by Jim Melvin
True to her warrior instincts, Sōbhana memorized each twist and turn of Avici’s main causeway. Nevertheless her efforts lacked conviction. Of what use was resistance? Invictus was too great. With Bhayatupa as its ally, Avici was a power beyond compare. The forces of good were destined for slaughter.
Even so, on that sunny morning she continued to follow the ox-driven wagon and the hordes, always staying within sight of her king. Sōbhana’s spirit was fading, but her love for Torg was not. She would stand by him until doom took them all—even if the mountainous dragon himself tried to stop her.
Mala paraded Torg along a paved roadway lined by two-story cement buildings with elaborate marble facades. Men, women and children wearing white robes leered from the balconies that protruded over the street, the adults shouting obscenities, the children hurling chunks of garbage. Sōbhana was incensed, but helpless. She couldn’t kill thousands and thousands.
She knew through her studies that the eastern portion of Avici was built upon the remnants of a volcano that had raged and fumed before the Ogha River was born. The volcano now was lifeless, and its sides had long since crumbled and smoothed. A tangle of buildings—jammed side by side on the hill—blocked Sōbhana’s view of what lay beyond. When she finally came to the crest, she was able to see more clearly. At that moment she beheld Uccheda for the first time.
The great tower of Invictus dominated the valley that lay on the northeast side of the city. It filled Sōbhana with the same dismay she’d felt when she’d seen the dragon. The evil sorcerer’s dwelling place was by far the largest edifice she had ever beheld, dwarfing the temples in Senasana and Dibbu-Loka. Even the central keep of the fortress of Nissaya did not match this level of grandeur.
Uccheda was spherical in shape, tapering slightly as it grew—and it was so tall, clouds sometimes gathered about its roof. But the tower’s height was not its most amazing attribute. What stunned Sōbhana more than anything else was the scope of its decadence. Much of its outer surface was coated with gold. Of all the known bullion in the world, it had been rumored that more than a third had been used in the construction of the tower, which blazed beneath the rising sun like a beacon of despair, blinding anyone who attempted to look at it directly.
The main roadway led downward into the valley. Torg was drawn toward the tower. Hundreds of thousands followed. Mala marched ahead of the wagon. Bhayatupa glided in lazy circles above Uccheda’s roof. No one paid Sōbhana any attention. She walked freely in her new disguise.
There were no visible apertures at the tower’s base, but fifty cubits above the ground, hundreds of doors and windows opened onto a circular balcony. The largest portal, adorned with jewels and inscriptions, faced the roadway.
Slowly the portal swung slowly open.
The crowd grew silent—and bowed.
Bhayatupa landed on the rooftop of Uccheda. Even at such a great height, she could see him clearly on a day as cloudless as this one.
Then her eyes were drawn back to the portal. Ten standard-bearers, adorned in golden armor studded with diamonds and rubies, led the way onto the balcony, their banners bearing yellow suns outlined in red on backgrounds of white.
Next, a woman of unparalleled beauty appeared, wearing a crimson gown and a bejeweled chaplet. Sōbhana curled her upper lip, recognizing Chal-Abhinno, the Warlish witch who’d obviously chosen to return to Avici after her humiliation at Dibbu-Loka. A pair of dracools, winged beasts that looked like small dragons but waddled on two legs, escorted her. Behind the dracools strode an impressive soldier wearing decorated armor. He carried his helm in the crook of his arm, and his golden locks danced in the breeze.
A stately woman with luxurious blond hair hanging past her waist joined the soldier. She was tall and magnificent in her long white gown. Despite her dignified entrance, she immediately bowed her head, as if uncomfortable.
As soon as the blond woman appeared, Sōbhana jealously observed Torg resist the restraints for the first time since being strapped to the wagon by the Kojin. Her king looked up at the woman, who appeared to return his gaze. Suddenly, pale beams of light leapt from both their eyes and collided in midair. No one but Sōbhana seemed to notice, except for Bhayatupa, who snorted in amusement, and the golden-haired soldier, who looked at the woman—and then Torg—with what appeared to be a mixture of surprise and anger.
