by Melvin, Jim
Finally he lay down beneath the blessed shade of some strange-looking trees and sobbed. That is where the Pabbajja found him. The homeless people seemed to rise from the ground, as if hitherto they had been part of the gray grass. Soon hundreds of them surrounded Utu, staring with wriggly eyes that protruded half a finger-length from their sockets.
Utu leaped up and towered over the Pabbajja, but when he made a pair of fists and prepared to fight, their manner seduced him and caused his arms to fall limply to his sides. Then he sat down, drew his knees to his chest, and permitted the homeless people to press against him.
They touched him in groups of three with small, gnarled fingers that resembled the branches of trees. Each contact sent a dizzying jolt of energy into his sinews. Yama-Utu collapsed onto his back, spreading out his arms and legs in the shape of a giant X. This way many of them could touch him at once, but they always came in divisions of three: a dozen, eighteen, thirty.
The intense flow of psychic energy drew his awareness back to a time long past, when Java was many times its current size, and hundreds of Kojins roamed the Dark Forest. The hideous female ogresses and their smaller male companions were not Java’s only inhabitants. A race of humanlike creatures—each less than three cubits tall—also roamed the dense woods, foraging for nuts, roots, and berries in the dreary darkness of the inner forest. They were highly intelligent, relying on wiliness, rather than strength, to outwit a myriad of predators, including vampires, ghouls, and wolves. They communicated with each other telepathically, sometimes over distances of a league or more. Despite a daily dose of danger, their community thrived. At their height, they had numbered more than one hundred thousand.
But then the Supanna-Sangaamaani (Dragon Wars) began, and the land surrounding Java was turned into a fiery battleground, pitting all manner of man and monster against one another, while the ruling dragons roamed the skies, enjoying the destruction from above.
Though the ogresses and ogres fought hard to protect their precious homeland from the devastating effects of battle, the Dragon Wars took their toll. Trees fell. Fires raged. Java was reduced in size and scope. For the Pabbajja, this was particularly troublesome. With their territory diminished, fewer places remained for them to scavenge and to hide. Their numbers decreased.
In order to survive, the Pabbajja were forced to flee the inner forest and live on its borders. But they paid one final price. Their bodies, unable to tolerate direct sunlight, transformed in terrible ways. Their heads bloated, their eyes protruded from their skulls, and their fingers and toes became bent and twisted. In a genetic attempt to ward off the sun’s damaging rays, they grew thick mats of hair over most of their bodies. The Pabbajja were changed.
However, their minds were unaltered. No madness came upon them, other than an all-encompassing desire to return to the inner forest and resume their previous lives. Over the millennia they waited, biding their time.
That time was now. Invictus had changed the course of the world. The homeless people could not stand against the Sun God, but perhaps they could aid those who might. They even sent thousands of their kind to join the sorcerer’s army, feigning allegiance. But when the opportunity arose to strike a blow against him, they would be ready.
The Pabbajja did not have the strength to fully heal Yama-Utu’s troubled mind, but he now knew that they were not without considerable power. When they revealed to him their plight, Utu regained a portion of his sanity. His desire to destroy Mala—and anyone who stood in his path—remained intact. But his lack of control over the emotions that raged within his mind was temporarily remedied. He sat upright and smiled, exposing long, white fangs.
In response, the Pabbajja sang . . . within his mind. The song was sweet.
THE SUDDEN appearance of the Kojin and the ogres filled Kusala with despair. The gigantic ogress alone was a nearly impossible test for the Asēkhas. As far as he knew, desert warriors had never managed to kill a Kojin in battle. Only a Death-Knower of Torg’s caliber had that kind of strength.
To make matters worse, there were at least ten score ogres, many armed with axes. By themselves, the ogres were no match for the Asēkhas, but while the desert warriors were fending off the Kojin, her smaller male counterparts would be in position to slaughter the freed slaves. It was a difficult situation, to say the least. But Kusala steadied himself and prepared to fight. There was no other choice.
