoring these final words, the snow giant brought the sword down with the full force of his might. The blade hacked through the bone and sinew of Invictus’s neck and continued downward, driving half a cubit into the stone. The sorcerer’s head fell back and tumbled onto the floor, its brown eyes wide with surprise.
Torg sprang to his feet, fearing explosions a thousand times more powerful than those that came from a slain Kojin or Warlish witch, but there was little fanfare other than an unusually large draining of blood from the base of the neck.
After a moment, he walked over to the snow giant and stared at the decapitated corpse, half-expecting it to return to life. But Invictus remained dead. Just like that, the most powerful being ever to exist in the Realm of Life was no longer. Vedana, with assistance from Peta and Jord, had orchestrated the destruction of the Sun God.
“Go to Laylah,” Deva said, his voice low and sad. “You don’t have much time.”
“You can sense the extent of her illness?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
The rumbling started so low, it was barely audible even to Torg. But when tiny cracks appeared in the stone floor, he understood. The magic of its creator held Uccheda together. Now that Invictus was fallen, the great tower would fall with him.
And Laylah along with it.
“Fly, you fool!” Deva screamed.
Torg grasped the tang of the Silver Sword and yanked it from the stone, then started toward the doorway. “Come with me,” he shouted.
“I am ruined . . . beyond healing,” Deva said. “I am destined to die alongside my master.”
Now the rumbling was much louder and the cracks more numerous.
“Don’t be insane,” Torg said. “There’s no reason for you to perish. What is done is done. Do not dwell in the past. Look to the present for your salvation.”
“For me there is no salvation. Go! If you do not, Laylah will die . . . and all this”—Deva pointed to the corpse—“will be in vain.”
Then the ceiling shook. Violently.
Flakes of stone rained down on the snow giant.
The room became choked with dust.
One by one, a million candles winked out.
Torg sobbed as he ran. His warrior’s memory enabled him to retrace his steps, but the crumbling bedrock swayed and quavered like a stormy sea, making it difficult to maintain his footing. Many times he came upon monsters, Mogols, or golden soldiers, but none seemed inclined to challenge him, intent instead on their own survival. When he finally reached the lobby, the chambers and passageways that lay beneath had become impassable. Anything still down there was doomed.
However, the lobby was far from empty. More than a thousand beings of various shapes, sizes, and creeds were jammed within it. Apparently, the portals that opened into the
valley at the base of the tower were no longer working, and the minions of Invictus were trapped. Again they paid him no heed.
Torg shoved through the throng and started up the long stairwell, taking the steps three at a time. Halfway up, he had to stop and catch his breath. The trials and tribulations of the past couple of months were catching up to him. He was weak from lack of sustenance and hollow from his too-frequent visits to the Realm of Death. And the great magic that Invictus had used against him on the Green Plains still lingered in his flesh.
Roaring like dragons, cracks tore along the outer wall near where Torg rested, and a chunk of golden stone as large as a wagon leapt away and fell to the valley floor, leaving a gaping hole that opened into darkness so black it was frightening.
Torg continued upward, being tossed about as he ran, but he sheathed the sword and managed to hold onto his staff. By the time he reached the floor that contained Laylah’s bedchamber, his breath felt like fire in his throat. But love drove him onward, and he rushed into her room.
For a moment, he was aghast. Laylah was no longer on the bed, and her room appeared empty, except for the fetid corpse pressed against the far wall. Then he heard a squawking sound that eclipsed even the death throes of Uccheda. Sakuna hovered outside the window like a titanic hummingbird. And Laylah—eyes closed, body motionless—was on the eagle’s back.
Without hesitation, Torg leapt through the open window and landed beside Laylah. He pressed Obhasa between her breasts, and the ivory staff cast sparkling blue-green energy all about her. Laylah moaned—the first real sign of life Torg had seen since his return to the tower—but then she lay motionless again.
Sakuna churned her powerful wings and swept away from Uccheda—just in time. As if in response to their departure, the massive tower exploded into a million shards of golden stone, propelled in all directions at ferocious speeds. But Torg raised his right hand and cast magic from his palm, creating a wall of energy that absorbed the deadly slivers.
