by Melvin, Jim
Rati had always taken pride in his ability to use a minimum of movement to slay his enemies. Kusala often teased him about this, calling it “Rati’s Obsession,” but he had ignored the frequent chides. Besides, he was still humiliated that a Mogol had managed to hit him with a war club during the skirmish with Mala’s army. He actually bore a tiny welt on the back of his head. It was the first time in more than a century that an enemy had struck him solidly.
The villagers thanked him profusely, offering food, shelter, and even the use of some of their women if he would remain with them. Rati politely declined, but he did trade the horse he was on for their finest stallion, along with a sack of dried sardines and a round loaf of bread. As he was leaving, many cast themselves on the ground and wept.
From his perch on the boulder, Rati now was little more than a league north of Senasana. Without regard for the eclipse, the Ogha River roared beneath him, its frothy rapids more powerful than an avalanche. Rati, however, did not share the river’s disdain, staring with fascination as a shadow consumed the moon.
He had arrived in late afternoon, set the stallion free, and then scouted the riverbanks as far as the northern outskirts of the city before turning back and returning to this spot. He had seen nothing unusual, and he could not deny that he was annoyed. Rati, above all others save Tāseti, loved to fight, and yet it appeared he had been sent to a place where fighting was unlikely.
Podhana should have gone in his place; he was more of a loner and would have enjoyed wandering about in such peaceful darkness. Besides, it wasn’t as if Rati or any single person could patrol enough of the river to prevent someone from dumping something into it. All twenty Asēkhas combined could easily fail in such a task.
This part of the river narrowed considerably, forcing its angry waters past a slew of gray-green rocks, some stabbing above the water’s surface like accusing fingers, others partially obscured by the froth. Directly beneath Rati was a chute that flowed between two immense boulders. Just beyond the chute was a whirlpool. And several hundred paces beyond the whirlpool was an eddy, one of the few places of safety in the broiling uproar.
Even while in a state of contemplation, the senses of an Asēkha were unrivaled. Above the droning of the rapids, few would have heard the subtle creak of the wagon wheel. But Rati instantly fell into a crouch and slid off the boulder, working his way up the western bank like a shadow cast from a gliding bird. About a quarter-mile north, he came upon the wagons, five in all, stopped a dozen paces from the opposite bank. The wagons had been driven to the water’s edge through a small gap between rocks and trees: a perfect place to dump something into the river, if that was your goal.
Rati scolded himself for not discovering it before.
At this point, the river was wider—perhaps fifty cubits—and slightly calmer than some of the more dangerous areas, but it still would be difficult, even for him, to traverse the wicked currents. He needed to find an easier place to cross, but first he crouched in a pool of shadows and observed the enemy. Though the wagons were shrouded in darkness, he identified at least twenty Mogol warriors and five Warlish witches, each flanked by a hag servant. And to make matters worse, objects in the beds of the wagons resembled barrels.
Rati knew five witches could outmatch even an Asēkha, but it was his assignment to try—and try he would. He scampered a hundred paces farther upriver until he came upon another chute about thirty cubits broad. In the center of the chute, a single spear-shaped stone, just a span in diameter, protruded above the surface. Without hesitation, he scrambled onto the top of a boulder and flung himself over the river. He landed on the stone with one foot and propelled himself to the far bank. Just as quickly, he raced back to the wagons, hoping he wasn’t too late.
When he arrived, a pair of Mogols already was lugging a barrel toward the water’s edge. The witches stood ankle deep in the tumult, holding tall staffs and singing in their eerie fashion. Almost too quick for the eye to follow, Rati cracked the barrel into pieces with a single stroke of his uttara. With two more strokes, he beheaded both of the Mogols.
His sudden intrusion stunned the witches, whose slow reaction bought Rati enough time to wreak more havoc. He raced past the Mogols, pounced into the bed of the nearest wagon, and destroyed five barrels with two strokes. Inwardly, this efficiency pleased him, but he allowed himself only a fraction of a second to enjoy it. There was more work to be done.
