by Jim Melvin
“Listen to your master, little cockroaches,” Mala teased. “He, at least, has a shred of wisdom. And don’t worry. I will take good care of him.”
Kusala struggled to breathe but managed to regain his feet. “As you command, my king. It will be as you say.”
“Yes, it will be as I say. If Mala honors his side of the bargain and allows you to remove the noble ones without interference, then you must not give chase. Any who follow will die at my hands. This, I foretell.” Then he swung slowly back toward the monster. “As for you, Mala, if your minions attempt some treachery in Dibbu-Loka after you and I have departed, you will regret it.”
“Your threats are empty,” the Chain Man said. “But they are also needless. Once you and I are gone, nothing will happen to these pathetic breath-watchers unless you break your vow and try to escape. I care less for them than I do for your rats. You, I care for least of all. But Invictus wishes to speak to you face to face. I do not comprehend it, but I always follow orders from my king. So I’ll deliver you to him as promised.”
3
The arid land that lay just beyond the northern walls of the holy city fell steeply and was riddled with spiny rocks and hidden clefts. Mala chose this path for himself and Torg. After the ordeal on the balcony of Bakheng, Torg was still exhausted, and his legs felt as if they’d been drained of blood. Nonetheless, Mala drove him mercilessly forward. Torg’s discomfort was the least of the Chain Man’s concerns.
“Keep moving, you little pig . . . keep moving!” Mala commanded, shoving Torg from behind and sending him tumbling partway down the hill. “Do as you’re told, or I’ll have to carry you. And neither of us will like that.”
Torg’s anger surged, but he remained weak. Also, he no longer wielded Obhasa, having left the staff with Kusala, who had cringed when he had taken it in his hands. Torg’s heart withered when he recalled the chieftain’s pained expression.
I’m sorry, Kusala. I hope one day to regain your trust. But for now the stakes are too high. I had to make sure that none of the Asēkhas interfered with my plan.
Mala thrust his foot into Torg’s ribs, knocking him farther down the hill.
“Hurry, you pathetic flea. I want to put several leagues between us and this rat hole of a city before I even think of resting.”
Torg had never been kicked so hard. Gasping for breath, he forced himself upright and stumbled forward. Knowing that he would have to draw on his warrior’s training to survive this ordeal, he cleared thought from his mind and began to move with the instincts of a wild animal, choosing the path of least resistance through the jumbled boulders. Soon Mala was struggling to keep up.
“Wait, wait . . . you weasel. I warned you what would happen to your precious robe-wearers if you tried to escape.”
“I’m not trying to escape. I’m doing as I’m told. Slow? Fast? Let me know when you make up your mind.”
Mala chomped on his lower lip. Blood squirted onto his chin. He reached down, picked up a fair-sized boulder and heaved it at Torg. It missed by a wide margin. Curses and profanities followed. The Chain Man stomped around like a spoiled child.
Meanwhile, Torg felt his strength returning far more quickly than he’d expected. He believed he already was capable of running off and leaving Mala behind. After all, the chain borne by the ruined snow giant was a heavy burden. But Torg had given his word and would remain true as long as the Chain Man left the noble ones in peace.
“Mala, it doesn’t have to be this way. All this kicking and shoving won’t speed up either of us.”
The monster snarled. But somehow Torg’s words had a calming effect. For the rest of the night Mala allowed him to choose the path and set the pace. They walked until nearly dawn but managed just three leagues, as the owl flies, being forced to clamber over jumbled rock and crawl through thorny brush. Several leagues to the east or west, the land was far easier to traverse, but the Chain Man demanded they head due north toward the city of Senasana, about thirty leagues from Dibbu-Loka.
“That is where the real fun will begin,” Mala said. The monster smiled, and the links of his chain grew red-hot.
As the sun emerged, their pace slowed. Torg found a trickling spring and knelt to sniff the water and then take a drink. Mala snorted and disdained it.
Torg found some edible berries and offered a few to the Chain Man, whose face contorted in disgust.
