by Melvin, Jim
“If you flee from us and leave the wagons behind, we will not pursue,” Kusala continued. “But if you stay, we will kill all of you. What do you choose? Answer quickly! My patience withers, much like your face.”
Kusala knew his threats carried little weight. The Asēkhas were outnumbered fifteen to one. But he didn’t care. He and his desert warriors might die this night, but they would not be the only ones.
Suddenly, a commotion in the nearby darkness distracted Kusala. A pair of Mogols entered the firelight, dragging a struggling woman. The Senasanan countess fought against her captors, but they were too strong. Kusala saw that she had been stripped of her clothing and whipped. The Mogols heaved her roughly to the ground within a few paces of Kusala.
“Put down your weaponssss,” the witch said, “and we will let her live.”
“Don’t listen to her!” the woman screamed, rising to her knees.
A Mogol warrior clubbed her between the shoulder blades, knocking her face-down in the dirt.
Kusala looked at the Mogol and repeated his earlier statement. “Whatever else happens here tonight, you will perish.”
“We shall ssssee!” the witch said, pressing the fiery head of her staff against the Mogol’s chest. The other witches joined their leader, launching crimson flame from their own staffs. The torrents blended together to envelope the Mogol warrior, swirling around his muscled torso. The Mogol cried out and collapsed to his knees, but a moment later he was able to stand, his body now engorged with supernatural might. He glowed like a ghost.
“Our champion against yourssss,” the witch said. “Winner takes all.”
“Contesting this devilry is beneath you, Kusala,” Tāseti shouted. “Let us attack now and be done with this.”
But Kusala did not seem to hear. His blazing blue eyes met the witch’s challenge. “Winner takes all,” he growled, and then he strode to confront his magically enhanced foe.
15
WIELDING HIS uttara, Chieftain-Kusala closed on the Mogol. The savage’s face, chest, and arms were slathered with grotesque tattoos depicting various forms of sadistic violence, and he wore only a loincloth stained the color of blood.
Under ordinary circumstances, a dozen Mogols would have been no match for Kusala. But the power of the witches had changed this one into something superhuman, every shred of his flesh shimmering like phosphorescence. Even his war club glowed. It too had absorbed the evil magic.
In Tugarian fashion, Kusala faced his opponent and bowed. The Mogol sneered and then lunged, swinging his club at Kusala’s head. Kusala ducked out of the way and stabbed his uttara at his enemy’s heart with enough force to punch through bone. But where the point of the blade met flesh, a crackling burst of crimson energy erupted, blasting Kusala backward onto the hard ground. The Mogol howled with delight, and the witches joined in, shouting the foulest imaginable obscenities.
The savage leapt forward and swung the club at Kusala again. He rolled away, avoiding the blow with little effort, but this time he stood more warily. The Mogol’s powers were similar to a Kojin’s. The witches had given him a magical shield that not even a uttara seemed able to penetrate.
Too quick for the eye to follow, Kusala lunged at the Mogol, spun on his right foot, and whipped the uttara at his opponent’s throat, a blow powerful enough to behead a cave troll with a single swipe. But where the blade met flesh another explosion occurred, once again knocking Kusala to the ground and momentarily stunning him. The Mogol might have had him then, but the force of his blow also sent the savage tumbling, and he fell into the arms of a soldier. When the Mogol’s shimmering flesh pressed against the soldier’s armor, the golden metal glowed red-hot. In response, the body within the armor swelled to an immense size, and for a moment it appeared that the golden soldier had become some kind of horrid monster. But then he burst asunder.
The Mogol wiped gore from his face and managed to stand. By this time, Kusala also had regained his feet.
“The chieftain of the Asēkhas has met his match, it would sssseem,” the leader of the witches snarled, still choosing to appear in her hideous state. “If you surrender now, Kusala, I will let you live. You can return to Kamupadana as my personal slave, a position you would not find unpleassssant.”
“Whatever else happens here tonight, you will perish,” Kusala repeated.
