Chained By Fear: 2

by Jim Melvin

  “You little bitch. If it weren’t for your brother, I’d tear a chunk out of your throat.”

  Laylah barely heard the threat. Instead, she focused on the giant, which appeared to be at least ten cubits tall, even larger than a Kojin. But while the ogresses were hideous, this creature was beautiful. A white mane extended from the top of his head down the center of his broad back, and his face exuded gentleness despite an imposing pair of fangs that protruded over his lower lip. For a moment the giant saw her—and Laylah was convinced he smiled. But the smile was poignant, as if he recognized that she too was a prisoner.

  “What is your name?” she heard Invictus say to the creature.

  “I am Yama-Deva. I would know your name, as well, but the more important question is: Why do you chain me?”

  A soldier climbed onto the cart and struck the creature’s thighs with a flail. “Do not speak to the king with such insolence,” the soldier said.

  Yama-Deva did not flinch, but Invictus snarled and then raised his hand. Golden light leapt from his palm and incinerated the soldier, armor and all.

  The killing had little effect on Laylah. Nothing her brother did surprised her anymore.

  The sorcerer turned back to the creature and smiled. “Yama-Deva, I apologize for any rudeness on the part of my associates, and I assure you it will not happen again. Instead, allow me to answer your questions. My name is Invictus, and I am king of Avici. And your chains? A simple misunderstanding. You are an honored guest, not a prisoner.”

  “A snow giant cannot be fooled by false words. But my perception extends beyond the ability to perceive deception. It is plain to me that you are strong . . . too strong even for me.”

  Laylah interrupted. “Let him go.”

  The sorcerer twisted around, startled. At first he appeared angry, but then his expression softened. “And if I set him free, will you do something for me?”

  Everyone stared at Laylah—except for the snow giant, who lowered his gaze and sighed.

  “No,” Laylah said. “I will not. Cannot.”

  For a moment, Invictus assumed the expression of a frustrated child. “Then this beast will pay the price for your insolence. I will subject him to torture that will ruin his mind. Is that what you want? With but a word from you, I will return him to his home and never trouble him or his kind again.”

  The snow giant raised his head and met her eyes. He spoke words she barely understood. “Naham te dhuram, kumarakaa. Ma bhayi. Me niyati saniyati. (I’m not your responsibility, child. Do not fear for me. My fate is my own.)”

  Laylah ran.

  Invictus snarled.

  Urbana cackled.

  Another night, ruined.

  Ten years after Invictus imprisoned the snow giant, Laylah still obsessed over the creature’s dismal fate. Then his name had been Yama-Deva. But after a decade of torture, he had been transformed into a hideous monster. Now he was Mala, the latest and greatest horror in her brother’s expanding menagerie. It sickened Laylah that such a beautiful creature could be so thoroughly ruined, especially when she felt at least partially to blame. But the Chain Man was so repulsive it became impossible to pity him. Instead, Laylah grew to hate him as much as she did Invictus, Vedana and Urbana.

  The day after her brief encounter with Yama-Deva on the Golden Road, Laylah began to endure a new form of psychological torture. Just after sunset, Invictus appeared in the hallway outside her bedchamber. As he had vowed more than forty years before, he did not enter her room without her permission. But for the short period between sunset and full darkness, he tapped on the door and begged her to reconsider.

  “I want a son, Laylah . . . that is all. Give me an heir, and I swear I’ll set you free. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Please go away,” she said.

  And he did.

  But the next night . . .

  “I have potions that will make you sleepy. You won’t even know I’m there. All I ask is for a son, and you may go wherever you desire. I swear it. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Please . . . go away.”

  The next night, and the next, and the next, more of the same. He begged, pleaded, cajoled. Some nights his voice was indignant. Others, it was like honey.

  “I can appear as anyone you choose. You won’t even know it’s me. Give me permission to enter your room. Subdue your revulsion. Give me a son, and I’ll set you free.”

  “Please . . . go . . . away.”