“I would eat your greasy flesh before I would eat that. Meat, blood, and bones make the best breakfast—not fruit. You’re disgusting.”
“Yama-Deva did not eat meat. He loved all animals. He was a shepherd.”
“Say that name again, and you will regret it. You live now only because Invictus desires it.”
Torg shrugged and then led Mala to a natural stone shelter, where they rested beneath its craggy ceiling for much of the day. The rising sun brought with it a languorous heat. Soon Mala’s eyes grew heavy, and finally he slept. Torg lay nearby pretending to doze, but he watched the Chain Man through the slits of his eyelids.
Mala’s long white mane was unchanged, but little else remained of his former glory. Torg pitied the monster. He had not known Yama-Deva before Invictus captured him, but he had visited with several of his kin high in the peaks of the Okkanti Mountains, including a snow giant named Yama-Utu, who was Yama-Deva’s brother.
“I have heard of you, Torgon,” Yama-Utu had said to him seven centuries ago. “Yama-Deva is the only one among us who dares to leave the peaks, and he has brought back word of the desert king who can cheat death. Please, young master, tell us more.”
Torg had spoken long with the snow giant, his mate and three of his friends, who seemed to magically appear from behind boulders. Their company and conversation had been delightful. Many times they’d bragged of Yama-Deva, the snow giant who dared to wander.
More than seven hundred years later, Torg felt the sting of tears as he studied the ruins of Yama-Deva. He remembered what the noble ones said about the impotence of hatred, but he felt hatred for Invictus growing inside him, nonetheless. Torg hoped beyond hope that there was some way he could help Mala revert to his former self. Nevertheless, he feared only the death of Invictus could undo this terrible wrong.
Eventually even Torg slept, his dreams drenched in sorrow.
Anyone watching from a distance might have mistaken them for friends—rather large friends—traveling together in the wilds. Torg woke and could have escaped, most of his strength returned. But he believed in the power of karma; if he broke his word, more harm than good would result. His vow at Bakheng would not be fully honored until he was presented to Invictus.
Torg had once asked his Vasi master, “What is the meaning of karma?”
The master had answered, “Karma means you get away with nothing.”
Torg reflected on those words as he listened to Mala’s thunderous snores. When the Chain Man finally woke, the monster sat up so fast he banged his thick head on the ceiling of the shelter, the rock suffering more damage than his skull.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t run off,” Mala said, rubbing the sore spot. “I would have returned to Dibbu-Loka and killed every one of the bald bastards myself.”
“The noble ones shave their heads,” Torg said. “Even the women. They are not bald.”
“Whatever.”
Torg sighed. “I have told you before . . . and I mean it. I will go with you, without resistance, and allow you to imprison me. After that, we shall see what we shall see. As for going back and killing the noble ones, that is no longer possible. The Asēkhas have long since removed them from harm. Now, my word is all that binds me to you.”
“So full of pride you are. And so bold. It would bring me great pleasure to strip the flesh from your bones. But my master forbids it, and his threats are the only ones I fear. You will fear them too. If you are lucky, he will convince you—as he convinced me—to join him in his quest to rid the land of vermin. Otherwise, you will suffer as he sees fit. And die when he sees fit
.”
Before they set off, Mala allowed Torg to drink from the spring and eat more berries. Quick as a snake, the Chain Man snatched a large iguana off the side of a boulder and devoured it raw, bones and all. Although Torg often had eaten salted iguana flesh, he found this sight less than appetizing. However, the fresh meat seemed to improve Mala’s mood, and he again permitted Torg to lead.
The unusual pair walked into the evening and all through the night, rarely resting. In the meantime the rocky land surrounding Dibbu-Loka succumbed to rolling plains. Eventually the remnants of a road appeared before them, and by morning’s first light they had traveled more than ten leagues and were almost halfway to Senasana. During all that time they had seen only lizards, snakes, birds and insects. Ravenous flies swarmed around them, but their bites had no effect on Torg’s flesh—and undoubtedly none on Mala’s as well. The Chain Man, in fact, seemed to enjoy eating them.