The Kojin signaled the attack with a high-pitched screech and then thundered forward, along with her snarling brood. Several freed slaves panicked and broke from the ranks. They quickly were chased down and hacked to pieces. Kusala, Tāseti, and Churikā encircled the ogress and slashed at her from all sides, their uttaras blazing and sparking with blurring rapidity but causing no noticeable injuries. Each of her six muscled arms was as thick as a tree, yet she somehow was fast and limber.
Churikā was knocked off her feet and momentarily stunned. Podhana took her place, but it was clear they were in trouble. Few creatures that walked the land could kill a Kojin.
Meanwhile, the other Asēkhas met the ogres’ assault. Each desert warrior slew at least five of the enemy within the first moments of their clash, but even that was not enough. The monsters broke past them and attacked the huddled slaves, killing at will. The Asēkhas went into frenzy and drove them back, but by then the Kojin had forced its way past Kusala and was closing in on the others. Soon it would be a slaughter. The Asēkhas would have to flee or perish. And it was not in them to flee, unless their king ordered them to do so.
More ogres sprang from the trees. Gray forest wolves and ghouls also joined the fray. In desperation, Kusala fought past a sea of monsters and leapt onto the Kojin’s shoulders, reaching around and running his dagger along its bulbous neck beneath the jaw line. Where the dagger met flesh, there was a purple explosion that splintered the blade. Though the Kojin was not seriously harmed, Kusala was cast to the ground with such force that he lost his grip on both the ruined dagger and his uttara.
An ogre picked up the precious sword and howled, waving it skyward as if claiming the ultimate booty. Kusala lifted his head and saw the Kojin scoop up Tāseti and hurl her a dozen paces into a mob of ghouls. Then the ogress pounded her fists against her chest and stomped toward the huddled slaves.
Kusala started toward the Kojin again, but a pair of incredibly strong hands held him back. He turned and looked up at Yama-Utu’s face.
“Leave her to me,” the snow giant said. “It will be good practice . . . for later.”
Utu stomped forward, growling menacingly. The Kojin obviously sensed his approach and screeched again. In response, the other fighting halted, all eyes turning to witness the clash of titans. The Kojin was big, but the snow giant was even taller and broader. He struck her with a huge fist. She staggered and fell, smiting the ground.
Quick as a Tyger, Utu pounced upon her and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Purple energy raced up Utu’s arms and exploded in his face, hurling him backward. Temporarily released from his grip, the Kojin tried to stand. But the snow giant was faster than the ogress. He rolled to the side, slipped behind her, and wrapped his arms around her neck in a stranglehold powerful enough to pulverize granite. Her protective purple energy enveloped Utu’s entire body, but despite the obvious agony, he squeezed ever tighter.
While the others watched in stunned silence, the Kojin struggled, quivered, and then breathed her last.
Emboldened by the demise of the ogress, the Asēkhas and freed slaves charged at their assailants, killing recklessly. But they still were many times outnumbered. The death of the Kojin had bought them time, but not victory.
The enemy regrouped and went after them again, snarling and slavering. The Asēkhas did everything possible to protect the freed slaves, but it was difficult against so many. Kusala had broken the back of the ogre who had dared to desecrate his uttara, regaining his sword and then killing fifty of the monsters. But for every one slain, two more seemed to emerge from the forest. Utu ra
n here and there, butchering dozens at a time, but they fled from his wrath and were difficult for him to corral. It was only a matter of time before the freed slaves were overwhelmed.
Kusala felt further despair when several thousand Pabbajja emerged from the darkness, their three-tined spears aglow. But to his amazement, the homeless people joined the fray as allies, not enemies. With their magical tridents enhanced by psychic power, the Pabbajja were a formidable force. Finally, the enemy was outmatched. When the Asēkhas re-joined the fray, the monsters were routed, fleeing back into the forest with the homeless people in pursuit.
For the first time since the battle had begun, Kusala was able to stop and catch his breath.
Tāseti, a little sore but otherwise uninjured, came up to him and patted him on the back. “We have new friends?” she said.