A thunderous roar from the crowd shattered the blond woman’s reverie. She seemed startled and stumbled sideways. The soldier caught her and held her up.
Then Invictus came through the door, and Sōbhana’s jealousy was swept away. The young sorcerer commanded her full attention, and his presence rendered all her emotions impotent. She watched him walk to the edge of the balcony and raise his arms toward the sun.
Morning ended. Noon took its place. Invictus bathed in the glory of light.
Physically, the young sorcerer was not as impressive as she’d expected. He was smaller and less muscular than a Tugar, and less graceful in his manner. His yellow hair was shoulder-length, his face boyishly handsome despite being a century old, and he wore long golden robes that glimmered in the sunlight. In Sōbhana’s opinion, he was not as beautiful as Torg—or most any Tugar male.
Nonetheless she sagged to her knees. There was no hope. Invictus’ might was irrefutable. From where she stood, she could barely tolerate the power that emanated from the Sun God’s body. It felt as if she stood too close to the open door of an immense furnace. Torg, whom she’d long believed to be the most powerful being on Triken, was puny in comparison. This alarming apparition dwarfed even Bhayatupa.
Sōbhana turned to Torg for guidance. His face was far away, but she still could interpret his expression. His eyes were closed, but he grimaced, apparently feeling the same despair as she. Her king was outmatched. And if The Torgon was outmatched, so was everyone, and everything, else.
“I will speak to you now,” Invictus said to the throng. “Say yes, if you hear my words.”
“YES!”
Of everyone in attendance, only a few, including Torg, did not respond. Mala leaned over the rail of the wagon and slapped the Death-Knower’s face even harder than he’d done earlier. “Did you not hear our king? Are you deaf, little worm?”
From above, Invictus spoke again. A hidden magic amplified his voice, so that it was clearly audible throughout the entire valley. “General Mala, please be more polite. The Torgon is our guest. He does not know our customs.”
Mala’s chain glowed, spitting globules of acidic liquid. Then the Chain Man stepped aside. “As you command, my king.”
“Yes,” Invictus said. “As I command.”
“YES!” the crowd chanted.
“Now, where was I? Oh . . . as I was saying, I have some things to tell you all. Can you hear me?”
“YES!”
This time Sōbhana unexpectedly shouted along with the obedient crowd. It felt as if the word had been torn from her throat, bringing tears to her eyes. Torg remained silent. Mala continued to glare at the wizard but did not strike him again.
“As you can see, The Torgon is our prisoner.”
“YES!”
Sōbhana resisted the sorcerer’s will, but it took all of her strength.
“He has been brought before me to stand trial.”
“YES!”
“I will interrogate him now.”
“YES! YES!”
“Torgon, you have conspired with others to corrupt the free peoples of Triken. I accuse you of treason. What is your plea?”
When Torg responded, Sōbhana was surprised that his voice also could be heard throughout the valley. “May I tell you some things?”
“YES!” the crowd shouted.
Mala lunged at Torg with murder in his eyes. But the sorcerer waved his hand—just slightly—and the Chain Man froze.
The Death-Knower’s belligerence, rather than anger Invictus, appeared to amuse him. “Of course, Torgon. As my subjects will readily attest, I am fair and just. Feel free to say whateve
r is on your mind.”
“YES!”
Torg spoke slowly. “I gave my word to Mala that I would allow him to bring me here to you. As of now, I have honored my vow. And I can sense in my heart that the noble ones are safe, which means that Mala has honored his.”
“Go on,” Invictus said. “This is fascinating.”
“Henceforth, I consider myself free of any bonds. I will now make every effort to escape. And there’s more. I tell you and all present that I despise you and your servants. This means, I suppose, that I plead guilty to your charges.”
Bhayatupa, still poised on the roof of Uccheda, lifted his head and chortled. It was an eerie sound, deep and rumbling. Mala shook with rage, and the Kojin leapt up and down, pounding her numerous fists. The druids also reacted by re-creating their peculiar rhythmic humming, while in the background the crowd chanted, “YES! YES! YES!”
Regardless, the young sorcerer seemed unperturbed. He stepped off the balcony, descended slowly to the ground—his golden robes spread like wings—and landed as gently as a fallen leaf. With a quick little hop, he pounced onto the wagon bed and stared into Torg’s eyes. The massive gathering was shocked into silence.