  When blessed darkness finally arrived, Invictus would depart. But Laylah’s suffering did not end there. She would shake and sob, knowing all too well that he would come again the next evening. How long could she bear it? Eventually, she began to question her resolve. Maybe he was right. Just let him have her and get it over with. Would birthing a child be so terrible? Especially if it bought her freedom? Still, for whatever reasons, she continued to resist.

  The visits continued without fail for more than ten years. In an attempt to retain her sanity, she occasionally spoke to Lucius, but cautiously and without warmth. The general remained as kind and forthcoming as ever, and he apologized profusely whenever she gave him the opportunity. It was obvious he was attracted to her. No, not attracted—infatuated.

  When the idea first arose in her mind, Laylah was lying in bed in the late afternoon. She scolded herself for taking so long to think of it. How could she have remained blind to something so obvious? Just as her brother was slowly and slyly attempting to seduce her, she could play the same game. With Lucius.

  It made sense in so many ways. The emergence of Mala as a new force in Avici had effectively shoved the general aside. The Chain Man now commanded the great army that had once belonged solely to Lucius. Invictus clearly had a new favorite pet.

  Laylah had watched Mala interact with Lucius. The ruined snow giant showed the firstborn little respect, ordering him around as cruelly as any subordinate. Wouldn’t this make Lucius less loyal to Invictus and more susceptible to her charms?

  What if she could seduce him? Not into bed, but into obsession. She could slowly and slyly draw him to her side. Eventually he would do whatever pleased her, even if it meant risking his position—and his life—by betraying his king. Lucius was not as powerful as he used to be, but he still was formidable. If anyone had the means to help her escape, the firstborn did.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Laylah couldn’t sleep. She sat at her desk and wrote a brief note:

  Dear Lucius:

  Would you meet me by the swing at midnight? This time of year, the nights are so lovely. And the moon will be full. You know how much I love the Ripe Corn Moon.

  There are some things I wish to say. I will bring Bhacca to avoid any appearance of impropriety.

  Warmly, Laylah

  She folded the note, sealed it with a crescent moon insignia, and summoned Bhacca to her bedchamber. Laylah’s request discomforted the mistress of the robes.

  “The Chain Man watches everyone. If a person so much as belches, Mala reports it to the king. If he or one of his spies were to see me pass a note to Lucius, we’d all be in trouble.”

  “That’s why you’ll be extra careful,” Laylah said. “Besides, there’s nothing bad in the note. I’m only asking him to meet me tonight so that we can converse. I even told him that you’ll be with me. You and I often stroll the grounds late at night. General Lucius does, as well.”

  “What if the general shows this to the king?”

  “He won’t. I don’t have much experience with men, I admit. But I think I have enough to know he won’t betray us in that way. At the least, he’ll want to hear what I have to say first. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But . . .”

  “Trust me, then, as I trust you. Nothing will be spoken tonight that will cause any harm. After all these long years, I just want to clear the air with a former friend.”

  Bhacca acquiesced. “Very well, my Queen. You’ve always treated me with respect, so I’ll do as you ask. If not for you, I wouldn�
��t be mistress of the robes.”

  That night, Laylah sensed Lucius’ approach long before he arrived at the sycamore. She sat on the swing, her silky blond hair dangling past her waist. She wore a crimson dress that was slit to expose her muscular calves, thin ankles and bare feet. Lucius’ cheeks became flushed, and sweat formed on his brow, but he tried to act nonchalant.

  “My Queen,” he said, nodding to Laylah. “And mistress.” Another nod, to Bhacca. “It’s my pleasure to join you on such a fine summer eve. You wish to speak with me?”

  “I do . . . are others about?”

  “Others?”

  “What I have to say is intended for your ears only.”

  Lucius’ eyes narrowed. Then his head swiveled, but so slowly as to be imperceptible. “I know of no one nearby,” he whispered. “But I don’t have the stomach for such intrigue.”

  Laylah laughed. “I’m just joking, Lucius. My brother and Mala could stand among us, and no harm would occur.”

  Lucius looked relieved. “Well then, please speak your mind.”