“It appears that way . . . though I am yet to comprehend their motives.”
Churikā joined them. “Chieftain, the heavens have noted our victory. Do you see the moon?”
Kusala looked up—and gasped. The golden orb was partially shrouded in darkness. A full eclipse of the moon was underway. Kusala found himself wondering about Torg and his companions. Where were they, and how did they fare? Then Kusala heard a thump and turned to see Utu beside him.
“I rather like Sister Tathagata, to be honest,” the snow giant said. “But after what I’ve done the past few days, she and her kind seem beyond my comprehension.”
Kusala had to chuckle. “I have been known to utter similar words.” Then he reached up and placed the palm of his hand on Utu’s massive abdomen.
“Twice now you have saved us.”
The snow giant nodded.
“But I have a question for you,” Kusala said.
“Yes?”
“Next time, can you come to our aid a little sooner?”
THOUGH NONE of the Asēkhas were seriously harmed, fewer than thirty freed slaves survived the attack—and many of those were injured, including the countess, who bore a deep gash on her right forearm. If not for the arrival of the Pabbajja, all the slaves would have been slain. The Asēkhas carried the human corpses, some butchered almost beyond recognition, a few hundred paces from where the worst of the battle had occurred. They then built a pyre to burn the dead.
“Tumhe marittha bahuumaanena ca vikkamena. N’atthi uttara pasamsaa (You died with honor and bravery. There is no higher praise),” Kusala said in the ancient tongue, before striking his dagger against a flake of flint and setting the pyre aflame.
Meanwhile, the Pabbajja returned from the forest, their tridents glowing mightily in the darkness made even deeper by the eclipse. One came forward to greet Kusala and Utu. Though his appearance was bizarre, he spoke with eloquence.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bruugash, overlord of this cabal. We have destroyed all remnants of the enemy. Tonight, you are under the protection of the Pabbajja and are in no further danger.”
“I am Kusala, chieftain of the Asēkhas,” he said, bowing. “On behalf of us all, I thank you for your help. But I admit that I’m confused. The Tugars believed you to be allies of Avici.”
“To serve our own purposes, we have feigned an alliance,” said Bruugash, his eyes wriggling as he spoke. “In reality, we will join with anyone who would help us to rid Kala-Vana (Dark Forest) of our enemies. When the time comes, my people will aid you again, though the Kalakhattiyas (black knights) do not love us and often hunt us for sport.”
“The knights of Nissaya are stern and haughty, but they are not evil,” Kusala said. “When we reach the fortress, I will report what I have witnessed to the king. After that, the hunting will stop, as long as you remain true.”
Now it was Bruugash’s turn to bow, bending stiffly at the waist. Then he waddled away and shouted orders to his cabal. Soon several thousand Pabbajja encircled the Asēkhas and surviving freed slaves. Even so, they did not sleep well that night, though it was not fear that disturbed them as much as grief over the fallen.
Kusala spoke long with Utu, listening to the tale of his encounter with the Pabbajja. Afterward, he went off by himself and sat cross-legged, watching the final moments of the eclipse. His mind kept drifting to Torg and his companions. Where are you now, my king? Will you ever return to us? Finally Kusala slept.
The next morning was even hotter than the preceding day. The company, now greatly reduced, began yet another torturous march, its pace frustratingly slow. The Asēkhas took turns supporting the wounded, several of whom had to be carried. Kusala now feared it would take three or even four more days to reach the fortress, unless mounted knights were to find them and provide aid.
The Pabbajja stayed with them, resembling a herd of two-legged sheep. They charmed and amused the freed slaves, who thoroughly enjoyed their companionship. There was something comforting about the homeless people, a radiating calmness that touched even the Asēkhas.
Utu seemed the most affected. Suddenly the snow giant was charming and gregarious, stomping from person to person while shouting encouragement. He also took turns carrying the injured, often taking one on each broad shoulder.
