by Jim Melvin
The decapitated witches and hags had spewed gray-black smoke that stank. Not wanting it to attract others, Torg had been forced to inhale it into his lungs. The poisons would have killed an ordinary person, but they did no harm to Torg—other than leaving a nasty taste in his mouth.
Where the winding stair intersected each floor, he stopped and listened. But he did so with more than just his ears. A thousand years of meditative practice had given him precise control over his concentrative abilities, and his awareness of his surroundings far exceeded ordinary levels. Torg could detect the slightest movement, hear the subtlest sound, smell the faintest odor, feel the tiniest change in temperature. If magic were about—especially of the magnitude it would take to summon undines—Torg would sense it when he drew near, even if it were hidden behind heavy stone walls.
The deeper he descended, the more he became convinced that the barrels lay at the base of the temple, either on the first floor or below the surface. During his only visit to the ziggurat two centuries before, Torg had been invited to descend only as far as the fourth floor, so he already was approaching uncharted territory.
The air in the deeper portions of the temple was choked with a bog-like mist, and the stone steps were oily and slick. The lower he went, the darker it became. Torg moved in a silent crouch, his weapon drawn. But the Silver Sword remained cold. Whatever magic existed within the ziggurat did not affect the supernal blade.
Or so Torg thought. At one point, a pair of guards came up the stairs, and he was forced to kneel behind one of the statues until they passed. After they were gone, the point of the sword accidentally came in contact with the wall. At that instant, the blade glowed as if on fire, illuminating the darkness. As soon as Torg removed it from the stone, it winked out. He was amazed. The otherworldly stone of the ziggurat was in some way akin to the metal used to forge the sword.
When he reached the second level, Torg finally recognized an effusion of magic somewhere beneath him. The density of the walls and floors absorbed most, but not all, of the conjuration. He sensed movement at the base of the stairs. He could hear female voices chanting phrases from the ancient tongue, though the words were too faint to decipher. He crept down a step at a time.
Torg saw that the first floor consisted of a single chamber with a tall ceiling. In the center was a wide but shallow pool. Standing in knee-deep water were Ur-Nammu, the high priestess of Kamupadana, and Jākita-Abhinno, whom Torg was certain had become newly crowned queen of the Warlish witches.
“Mara-maccha, pariyuttha (Devil fish, arise),” the priestess chanted. “Pavisatha udakam parisuddham (Enter the holy water).”
Jākita-Abhinno writhed in the clear waters of the pool, transforming from beautiful to ugly and back again, amid explosions of red light and putrid smoke. At least one hundred other witches mimicked her movements. Meanwhile, dozens of hags scooped water from the pool with silver goblets and poured it into nearby barrels. The undines were being stored for future use.
Just then, Torg heard cries from above. The dead bodies must have been discovered. But the participants in the bizarre ceremony beneath him—more than two hundred women, including witches, hags and other priestesses—appeared too enraptured to notice the disturbance. Torg stepped into the chamber and walked nonchalantly toward the barrels. At first he wasn’t even seen. Then the women emerged from their trances and turned toward him. Torg approached the oak barrels, raised the Silver Sword and began to hack at them. The wood split apart as easily as parchment, spilling the contents onto the stone floor.
One of the witches—in her hideous form—was the first to draw a dagger from the folds of her gown. It thumped against his back, piercing his tunic but failing to injure him. Another witch leapt onto his shoulders and bit his neck. Torg reached back, grasped her hair, and flung her across the room. More witches rushed forward, red fire spitting from their eyes, nostrils and mouths. Much to his chagrin, Torg’s clothing was incinerated, but his flesh was not harmed. For the moment, he ignored their attacks and continued to hack at the barrels. But finally he was forced to confront his assailants.
“Paapaa-itthiyo (Wicked women), return to the darkness from which you came and cower there until I depart. Any who attempt to thwart me will perish. You are not my match.”