An arrow struck him between his shoulder blades and bounced off his dense flesh, the shaft snapping and falling away. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, Rati leapt into the second wagon, this time using three strokes to destroy six barrels.
Though only a few moments had passed since his arrival, the Mogols were now gathering around the remaining three wagons, their war clubs ready. Rati was not overly concerned about the savages’ ability to thwart him. The witches, however, were another matter. They faced him, full of fiery rage, and concentrated their energies. Tendrils of crimson flame danced on the head of each staff, rising into the air and coalescing into a single beam as powerful as a bolt of lightning and pounding Rati squarely in the chest, throwing him a dozen paces backward.
The hag servants fell upon him.
23
TWO DAYS AFTER Rati’s battle with the witches, the greatest ground army ever assembled began its ponderous march from the Golden City to Nissaya, announced by drums as large and clamorous as Tugarian Bheris. Hundreds of thousands of civilians cheered from the streets of Avici, but only Invictus and a few servants were permitted outside the southern gates.
Invictus stood on a golden platform erected on the steep eastern shore of the Ogha River while the army marched beneath the bridge on the opposite shore along a cobbled road that eventually led to Iddhi-Pada.
Mala, of course, was at the head of the procession. Thanks to Invictus, the ruined snow giant was fully healed from his encounter with Bhayatupa, and he now rode on the back of a massive elephant. The beast, which wore a thick iron collar at the base of its neck to protect its flesh from the searing heat of Mala’s chain, stood fifteen cubits at the shoulders and weighed more than fifteen hundred stones. Still, the Chain Man looked overly large for the elephant to carry a long distance. In fact, this ride was only for show. In a league or so, the general would dismount, feed his elephant to the Kojins, and walk the rest of the way.
“My liege,” shouted Mala, his booming voice heard for more than a league. “I beg your permission to lead your army into battle.”
“It is your army, General Mala,” Invictus said, his voice equally pervasive. “Lead it where you will.”
“We march on Nissaya, my liege. And after we topple the fortress, Jivita will follow.”
“Go forth and make me proud. But wait one moment. I have a gift for you.”
Invictus stepped off the platform and floated slowly to the ground, his golden robes flowing like wings. A dozen newborn servants rushed to him, carrying a special weapon made by Invictus’ own hands: a golden trident three times as long as he was tall and weighing twenty stones. Despite its size, Invictus lifted the trident with ease and strolled to the river’s edge, halting just a step from its hungry currents.
“When I was a young boy, I nearly drowned at this very spot. At least, that is what I have been told, for I remember it not. The concept of my dying seems rather absurd now.”
Then he strode forward, as if to complete the act he had barely avoided a century before. But instead of being swallowed by the uproar, he stepped lightly onto the surface of the water and walked across unharmed. If Mala was amazed, he didn’t show it. Invictus came to the foot of the elephant and handed his general the magical trident.
“I have named it Vikubbati. You know what it is for,” Invictus said, before returning to his platform on the far bank.
On cue, a cave troll thundered toward Mala, bearing a massive war horn made from the hollow leg bone of a long-dead dragon. The ruined snow giant took the horn, put it to his lips, and blew a single blast
that was heard as far north as Kamupadana and as far south as the borders of Java. In response, the elephant sprang forward on its columnar legs. The drums began anew, and the army of Avici started its slow march.
Behind Mala came representatives from the various races, each carrying the banner of Avici: a yellow sun outlined in red on a white field. The human-sized creatures were mounted on golden destriers. These included a newborn soldier named Augustus, who had replaced the traitor Lucius as Mala’s second in command; a pirate from Duccarita named Maynard Tew who had provided Kilesa with a steady supply of Daasa slaves; a Warlish witch named Wyvern-Abhinno who represented her kind in the stead of Queen Jākita; a Stone-Eater named Bunjako who was the eldest son of Gulah; a vampire named Broosha who was a daughter of Urbana; a Pabbajja named Gruugash who was the chief overlord of the homeless people; a Porisādan chieftain named Tohono who rode a black mountain wolf; a demon named Uraga who chose to be incarnated as a man with the head of a boar; a wild man named Wooser who had come from the foothills of Kolankold; a ghoul named Angont who was large for his kind and especially odiferous; and an ogre named Hrolma who had successfully begged forgiveness for the rude behavior of the now-deceased Olog.