Sōbhana slithered within striking distance, but she was terrified. If Invictus attacked Torg, would she have the courage to defend him?
“Ah, such entertainment,” the sorcerer said. “You enthrall me, Death-Knower. You are so . . . interesting. And nowadays, I find so few things interesting. Being a god can be so boring. There aren’t enough challenges. Everyone does exactly what I say. Do you understand my predicament?”
“I understand you are a spoiled child,” Torg said. “A wicked child, as well, blind to your failings. I can redeem you, if you will allow me into your heart. You will not regret it. But you must somehow find the wisdom to listen.”
Somewhere in the clouds Bhayatupa laughed again. The crowd seemed to stir.
Invictus’ composure began to diminish. “Do not test me too severely. I find you amusing, but not so amusing that you are beyond punishment. I can see that you do not fear for yourself, but what of your precious others? Do you truly believe that the noble ones are safe? Perhaps I could destroy them all with only a thought. Or even worse, I could infect them with an evil that would force them to perform my bidding.”
“Not even you are that powerful,” Torg said. But Sōbhana detected doubt in his voice.
Mala stood next to the wagon. Though the monster’s feet were on the ground, his eyes were level with the wizard and sorcerer’s. “Pleaaaaase, my king, I beseech you,” he said, his fangs spewing poison. “Allow me to rip him to pieces.”
“Nay, I have prepared a place for him of my choosing,” Invictus said. “There he will endure pain far greater than what you are suggesting. After a time he will beg to join us . . . if he manages to survive.”
Then Invictus raised his arms, and his voice again boomed throughout the valley. “You have heard for yourselves.”
“YES!”
“The Torgon admits his guilt.”
“YES!”
“I will now pronounce his sentence.”
“YES!”
“The Torgon will be taken to Asubha where he will be imprisoned until he repents.”
“YES! YES! YES!”
“No,” Sōbhana begged. “Please . . . no.”
Invictus abandoned Torg in the wagon at the base of Uccheda for three days, giving him nothing to drink or eat. Apparently Invictus intended to weaken the wizard even further. Twice the skies darkened and rained lightly. Sōbhana watched her king catch water on his tongue. The brief sprinkles appeared to entrance him despite his dismal situation, as if the scattered drops were things of beauty. He even managed to smile.
Sōbhana could not approach too closely. After Invictus disappeared within the tower, the massive surge of onlookers wandered off, and the soldiers returned to their duties, leaving her with fewer places to hide, despite her disguise. Even after the others departed, at least fifty golden soldiers continued to guard the wagon. They were regimented and seemed to know each other well. If she had attempted to infiltrate them, she quickly would have been exposed as an intruder.
Mala, the Kojin and the druids also checked on the prisoner often. Sōbhana doubted Invictus felt threatened so near the great tower, but obviously the king of the Tugars was important to him. You can put a prized jewel in an impregnable chamber and still feel compelled to stand outside and watch the door.
Sōbhana would have sacrificed her own flesh just to speak with her king for a few moments. But even if she had been able to find a way, she remained wary of Torg’s vow to kill any Tugar who followed him. She had heard him say to Invictus that his pledge was fulfilled. Did that free her as well? Could she help him now? She wasn’t certain.
During the long journey from Dibbu-Loka, Sōbhana had not suffered as much as Torg, but it had been hard on her too. She was hungry, thirsty and weaker than usual. She crouched in a damp culvert and shivered in the autumn cold. The golden armor lay discarded at her side. She could bear it against her skin no longer. Some time during the third morning, her exhaustion overcame her, and she slept.
A while later Sōbhana jerked awake. Now it was almost noon, and the day had grown unseasonably warm for Avici’s northern clime. The sky was cloudless, the air crisp and clear. She crawled to the edge of the culvert and gasped. Torg and the wagon were gone, but swarms of citizens and soldiers were pouring back into the valley. Though it disgusted her, she hurriedly put the golden armor back on and blended into the thickening crowd.