“I know youuuu,” Jākita-Abhinno said, eyeing Torg’s nakedness with a mixture of rage and lust. “We’ve met before, many centuries ago. You’re no friend of the coven. Youuuu did great harm to our queen at Dibbu-Loka, and now she has disappeared. How dare you interrupt our sacred ssssummoning!”
“I do as I please.”
Ur-Nammu, the high priestess of Kamupadana and second in rank only to Jākita-Abhinno, leapt out of the pool and approached Torg, wielding an oaken staff with a silver pentacle embedded in its head. Apparently in no mood for further debate, the priestess smote the floor at his feet. Acidic tendrils scurried along the surface of the stone and wound around him like a crimson web. The priestess wielded no physical magic, but her staff contained its own supernaturally imbued might.
Against Torg’s blue-green power, though, the staff proved ineffective. The cocoon that encased him shattered like glass.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.
Ur-Nammu was not dismayed. She lunged with surprising speed, attempting to smash the staff against his head. But Torg’s abilities were superior. Holding the hilt of the Silver Sword in his right hand, he grasped its blade with his left and blocked the downward blow. The staff struck the sword and was cleaved. Its pentacle, still attached to a splintered portion of oak, somersaulted through the air and exploded. But Torg wasn’t through. In less time than it took for a single inhalation, he whipped the sword in front of his body and thrust straight ahead, stabbing Ur-Nammu between her breasts. Then he stepped back and flicked the blood off the blade.
For a moment, the high priestess remained standing—as if nothing unusual had occurred—but then her eyes rolled back and she collapsed. She was no longer.
A dozen more hags and at least that many soldiers—including Jākita-dEsa and the Sāykan captain—entered the chamber from the stairs. The hags attacked like a pack of rabid wolves, their poisoned claws tearing hungrily at his face, stomach and genitals. But Torg was undeterred. He beheaded three, cut two in half at the waist, and hacked the legs out from under four more with a series of strokes too fast for the eye to follow.
He scanned the room then for Jākita-Abhinno. If he could kill her, his enemy’s ability to summon more undines would be curtailed. But between Torg and the queen of the witches stood Jākita-dEsa, her beautiful face made ugly by rage. A glittering metallic ball about the size of an apple sparkled in the hag’s hand, and she hurled it at his feet.
When it struck the hard floor, the ball detonated, casting shards of metal and brilliant tendrils of light. He heard a boom—and then the room filled with black smoke. He could see no more than a cubit in any direction, but he heard the witches cackling within the noxious cloud. Obviously, this was a tactic they had employed before with success. But against a Death-Knower, it was another mistake. During his fifty years of warrior training, Torg had spent thousands of hours in deep darkness, which enabled him now to sense the whereabouts of his enemy like a brigade of noisy ghosts.
Torg pointed his sword straight forward and turned the double-edged blade on its side. Then he lifted his left foot off the floor and pressed its sole against the inside of his right knee. After that, he rose on the toes of his right foot and began to spin, slowly at first, but then faster and faster, until his body became a tornadic blur.
When the first women attacked, they were cut to shreds. Rather than retreat, the others waded in, their desire to rend even greater than their fear. By the time the smoke dissipated, more than fifty were dead or dying, and Torg still was on the attack. Panic finally overcame their anger. Most of them clambered up the stairs, but a few disappeared through hidden doors into dark catacombs beneath the edifice.
Torg kn
ew that his best chance of escape lay below. It would be nearly impossible to depart the way he had come. He was powerful, but not even he could defeat an entire army by himself. Even the magic he had used to subdue the soldiers at Dibbu-Loka and to incinerate the remains of Elu’s Svakaran village was not sufficient to defeat an enemy of this scope. The only way out was underground.
But in order to navigate the catacombs, Torg needed a guide. He searched among the bodies for Jākita-Abhinno but found no evidence of her remains, which meant he had failed to remove the threat of more undines being summoned later on. At least he had destroyed all the barrels, but the pool still swarmed with squirmy black specks. Torg kicked the short retaining wall but did no damage. Then he struck it with the sword. This time the wall cracked, and he continued to hack at the stone until a portion crumbled, flooding the floor. Like fish out of water, the wriggling undines perished at his feet.