Several other beasts, too large to ride a horse, strode alongside the mounted creatures: a cave troll named Orkney who could tolerate sunlight because of the magic of Invictus; a Kojin named Harīti who was rumored to be infatuated with Mala; a druid named Druggen-Boggle who was one of the few of his kind possessing a will of its own; and a dracool named Arula who had been a longtime rival of the traitor Izumo.
Five thousand golden soldiers were next to appear, the first of thirty-two legions. The newborns marched ten abreast in cohorts of one thousand each, their golden helms and rectangular shields glistening in the morning light. Included in each legion were two hundred horsemen. Drummers and trumpeters announced their approach.
Invictus waved at them and smiled. He was so proud. Each one of the newborns had been magically bred from a single drop of his own blood—with the help of the Daasa, of course. And Invictus knew exactly what role they would play in the siege of Nissaya. How interesting.
After that came one hundred cave trolls hauling supply wagons as large as houses. Five thousand Mogols mounted on black wolves followed. Among all of Invictus’ allies, none had been more loyal than the savages from Mahaggata. Invictus loved them and waved enthusiastically.
Five more legions of infantry came after the Mogols, along with more supply wagons hauled by oxen and asses. After that came ten thousand druids, five thousand wild men, and five thousand Pabbajja. From then on, the rest of the golden soldiers—one hundred and sixty thousand strong—were interspersed with several hundred pirates from Duccarita, one hundred Stone-Eaters, one hundred Warlish witches accompanied by one thousand hags, and one thousand each of demons, ghouls, ogres, and vampires. Three more Kojins also joined them, along with a variety of nameless monsters, some of which had to be kept in cages to prevent them from attacking the lesser among them.
All told, two hundred thousand marched toward Nissaya, stretching five leagues from front to back. Though Mala had left Avici long before noon, it was almost midnight before the tail of the great army exited the southern gates. The last in line was a pair of three-headed giants, each thirty cubits tall and bearing iron hammers as heavy as trees. By then, Invictus wasn’t there to witness their passing, having long since retired to his chambers in the bowels of Uccheda. But he knew they would be there, because he had planned the entire thing.
Fewer than ten thousand of Mala’s army remained to protect Avici, but Invictus wasn’t concerned. If anyone dared attack his city while the Chain Man was elsewhere, it wouldn’t matter. After all, the army was just a plaything. He didn’t really need it to accomplish his purposes. But it made things more fun—and kept Mala entertained, as well.
A lot was happening that held his interest. He so enjoyed not being bored.
24
TWO DAYS AFTER Mala’s army departed Avici, Jākita-Abhinno landed on the pinnacle of Uccheda aboard a dracool. Jākita, queen of the Warlish witches, was surprised to find the rooftop of the tower unguarded, as if the sorcerer feared nothing.
“Would a grown man wielding a longsword fear children armed with goose feathers?” the dracool asked her.
Jākita felt unnerved in the bright sunlight, wondering if she had made a mistake in daring to approach the king. “What do weeee do now?”
“Wait,” the dracool responded coolly.
Eventually, a small portal hissed open, and Invictus strode onto the rooftop, wearing yellow robes that matched the color of his shoulder-length hair. His eyes were brown spheres floating in a sea of disturbingly flawless white. Though he made no threatening gestures, Jākita found herself backing away from the sorcerer and unexpectedly transforming into her hideous state.
“Do not fear,” the sorcerer said, in a tone that sounded boyish and amused. “I have not come to harm you, Jākita-Abhinno. But I am curious as to your motives. Come with me to my bedchambers, and we will discuss them.”