Sōbhana searched in all directions, but Torg was nowhere in sight. Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back. She was through with self-pity. Whoever had taken him while she slept would pay. She didn’t care about her own life. She’d failed her king and deserved to die. How could she have slept so deeply? It was as if her proximity to the sorcerer had drugged her.
The throng began to chant. “Sampati . . . Sampati . . . Sampati . . .”
Sōbhana gazed upward. Bhayatupa circled high above the rooftop of Uccheda, a splotch of crimson in the blue sky. But it was not the dragon that occupied the crowd’s attention this time. Instead, it was a shimmering black speck that appeared in the northern sky, growing larger as it approached. Though it was no match for Bhayatupa in sheer size, it was huge, nonetheless. A Sampati, which meant crossbreed in the ancient tongue, flew toward Uccheda, its tremendous wings pumping the air. Apparently, Torg’s transportation to the prison on Mount Asubha was about to arrive.
From where she stood, Sōbhana couldn’t see who or what waited on the pinnacle of Uccheda. Although there were no clouds to block her view, the angle was too severe. Still, she could sense Torg on the rooftop. And if he were there, Mala and Invictus would also be present.
Overcome by madness, Sōbhana frantically removed the armor and stood alone in her black outfit among the thousands who wore either gold or white. She held her uttara in her right hand and her dagger in her left, and entered into frenzy. She attacked soldiers and citizens alike, first just a few and then by the dozens. Wherever she went, there was shouting and confusion. Blood splattered. Heads fell. She murdered any and all within reach. As the Sampati landed on Uccheda’s rooftop, Sōbhana wreaked havoc below—killing, killing, killing. Not even the magnificent armor worn by the golden soldiers could withstand her.
Sōbhana cut off a soldier’s leg, slicing through his cuisse as if it were paper. She spun in a full circle, simultaneously severing the head of a civilian woman with her sword and slashing the jugular of a man with her dagger. The woman’s head flipped round and round in the air and tumbled into the arms of a boy, who screamed wildly and tossed it aside.
Although most of the crowd still was focused on the approach of the crossbred condor, a few began to take notice of Sōbhana’s mayhem. More than a dozen druids rushed toward her, humming in their peculiar fashion. She dove into them, slicing and thrusting. Though they were almost twice her size, they
were no match. She had trained for fifty years with a Vasi master and was one of the deadliest of her kind. The druids fell in a torrent of green blood.
Hacked in half. Beheaded. Stabbed through their foul hearts.
She was, after all, Asēkha-Sōbhana.
One of the most dangerous warriors in the world.
She could not kill everyone in the valley.
But she would die, trying.
The flat rooftop of Uccheda had no protective wall or other adornments and was the only sizable portion of the tower’s exterior not coated in gold. Invictus did not desire for it to be slippery.
In anticipation of the arrival of the Sampati, the rooftop was abuzz with activity. Ten golden soldiers faced ten others about fifty cubits apart, holding thick ropes between them. When the huge beast finally landed, its sharp claws scratched along the surface, tearing up chunks of mortar. The Sampati slid forward, out of control.
“Now!” Mala commanded.
The soldiers heaved on the ropes, which grew taut just as the Sampati rammed into them. The six-inch-thick strands stretched but did not break. The hybrid bird slammed to a halt. Immediately a pair of soldiers raced over and attached chains to the beast’s legs.
A thin but muscular pilot leapt off the condor’s neck, strode to Invictus and bowed nimbly before him. “The Sampati and I are at your service, my king.”
The condor, crossbred with a dragon to increase its size and strength, was one of eleven of its kind. Only a few remained in captivity. The others had escaped and now flew freely about the peak of Mount Asubha, feeding on prisoners—and sentries.
The Sampati had a black torso with white splotches at the tips of its wings, which measured forty cubits when extended. Most of its body was covered with feathers, but its head, neck and feet were laden with crimson dragon scales. A sturdy platform was attached to its back by thick straps that clung to its torso.
The enormous bird was high-strung, struggling against the chains and flapping its wings. Invictus knew it wasn’t wise to keep the creature waiting too long. Its hooked beak could tear and rend. Passengers and supplies—with a combined weight of as much as a ton—were loaded quickly.