Once they reached the road, they made much better progress. On the fourth morning after leaving Dibbu-Loka, they approached within a league of Senasana, where one of Mala’s scouts met them. The Chain Man barked out orders, and the scout raced into the darkness. As Mala and Torg drew nearer the city, several dozen golden soldiers marched toward them. A captain came forth and stood at the foot of the monster, trembling as he saluted.
“Did you bring it?” Mala said. “Tell me you brought it.”
“Yes, lord,” the captain stammered. “It is with us . . . as you commanded.”
“It was wise of you not to fail. I have not yet eaten breakfast.”
The captain swayed on his feet, as if about to swoon. Torg almost felt sorry for the man.
Warrior’s Sacrifice
1
Sōbhana watched Mala and Torg scramble down the pyramid’s stairs and jog along a causeway that led to the northern wall of Dibbu-Loka. The Chain Man was shouting orders and shoving Torg from behind. It was unbearable to watch.
Sōbhana was a warrior. Pain and sacrifice were second nature to her, but this was something else. Her lord’s commands did not make sense. The golden soldiers were subdued. Mala stood alone. He was a formidable monster but not invincible.
“Chieftain, this is madness,” she said to Kusala. “We must not permit it.”
Kusala held Obhasa in his right hand, but his face remained downcast. “He will slay any who follow. I do not doubt it. I have never seen him like this. Madness or no, we must not pursue.”
Kusala turned from Sōbhana and swept his arm in a half circle. “All heard the commands of our king. We must take the noble ones to the haven we have prepared. Find carts and oxen. I want them all far from the city by dawn. Do not harm the soldiers, unless we are attacked from without. However, there is one thing not mentioned by our king that I will encourage: If you feel the need to relieve yourselves, aim for a sleeping face. It will match their gaudy armor.”
There was grim laughter and a few guarantees—even from several of the women—that not a drop would be wasted. Then the Asēkhas sprang into action. Thirty ox carts were found, but only enough oxen to haul ten of them. It didn’t matter. The Asēkhas were strong enough to tow the carts by hand. The noble ones, still deeply asleep, were laid side by side on beds of hay. The evacuation had begun.
Tugars were not just warriors. They also were hard workers. It was said that twenty Asēkhas could outperform a hundred ordinary men and women. Nineteen Asēkhas could do almost as well.
Nineteen would have to do.
Sleek as a cat, Sōbhana slipped over the northeastern wall. She had not asked Kusala’s permission, nor had he demanded it. Regardless, she was on her own.
Now she watched with rage as Mala shoved and kicked her king. It took every shred of her will to resist pouncing on the wicked monster. But she held herself back. If she attacked now, she knew Torg would kill her. Her own death did not concern her, but she would be no good to her lord if she were eliminated. She had to be patient and carefully choose the time and place to reveal her presence.
Plus, she knew Torg’s senses were extraordinary. She hoped Torg’s focus on Mala would dilute the wizard’s alertness. If she stayed cleverly hidden, she might be able to follow undetected for a considerable distance.
She had no plan, other than to be certain Torg did not travel this path with Mala alone. She loved him, after all, but not only as she would love a king. She desired to become Torg’s wife.
Sōbhana had begun her warrior training at age sixteen, achieving the rank of warrior at sixty-six and Asēkha at seventy-eight. Both were unprecedented. Torg had not become a warrior until he was sixty-eight and an Asēkha until eighty. But he had become a Death-Knower just two years later. Sōbhana knew in her heart that she could not follow in those footsteps. She would never be a wizard; it was not in her. She could, however, love one.
She was brave. She was loyal. She often was told she was beautiful. Why not her?
Kusala would have called it infatuation, but she knew better. Sōbhana loved Torg, as a woman does a man. She was puzzled that he had never taken a wife, but at the same time it pleased her. It gave her a chance to realize her dream. And if she had ever seen Torg with another woman, she might have committed murder.