  “Many years have passed since my . . . anger . . . damaged our friendship. Too many years, to be honest. I miss our strolls—and our long conversations. I wish to learn more about Avici. It has grown so huge. And there’s so much else I would know. Does a massive wall now encircle Avici and Kilesa? And what about . . .”

  This time, it was Lucius’ turn to laugh. “Laylah . . . Laylah! One thing at a time. Renewing our friendship would be my fondest dream. I only hope that, this time, I can manage to keep it.”

  “So do I,” Bhacca said. “The queen is in much better spirits when you’re around.”

  They all laughed.

  The following evening Invictus did not appear at her doorway. In some ways this amused Laylah. It was obvious Lucius had reported their meeting to her brother, and the sorcerer had decided to lay low to see what might develop. This lasted for several blessed months. Meanwhile, Laylah and Lucius strolled each evening—with Bhacca in attendance. A miniature army of Invictus’ minions watched them from a distance. The dracools flew especially high, and on dark nights they were impossible to detect. But when the moon was aglow, Laylah could see black specks circling above. Sometimes soldiers were near. Or white-robed spies posing as civilians. She and the general kept their distance, physically, and their conversations purposefully bland.

  However, when Laylah felt the moment was right, she would give Lucius the kind of look that caused his cheeks to redden again.

  “You’re a nice man,” she said on a rare night when Bhacca had not joined them.

  His expression grew anxious—almost paranoid.

  But she added quickly: “My brother is so fortunate to have you as his friend.”

  He relaxed, somewhat.

  “And I’m fortunate to be able to serve such a great king,” he said loudly.

  For a moment, Laylah felt her familiar nausea.

  “What makes you happy makes me happy,” she whispered.

  He didn’t respond, but the muscles in his face crumbled. The next words he spoke came as softly as a wisp of breeze. “Izumo can be trusted.” And then he turned and started back toward the tower. “It grows late, my Queen,” he said loudly.

  “Feel free to depart,” Laylah said. “I’ll remain here and enjoy this lovely night from the hilltop. The moon is so near. Maybe tonight I’ll be able to touch it. Until we meet again . . .”

  “Indeed.”

  Conspiracy

  13

  It is one thing to love your creator, another to respect him. After all that had occurred, General Lucius still loved Invictus for giving him the gift of life. But he no longer respected him. Lucius had seen too much.

  Laylah’s hatred of her brother had been born above the surface. But the sorcerer’s worst deeds, as far as Lucius was concerned, occurred in the labyrinth of dark tunnels beneath Uccheda.

  As general of Invictus’ growing army, Lucius had spent many hours in the hidden chambers the sorcerer’s magic had bored out of solid rock. Invictus’ powers appeared limitless. Lucius believed the sorcerer could burn a hole all the way through Triken, if he so desired. Where it might take a thousand slaves more than a year to tunnel through a wall of granite, Invictus could do it in the time it took to dig a grave.

  Not that the sorcerer lacked slaves, some of which were better treated than others. For the most part, the newborns imported from Kilesa were respected in Avici; the majority of the males became soldiers, while the females filled the servile needs considered most prestigious. But the slaves brought from outside the Golden Wall were not so lucky. Invictus took great delight in the art of torture, both viewing and performing. And most of it occurred in the underground.

  Sadistic sexual orgies were a large part of what the general found so distasteful. But what else would you expect from a collection of monsters? They hungered for suffering as much as blood. The more fear and anguish they inspired, the more they relished it.

  Invictus often summoned Lucius to watch the proceedings. They sat on stone benches in a cathedral-sized chamber hollowed out of solid stone. When you received a direct invitation from the sorcerer, you agreed enthusiastically without protest. But libidinous gatherings secretly sickened Lucius. Most times, he could barely resist vomiting.