When she entered his room near the top of the tower, Jākita willed herself to change back to her beautiful persona. Instantly her scent filled the room with intoxicating perfumes. She assumed the sorcerer would want to have sex with her, and she started to disrobe, but Invictus only smirked.
“Do not flatter yourself,” he said, licking his lips with his thick red tongue. “Warlish whores have never been my type. But it might be that we both can profit from a partnership. At least, I am willing to listen. What have you to offer, other than your body?”
“I have the ability to deliver your ssssister to you . . . unharmed.”
“Why should I believe that you possess this ability, when others, far greater than you, do not?”
“Of all your loyal sssservants, only I have been with Vedana when she spied on Laylah and The Torgon. Only I know where they have been and where they are going. Even youuuu, my king, have been blinded. Your grandmother told me herself that she has cast a veil over your eyessss to discourage you from following their movements.”
Jākita could not gauge the sorcerer’s reaction. He stared at her with a blank expression for what seemed like a very long time. When he finally responded, the room grew wickedly warm, causing the witch’s sweet-smelling armpits to become drenched with sweat.
“It is true that I have had difficulty in locating her. And I am unaccustomed to difficulty.”
“My liege, pleasssse do not punish me for my bold words. I meant no offense. I come to you for one reason only. The wizard is the sworn enemy of my coven, and it is my utmost desire to destroy him. I need but one thing from youuuu: protection from Vedana. If she finds out that I plan to betray her, she will vanquish me. Only you have the power to prevent her. Will you shield me from the vengeance of the demon?”
Invictus laughed loudly—and then seemed to converse with himself.
“Grandmother, grandmother . . . do you inspire so much fear? Aaaah . . . but you are a treasure. I must admit that I miss your company . . .” Then he gazed into Jākita’s eyes. “I can accommodate your request. But first, tell me your plan.”
As she spoke, the sorcerer’s smile widened.
After the witch departed, Invictus remained in his upper bedchamber near the top of the tower, sealing the door with a demonic spell that was simple in design but invincible because of the strength of his magic. Mala himself could not have pounded his way inside.
Invictus sauntered to the far side of the room, approaching a folding screen with an obsidian frame and golden silk panels that was carefully arranged to conceal one of his prized possessions. He stepped behind the screen and approached his toy: a basin of yellow glass balanced on a pedestal of white crystal.
He leaned over the basin, which was filled with a thick liquid that captured his reflection like polished silver. He smiled at himself, unendingly proud of his boyish handsomeness and yellow hair.
All people shoul
d look like me. And one day, all people will.
Waving his hand over the basin, his fingertips exuded a yellow glow that caused the liquid to erupt with color. His experimentations with scrying were relatively new—at least when compared to Vedana’s. His first attempts occurred when he was a teenager searching for Laylah after the death of their parents. By then his relationship with his grandmother had—how would you describe it?—soured. Invictus had come to discover, in ever more frustrating fashion, that scrying was one of the few dark arts he could not easily master, requiring a delicacy that eluded him. If he used sheer power to force the liquid to reveal its visions, it steamed up and evaporated. But when he tried to be gentler, the visions often became too hazy to decipher.
Over the decades his proficiency had improved, at least enough to make it useful. He could see to the far corners of the land, peeking into bedrooms and spying on private affairs, from kings to peasants, saints to monsters. All brought him a perverted sort of pleasure. But all eventually bored him.
Almost everything became boring—even the approach of the war that so tantalized Mala, though Invictus found it amusing that the Tugars, Nissayans, and Jivitans believed they had any real chance of defeating him. Mala’s army was greater than they realized, containing hidden surprises that not even the quick-witted Death-Knower had foreseen. But even if they somehow conquered the army, what did it matter? Invictus was a thousand times more powerful than all of them combined. He could destroy everyone with a sweep of his hand. For these reasons, he preferred to remain in Uccheda and work behind the scenes. It would be too easy—too boring—to force himself on his enemies, unless it reached a point where he would have no other choice.