His brashness enraged the witch further, intensifying her repulsiveness. “End his life . . . now,” she shouted at the Mogol.
When the mountain warrior charged at the desert warrior, Kusala surprised everyone by sheathing his sword. The Mogol swung a deathblow, the club rushing at Kusala’s head in a shimmering blur. But with strength second only to The Torgon, Kusala caught his enemy’s wrist in mid-swing and wrenched the club from his hand. The witches gasped, and the rest of the gathering fell into silence.
Now wielding the war club, Kusala reared back and struck his enemy with the force of a trebuchet heaving a boulder. The magic in the Mogol’s flesh yielded to the magic of the weapon, and he was slain.
Before anyone could react, Kusala picked up the still-glowing war club, took three long strides, and thudded the leader of the coven on her hideous head. The fulmination of flesh and bone was followed by a gruesome eruption of red fire and rancid smoke. For a moment, everyone froze in place.
But Warlish witches are not cowards, and they love each other like sisters. After recovering from the initial shock, the rest of them charged at the Asēkhas in a snarling fit of fury. The Mogols, wolves, and golden soldiers also attacked. Without Torg to offset the coven’s powerful magic, the desert warriors were outmatched. Despite their prowess, it was only a matter of time before they succumbed.
UNNOTICED IN the melee, the naked Senasanan woman crept away on hands and knees, barely avoiding being trampled. Once she was free of the fighting, she stood and scrambled toward the galleys, which remained poised just offshore. Then she unexpectedly came to a standstill, sensing the approach of a mysterious power. Off to her left was a small hill, barely taller than a berm. A horse appeared upon its summit—but surely no horse could be so large. And then something even more amazing rose into view: a giant, twice as tall as the horse, with a fell look in his eyes.
FOR THE FIRST time in his long life, Yama-Utu—brother of Yama-Deva, now known as Mala—shed the blood of another . . . and another and another . . . using his enormous fists to bludgeon everything he confronted. Though the witches and their minions had been filled with the desire to kill, their rage was minuscule in comparison to his. None could withstand his madness. He made sure of it.
First the soldiers fled.
Then the Mogols and wolves.
The witches stood their ground, but even they were no match. Utu crushed them as easily as the rest, their strength pale in comparison to his. All but a few perished, and those few fled to places beyond Utu’s range of vision.
In the end, he had followed Jord to this place and then destroyed these followers of Invictus and Mala.
But at what cost?
In Utu’s scattered mind, that was yet to be determined.
WHEN THE BATTLE was over, Kusala found the snow giant sitting cross-legged by the edge of the lake, his face buried in hands still stained with blood. The beast wept, a pathetic sound coming from something so huge and powerful.
Kusala approached cautiously, though not necessarily out of fear. During the deadly rampage, the creature clearly had avoided harming the Asēkhas, and at times he and the desert warriors had fought side by side like allies. Kusala had never been to Okkanti, but he had listened many times to Torg’s recountal. It was obvious this creature was a snow giant, and since there were so few—less than a dozen in the world—it was likely the Death-Knower had once been in his presence.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a female voice startled Kusala. He drew his uttara and crouched in a defensive position, turning to his left to confront the surprise intruder. A woman with long white hair stood before him, her white robes aglow. Once agai
n, Kusala recognized a stranger. Torg had described her briefly during their talk on the ledge above the rock shelter.
“His name is Yama-Utu,” the woman said to Kusala, gesturing to the giant, who continued to weep.
“And you are Jord,” Kusala said. “The Torgon has spoken of you.”
“Kind words, I hope?”
“Nothing you would not have been pleased to hear.”
Jord smiled.
“Did Torg send you to help us?” Kusala said.
“I haven’t seen your king for several months. The last time was early winter. But our paths will cross again. After I leave here, I will go in search of him. I have things to show him.”
“How did you come to be here?”
“I’ve been many places—mostly to observe, but sometimes to extend aid, if I am told to do so. The times are dire, as you well know. You needed me. And so I came.”