  The events usually took place at midday. Though the chamber was more than a thousand cubits beneath the ground, Invictus kept it well-lit with torches, candles and magical globes. In addition, gold traceries—the same design that had produced solar energy for Invictus’ gardens—laced the ceilings, walls and floors, glowing ardently. When the witches, vampires, and demons pranced onto the lewdly decorated stage, Invictus clapped his hands with delight, giggling like a boy who knows he is misbehaving but also knows he will get away with it. The monsters stripped off their clothes and performed erotic dances. Some of their bodies were physically beautiful—especially the Warlish witches who chose to appear that way—and some were supremely ugly. To Lucius, all were hideous. But while seated next to Invictus in the front row, the general smiled and clapped along with his king and the rest of his guests. The ramifications of doing otherwise were unthinkable.

  After the monsters finished their opening performance, an eclectic assembly of male and female slaves paraded onto the stage. Most sobbed, screamed and begged for mercy. The bravest remained quiet, resigned to their fates. Among the chattel were Jivitans, Nissayans, Senasanans and villagers and farmers from the Gray Plains and eastern foothills of Mahaggata. But Lucius never saw a Tugar, supporting the desert warriors’ perceived formidability.

  With Invictus urging them on from his seat, the monsters befouled the slaves with all manner of perversion. They treated those who begged the loudest the least cruelly at first, but eventually the most cowardly received the worst punishments. Lucius smiled when Invictus smiled. He laughed when Invictus laughed. But inside, his heart was sickened.

  Near the end of the carnage, a lone female slave—usually the one who most resembled Laylah or was made to resemble her—was left alive. And relatively unscathed. While the girl huddled in a fit of near insanity, Invictus would rise and go to her. As if on cue, everyone including Lucius would flee the chamber. Servants slammed shut bronze doors as thick as boulders. A short period of silence ensued, then thunderous booms shook the bedrock. Finally the sorcerer emerged, his flesh glowing like cinders.

  One time Lucius risked creeping back into the theater soon after Invictus had departed. What he saw stunned him. All the bodies, blood and gore had disappeared, and the stone glistened as if scrubbed by hand with soapy water, rinsed well and polished dry. But there had been no time for such extensive cleaning. Lucius believed that the sorcerer’s cathartic release of magic had incinerated everything within the chamber. He could not even find a trace of ash. Whether you adored Invictus or despised him, one thing was certain: In terms of puissance, the sorcerer was a god. Nothing on Triken could stand against him. He reigned as master of all, a king among peasants,
a man among children.

  As repulsive as the orgies were, they were not what finally caused Lucius to betray his king. Instead, it was the ruin of the snow giant. At first the general paid little attention to the creature, considering him just one prisoner of many. But an unplanned encounter had disturbed him profoundly. Lucius was making his rounds through the lower chambers, which served as a dungeon for the most volatile and valuable prisoners, when he came upon the cell that held Yama-Deva.

  “You are like him and yet are not,” the snow giant said. Golden chains, imbued with the sorcerer’s magic, held him against a wall of granite. He had been whipped, beaten, and starved. But his voice still sounded kind. “What I mean is, you look like him. But you don’t behave like him.”

  “Haven’t you learned by now to keep your mouth shut?” Lucius said. “If someone hears you, you’ll be severely punished. Why do you risk further abuse?”

  “You see?” the giant said, laughing softly. “You are not like him. You care about the innocent.”

  “I do what I’m told. My personal feelings mean nothing.”

  “I can see your future,” the giant said. “You will perform remarkable deeds before your life ends. A great many will rally around you.” Then Deva lowered his head and sighed. “I can see my future, as well. It will not be as pleasant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I will become the thing I most despise. But that is not the worst of it.”

  “What could be worse than that?”

  “I won’t be able to remember who I am. My name is Yama-Deva. My people call me The Wanderer. But I will not remember. It will be as if I’m dead, but my body will live on without me. Could you do me one favor?”

  “I make no promises,” Lucius said, stepping backward.

  “Fair enough. But at least I can ask. If you are ever given the opportunity, would you tell whoever might listen that I’m sorry for the harm I will cause? Yama-Deva does not intend to hurt anyone. But what I will become will take pleasure in inflicting pain.”