Torg found Jākita-dEsa’s head. The servant would have to do. He picked it up by its hair and stared into the hag’s eyes. He could hear noises building in the stairway. Reinforcements had arrived and were working up the courage to attack. He didn’t have much time.
“Yakkkkha,” Torg said.
The head sprang to life. “If you attack my master, I will kill you!” it snarled.
“You’re already dead.”
“I am no longer,” the head agreed. “I am gone.”
“I wish to depart the chamber, and I need to get from here to the seventh wall without being seen. Are there tunnels beneath the ziggurat that lead that far?”
“Yes,” what remained of Jākita dEsa said.
“Tell me where to go.”
“You’re blocking my vision.”
Torg lifted the head and faced its eyes outward, slowly showing it the room.
“Many others are no longer,” the head observed.
“These deaths are not your concern. Time runs short. Tell me where to go.”
“Dozens of doors open to tunnels that lead from the first wall to the seventh and beyond—some far beyond.”
As angry shouts grew louder in the stairway, Torg sprinted to the opposite wall.
“Show me a door.”
“Each has its own command.”
“Speak quickly!”
“Phalati,” the head chanted.
In response, a portal swung open, revealing a cramped tunnel. Torg scanned the chamber one last time. None of the enemy had dared to enter from the stairway behind him, and it was possible no one would know which passageway he now chose. He dove inside, closing the door behind him. Now it was utterly dark.
“How do you see in these tunnels?” Torg said.
“We bring torches.”
Torg chuckled wearily. Then he stumbled forward. Before long, he walked straight into a wall. Obviously, the tunnel had taken an abrupt turn. To go farther, he needed light. Then an idea came to him, and he brushed the blade of the Silver Sword against the wall. The sword glowed in response, providing enough illumination to see for several paces. He continued to scrape the tip of the blade along the wall as he moved forward. It made an eerie screeching sound, but what could he do? If he used his own magic, he would be too quickly discovered.
The tunnel descended steeply. Torg guessed he was more than one hundred fathoms below the surface before it finally leveled out. Once again, he found himself deep beneath the ground in a mysterious labyrinth, and the claustrophia he had endured while trapped in the tunnels beneath Mount Asubha raised its ugly head beneath the ziggurat.
Several times he encountered crisscrossing passageways that led to more darkness, but the head always directed him forward. Torg saw no witches, hags, priestesses or soldiers. Somehow he had evaded them. Or perhaps, they were too afraid to follow?
“Are these tunnels always this empty?”
“Most shy from the darkness.”
After remaining level for more than a mile, the passageway ascended. Finally Torg came to another small door. He sensed that this door led to his escape.
“One final question before I release you,” Torg said. “What were the witches going to do with the undines?”
“The hags were not told,” the head said. “We were not worthy.”
Torg shook his head in frustration. He feared he hadn’t seen the last of the undines.
“One final favor, then. Tell me the magic word for this door.”
“Dakhīla,” the head chanted, obediently.
The door swung open, revealing the bright sunshine of a cool morning.
Momentarily Torg was blinded, but after his eyes adjusted to the light, he put the head down on the floor and stepped out of the darkness into a remote area of the market. Just then, a tall but effeminate man wandered by, wearing a pink doublet that hung past his knees. Torg rendered him unconscious with a blow to the temple and dragged his limp body a few paces into the tunnel. Before stripping the man of his odd clothes, Torg took a few moments to cleanse his own flesh, incinerating large patches of dried blood with a flow of blue-green energy. The doublet was too small for a man of Torg’s stature, but he was able to squeeze into it without completely ripping it apart at the seams. Straw sandals and a felt hat completed his bizarre new outfit.