“If that is so, why did you bring the giant? Could you not have defeated the witches yourself?”
“My powers are limited . . .”
Seemingly oblivious to their conversation, the giant suddenly stood and strode into the lake. Then he sat down, splashed his face, and cried some more.
“Yama-Utu has never killed before,” the Faerie said. “His kind claim to be incapable of violence, but apparently that is not the case. Since the rise of Invictus, this snow giant’s pacifism has been sorely tested. His beloved brother was once known as Yama-Deva. But he is now known as Mala.”
Kusala could not tell if Utu had heard Jord’s words, but the giant seemed to react, standing up and stomping through the water toward the chieftain. Tāseti and several other Asēkhas came forward to protect their leader, but Kusala waved them off. Cleansed of his victims’ blood, Utu stood a few paces away in knee-deep water, and though the giant had the wizened face of an ancient being, he now bore an almost childish expression.
“Have you seen Yama-Deva?” Utu said to Kusala. “My brother went away and never came back.”
“Does he not know?” Kusala said to Jord, amazement in his voice.
“His awareness comes and goes,” Jord said. “I journeyed with him from Okkanti all the way here, and though we traveled many leagues in not much more than a day, we still managed to have several conversations, some more wearisome than others. At times, he knows what we know and is thoroughly preoccupied with killing Mala, thereby ending his brother’s suffering. Other times, he seems to have has no knowledge of Mala or Invictus. Either way, I believe he is an ally.”
“I miss him,” the giant said. “Have you seen my brother?”
Kusala was impressed. Without further comment, he laid his sword and dagger in the dirt and then stepped, fully clothed, into Ti-ratana. There was a commotion behind him, but he paid no heed. As he approached the giant, the water came up to his waist. He looked up at Utu and smiled.
“I owe you my life, dear sir,” Kusala said, bowing until his nose almost touched the lake’s black surface. “Will you journey southward with me and my friends? Perhaps we will encounter your brother somewhere along the way.”
“I would be honored to join you,” Utu said.
Kusala believed that he meant it.
When Kusala emerged from the water, the Faerie was gone.
“Where did Jord go?” he said to Tāseti.
“Jord? I do not know that name.”
“She was standing right beside you—the woman with long, white hair. I was just speaking to her. Surely you heard our words.”
“We heard you, chieftain, but it was as if you were talking to air,” Churikā said. “There was no white-haired woman. But until just a moment ago, a jade mare stood among us, her mane as white as the great giant’s. When you entered the water to speak to him, the horse galloped off toward the mountains. Did you not hear the thunder of her hooves?”
“I heard something,” Kusala admitted. “What it was, I cannot say.”
Kusala sighed. The giant came beside him and sighed too. Then without warning, his childish expression changed, replaced by a snarl.
“My name is Yama-Utu,” he said to the Asēkhas in a rumbling voice, “and I have chosen to join you. Take me where you will . . . but when we encounter Mala, leave him to me. Such evil cannot be permitted to thrive inside my brother’s doomed body.”
By now, all the Asēkhas had gathered around, and they bowed in unison.
“We will not thwart you, Yama-Utu,” Kusala said. “In fact, we will gladly risk our lives for you and your quest. Consider us your friends.”
“My friends cower in Okkanti, obsessed with chants, prayers, and words of wisdom,” Utu said. “But I no longer care what they think of me or my desires. Mala will die . . . at my hands. Do not doubt it.”
Before continuing their journey southward, the Asēkhas went to each wagon and destroyed all the barrels. Utu joined in, smashing them as easily as watermelons. Kusala warned the giant to not let any of the infected water splash into his mouth.
“The Asēkhas and I cannot be harmed by the undines,” he said to Utu. “But of you, I am not certain.”
“I too am beyond such things,” the giant said, matter-of-factly.
After that deed was done, Kusala ordered the rest of the freed slaves to come ashore and help with the cleanup. The wagons were pushed together and set aflame, along with the remnants of the barrels. The corpses of the witches were also thrown into the fire, in case they were somehow capable of magically reviving their bodies. The dead wolves, Mogols, and golden soldiers were left to rot, though the freed slaves took as many weapons as they could carry.