Marriage was relatively rare among Tugars. Most of their men and women preferred sexual freedom—and among their own kind, the warriors were promiscuous. Unlike the others, Torg was not. He always slept alone. Sōbhana once asked Kusala about it, and the chieftain had fidgeted, uncharacteristically.
“There are rumors, among the elders, that something terrible happened to him when he was young,” Kusala whispered. “He will not speak of it. I asked him once, and the look he gave me shriveled my tongue. I will not ask again.”
As Sōbhana replayed the chieftain’s words, she burrowed beneath a mound of crumbled stone until only her eyes and the crown of her head were exposed. She watched Mala and Torg as they slept beneath the slanted roof of a rock shelter. She saw her beloved open his eyes every now and then and look at the Chain Man. Tears coursed down his cheeks. She cried too. If Torg attempted to escape, she would rush to his aid, heedless of her own survival.
She followed them for days, all the way to the outskirts of Senasana. There she noted the approach of the scouts, and then the soldiers. As the morning sun climbed in the sky, Torg was led toward the main gates. People gathered along the wide road that ran through the center of the city. Sōbhana stayed far back, away from prying eyes.
Senasana was an active marketplace. Traders came from as far west as the Kolankold Mountains and as far east as the Barranca wastes. More than fifty thousand lived there permanently, and transients doubled its population.
On this day, what Sōbhana saw stunned her. A well-equipped army of more than five-hundred-score golden soldiers occupied the city. In addition to this infantry there were dangerous monsters: several druids from Dhutanga and a Kojin from the Dark Forest. Until now, Invictus had not sent this caliber of force this far south, as far as she knew. But the sorcerer’s boldness had grown.
The citizens of Senasana were not warriors. They could not forestall an army. Accumulating wealth was their main talent. Under these circumstances they were frightened—and cowardly. Accommodating their new guardians would be their safest course.
Sōbhana knew most Senasanans admired Torg, who’d been a frequent guest. But this time the wizard was a helpless prisoner. It’d be one thing to join forces with an army of Tugars come to rescue their lord. But without the desert warriors to lead the way, it would be suicide to aid him.
As Torg and his captors marched past her hiding place, someone hurled a tomato from the side of the road. Its aim was true, striking her king in the face. Mala guffawed, along with the crowd.
It sickened Sōbhana—and angered her.
Still laughing, the tomato thrower suddenly bent over and coughed up a ball of blood that resembled the splattered fruit. Needless to say, he never laughed again. It wasn’t wise to offend an Asēkha.
Sōbhana crept
closer to the crowd. A large ox cart, piled high with women’s clothing, had been left on the side of the road. The merchant had wandered a few paces away to watch the excitement. Sōbhana stole a loose-fitting kirtle, a pair of low-cut leather shoes, a cloth purse and a hat with a linen band that wrapped under the chin. Kneeling behind the cart, she quickly changed, tucking her uttara and dagger into scabbards beneath the dress and stuffing her black Tugarian outfit into the purse. The hat concealed the cut and color of her hair, which would have looked suspicious to those with clever eyes. When she emerged, she looked like a typical Senasanan woman.
Sōbhana wandered through the mob, which was growing raucous. Noon approached. Soon there would be feasting, during which the Chain Man and his soldiers would probably be treated like heroes. This was how merchants dealt with enemies. But if most of Mala’s army followed him back to Avici afterward, Sōbhana believed that few in the merchant city would complain.
The teeming market in the heart of Senasana surrounded an enormous temple that was larger and more ornate than the pyramid-shaped shrine in Dibbu-Loka. The temple, called Vinipata, was a bulbous dome made of white marble that towered three hundred cubits above the floor of the square. Four smaller and less impressive domes served as Vinipata’s guardians, and exquisite minarets framed the outer corners. Visitors entered through a red sandstone gate, decorated with a multitude of ancient inscriptions. The courtyard inside the gate could accommodate many thousands. Sōbhana had been to this place several times before this latest visit, though the other occasions had been far more pleasurable.