Even so, by nightfall they had managed just six leagues and still were almost twenty leagues from Nissaya. But Iddhi-Pada, the great road that led from Avici to Jivita, was within easy reach. Once there, they were almost certain to encounter assistance. On the west side of the forest, the road still would be safe—though in half a month, Kusala guessed, the army of Invictus would pass this way during its inevitable approach to the fortress.
They rested until midnight before continuing their march. The moon was nearly full, but there was no sign of anything peculiar in its appearance. They stumbled three more leagues, skirting the western border of the forest. The Pabbajja followed tirelessly, their tridents providing as much light as torches. If anyone saw them pass, they dared not reveal themselves.
Kusala felt safe, but frustrated. He needed to meet with King Henepola as soon as possible. Afterward, he would travel by himself to Anna, stopping first at the haven to gather the noble ones, as Torg had ordered, though it galled Kusala to remove himself from the place he would be needed most.
A short time before dawn, while they ate and rested again, Bruugash approached Kusala.
“We must leave you,” the Pabbajja overlord said. “The road is near, and we are not welcome. I know you would attempt to protect us, but the Kalakhattiyas are quick to anger, and I fear some of us might be harmed before you could convince them of our intentions.”
Kusala placed his hand on top of Bruugash’s furry head. “If this war is won and I survive it, I will return to Java myself and help your people regain their homeland. If I do not survive, a chieftain will come in my place. This I pledge to you.”
Bruugash reached up and put his gnarled hand on Kusala’s chest. “If you do such a thing, you will not regret it.”
Then he turned and led the Pabbajja into the woods, where they vanished like ghosts.
18
THE COMPANY reached Iddhi-Pada a short time before noon. Kusala and his companions were still near enough to Java to see where the road dove eastward into the Dark Forest and disappeared into darkness. Westward, the road shined like a beacon of hope in the late-morning light.
If the Pabbajja still watched, they were well-concealed. Just in case, Kusala and the others waved farewell, hoping they would one day meet their new friends again.
Kusala turned and trudged along the road. Though thoroughly exhausted, the company began to make better time. More than fifty paces wide in most places, Iddhi-Pada was a raised, five-cubit-thick layer of sand, packed dirt, and stone blocks that was durable and easy to traverse, whether by foot, wagon, horse, camel, or even elephant.
Initially, they saw no sign of activity, which was not typical even this far east of the fortress. Merchants from Senasana made a fine living trading goods with Nissaya, and they usually were numerous on the road, as were farmers from as far north as Lake Ti-ratana. Even in times of peace, the
black knights patrolled this area frequently, making sure that whatever evils dwelled within the forest remained there. But now it was clear that the fortress had called in its forces. Nissaya’s only hope against the army of Mala was to slam shut its great doors and prepare for siege. Outside their walls, the outnumbered black knights, despite their renowned prowess in battle, stood little chance against the Chain Man’s minions.
Once again, Kusala sent forth Asēkha scouts. The newly effusive Utu volunteered to go with them, but Kusala beseeched him to remain with the company, telling the snow giant that he would be needed if they were attacked. Secretly, Kusala desired to be present when the time finally came to introduce the giant to emissaries from the fortress. In times of war, the black knights could be distrustful and quick tempered—and Kusala was certain that none of them had seen a snow giant, except in drawings stored in Nissaya’s vast library. Kusala wasn’t sure how they would react to Yama-Utu, but he didn’t want them mistaking him for a Kojin—or even worse, Mala himself.
Churikā was the first to return, a flush of red on her darkly tanned cheeks. “Chieftain, large portions of the road have been razed less than a league from where you stand. The stone blocks have been torn from the ground and piled into jagged walls extending a dozen paces or more beyond the sides of the road. Half a mile beyond the first wall is a second one—and a third after that.”
“King Henepola has been keeping his vassals busy, it would seem,” Kusala said. “I saw none of this during my last visit to the fortress less than a month ago. This will buy Nissaya time, though not much more than a few days. The cave trolls and Stone-Eaters will quickly reopen a way.”