Once he was dressed, Torg picked up the hag’s severed head and tossed it farther into the darkness. Then he propped the door ajar with a brick so that the stranger would be able to escape when he awakened. Before Torg turned to leave, he heard what remained of Jākita-dEsa continuing to speak. “I am gone,” it said, its voice echoing softly. “I am no longer.” Then it went silent—Torg assumed, for good.
Torg worked his way through the market, which was slowly becoming crowded. Small groups of soldiers ran to-and-fro, but Torg believed it would take the Sāykans at least half the day to organize a full-scale response, and he hoped to be away from Kamupadana by then.
Soon he passed through an open door within the eighth wall and found the inn. When he rang the bell, the fat innkeeper let him in.
“Your friends came home last night without you, and it appears they fared better than you. I have to say that you look rather silly. Did the whores steal your clothes?”
“That’s not entirely inaccurate,” Torg said.
“Would you like another bath? I’d be happy to provide personal service.”
“Trust me when I say you’d be better off if you did not. But I need another black tunic with breeches and boots. Do my friends have any coins left, I wonder?”
“For you, there’ll be no charge,” the woman said. “I suggest, however, that you leave the city before too long. Don’t misunderstand . . . I enjoy your company. But something has aroused the Sāykans, and that’s never a good thing around here. Will you need supplies?”
“Anything you can provide will be a blessing,” Torg said, and he gave her an appreciative hug.
“Ah, will wonders never cease? In all my years, I’ve never been held by such a handsome man . . . so poorly dressed.” But then she grew serious. “Early this morning, two friends joined your party. They asked for ‘Hana’ by name, so I allowed them into your rooms. One was a man with yellow hair and the other a woman who appeared to have had too much to drink and could barely walk. They wait for you while the others sleep off the night’s adventures.”
“I’ll see for myself,” Torg said. In truth, he had no idea who these two might be.
When the wizard was gone, the innkeeper’s eyes changed from light blue to black. Anyone within a few paces could have heard her cackle.
“So easy to deceive,” Vedana mused. “And to think I once feared him.”
The innkeeper flopped down onto a couch. Vedana had no more use for her body.
On the first floor of the ziggurat, the beautiful version of Jākita-Abhinno stood near the now-empty pool, surveying the recent carnage. All told, the dead numbered fifty-two: six eunuchs; eight Sāykan soldiers; sixteen priestesses, including high priestess Ur-Nammu; eighteen hags; and by far the worst, four precious witches. T
he Sāykan captain who had brought the bodies of the merchant and hag to the ziggurat was one of the survivors, though the right side of her leather tunic was rived and the skin above her ribcage bloodied. The captain stood next to the new queen of the Warlish witches and awaited her orders.
“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that,” she said. “Did we face a god?”
“He issss no god,” the queen said. “But he’s almost as dangeroussss as one.”
“Unless he can fly as well as he fights, I believe he’s still somewhere within our walls,” the captain said. “My soldiers can find him before night arrives. Shall I order a full search of the city?”
“No,” the queen said.
“Master, we must avenge this blasphemy.”
“We will do no such thing. I answer to a higher power—she who gave birth to my kind. And she has ordered ussss not to pursue.”
The captain sighed. “I don’t understand, but the Sāykans will do as you command.” Then she bowed and left the chamber.
Jākita-Abhinno watched the captain depart. Afterward, she stared forlornly at the blood and gore, the shattered barrels and the lifeless black specks on the cream-colored floor.
The dead undines looked like seeds that would never sprout.
“I don’t understand, either, but my orders are clear,” the witch whispered to herself. Then she bowed before the dead. “I will avenge you, my ssssisters. Some day. Somehow. The Death-Knower will perish at my hands.”
Sorceress
31
The door to one of their rooms on the third floor was ajar. Torg tried to be silent, but the old wood beneath his feet refused to cooperate. It creaked so loudly, he might as well have alarmed an army of chipmunks. At least it felt that way to him. But several different styles of snoring—from Ugga’s bear-like growl to Rathburt’s sniveling whimpers—concealed his approach.