By the time they were finished, it was the middle of the night, and Kusala was worried that more of the enemy—attracted by the fire—would soon arrive. As quickly as possible they returned to the galleys, including Utu, who continued to transform randomly between his naive and angry personas. His naive personality claimed never to have been on a boat, but he seemed to enjoy the feel of it and enthusiastically offered to wield an oar. But he pulled with too much power, making it difficult to keep the narrow-hulled ship from going in circles. The oarsmen on the port side eventually complained, and Kusala finally asked Utu to stop. The giant’s naive personality took offense. But when the chieftain explained the reason, Utu smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t spent much time around little people, and I didn’t know how weak they were.”
“Compared to you, a desert elephant is weak,” Tāseti said.
Utu seemed pleased. “I am strong, but Deva was the strongest of all—and the bravest. That’s why it’s so strange to me that he is lost. How could that be?”
Just then, Podhana appeared on deck.
“There is enough food to last several days,” the Asēkha warrior reported to Kusala. “We’re preparing a vat of vegetable soup. We also found a few crates of salt pork.”
Kusala nodded. “That’s good to hear. All this fighting has made me hungry. How about you, Utu? Do you eat soup?”
“The vegetable soup sounds tasty,” Utu said. “But snow giants do not eat ‘salt pork’ or any other kinds of flesh.”
“You would get along well with the noble ones of Dibbu-Loka,” Tāseti said. “They eat only vegetables—not even fish.”
“Fish? I love to watch them swim in the crystal waters of a mountain lake, but I would never tear one apart and chew on its flesh. Do you really eat them? Poor little fish.”
“We ‘little people’ do a lot of things you might not understand,” Tāseti said. “That doesn’t make it right. It’s just the way it is.”
“Poor little fish,” Utu repeated.
But when Podhana and his kitchen crew—which included the Senasanan countess—served the meal, Utu strode forward, grabbed enough salt pork to feed a dozen people, and devoured it in several angry bites. Grease dripped from the points of his fangs and the corners of his mouth.
“You’re right,” he said. “Fighting makes you hungry.”
Kusala shuddered.
&nb
sp; During the journey down the western shore of Lake Ti-ratana, the galleys encountered no opposition. The next morning dawned clear and warm, and they soon passed close to another community of kabangs. The boat people remained hidden from view. The sudden appearance of the larger crafts had frightened them. To everyone’s surprise, Kusala removed his black jacket and boots, dove into the water, and swam over to the kabangs. He returned with several boat people, who greeted the Asēkhas and freed slaves enthusiastically, giggling like over-excited children. When they saw Utu, they dropped to their hands and knees at his feet, as if in the presence of a god.
“Don’t bow to me,” said Utu, his angry personality taking over. “I’m a killer, like the rest of you. Get away from me.”
The boat people were terrified and leapt into the water, disappearing into Ti-ratana’s dark depths.
“That was a little harsh, even for you,” Churikā said to the snow giant.
“Do you challenge me?” said Utu, eyes aglow.
This time it was Kusala’s turn to become angry. “If we are to become your enemies, let it be known now. You are great, but we are not helpless. Do you challenge us?”
In response, the naive Utu returned, the change of tone and facial expression becoming apparent to all. “I would never hurt you or your friends. I am a peaceful creature. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Tell that to them,” Churikā said, motioning toward the kabangs.
“Of course,” Utu said cheerfully, and then he dove into the lake, rocking the galley. The Asēkhas peered over the bulwark distrustfully, some even preparing their slings. A long moment passed without any sign of the snow giant, then he burst from the water like a breaching whale, tossing a pair of boat people more than twenty cubits into the air. They somersaulted gleefully and screamed in delight before gracefully piercing the surface. Soon more than a dozen—each about the size of one of Utu’s hands—were clambering onto his shoulders, begging to be thrown. It was delightful to watch.
