by Melvin, Jim
Whatever stood at the front of the wagon emanated a cloud of noxious gas. The creature who led this army was a demon, incarnated into the physical world. Was it Vedana? No, her scent was different.
And then he recognized his adversary. The demon’s name was Pisaaca, second in rank and power only to Vedana among their undead kind. She appeared in the Realm of Life as a grotesque beast with the head and body of a woman, but with bat-like wings protruding from her back. Though Torg knew her to be human-sized, she now chose to be twenty cubits tall, twice the height of a snow giant, and she held a magical whip as long as a dragon, slinging it this way and that so fast that the very air crackled.
The trolls dragged the enormous wagon forward with great effort, but it was not only the demon’s weight that caused their exertion. The bed contained something else, but Pisaaca’s bulky frame blocked Torg’s view.
The sun loomed directly overhead, intensifying the unseasonable heat. A mounted wolf trotted past Torg only a few paces away, but paid him no heed. Though the Duccaritan clothes he wore did not blend well with his surroundings, his stillness of mind made him virtually invisible.
Engulfed in a haze of dust, the soldiers who trailed behind the wagon continued to act crazily, jumping, waving their arms, knocking into each other, even fighting among themselves. And they seemed to be wearing no armor or uniforms of any kind. It was as if the sorcerer had called a mishmash of drunken villagers to duty. And still they came.
Finally Torg could see the side of the wagon. Its bed was jammed with at least fifty people, well-dressed but otherwise normal in appearance—equal numbers of men, women, and children chained together at the ankles, some screaming, some sobbing, some silent and pale.
Torg gasped.
The people in the wagon were bait.
Or an even better description: food.
And the army that followed was an abomination. Ordinary villagers had been infected with undines, creatures of the demon world that entered living flesh and multiplied until the mind and body were ruined. Torg saw at least ten thousand of the cannibalistic fiends. Obviously his efforts to destroy the undines in the ziggurat had been in vain. The witches had succeeded in summoning more, either from Kamupadana or elsewhere. And now these mindless monsters were on the prowl, stumbling behind the wagon in a state of bloodthirstiness.
But the fiends were frenetic and disorganized, moving too slowly to overtake the wagon. Instead, they remained a few paces behind, growling, slavering, howling. It was horrifying to watch, and he could only imagine the terror the chained prisoners were experiencing. Who were they, he wondered? Elite citizens of Avici who had somehow fallen into disfavor? And how long had they been forced to endure this level of torment? Surely not all the way from the Golden City. Torg could think of no way to rescue them. If he were to set them free, either the fiends or Mogols would kill them.
How and where this army had been assembled was a mystery, but not the why. Invictus had sent it to hunt down Laylah and kill all of those with her. Pisaaca must have been included to make sure Laylah wasn’t harmed in the melee.
But something still didn’t make sense. It would be relatively easy for Torg, Laylah, and their companions to outrun the fiends—all the way to Jivita. Surely Invictus—or whoever had planned this attack—knew this.
Torg was missing something.
The next instant, he was up and running, killing several wolves and Mogols who strayed too near. Otherwise, the enemy did not see him. He sprinted as fast as he ever had in his life, breath blasting from his lungs. Rathburt had been right, after all. This was no time for gallivanting. What had he been thinking? Or what thoughts had been forced upon him?
Laylah and his friends were in danger.
And it was his fault.
33
LAYLAH GRASPED Obhasa in both hands and waited. Countless foes, seemingly driven by an immense will, surged out of the deep woods. She heard Rathburt moaning, Ugga growling, Lucius shouting commands, but those sounds were secondary to the intensity of the humming.
The druids came in droves, clattering forward like walking trees, their long fingers snapping, their eyes red with rage. There were more than Laylah could count, and it appeared obvious that she and the Daasa were outnumbered. But she was not afraid. She cried out in anger and then strode to meet them.
Instantly the Daasa reacted to her call, transforming into monstrous killing machines. They attacked the druid surge head-on, tearing into them with their own kind of rage.
Without hesitation, Ugga rumbled forward heedlessly, swinging his axe like a scythe. Bard cast his spear into the fray, then loosed every arrow in his quiver. Lucius stabbed a druid with his uttara and then battered another to pieces with his war club. Though less than a third their height, Elu wounded several with his Tugarian dagger. Even Rathburt got into the act, spewing blue fire from his staff with surprising effectiveness.
But to Laylah’s dismay, she soon discovered that the druids were not alone. The enemy separated, creating a path for a Warlish witch, who appeared in her attractive persona. She was more beautiful than any witch Laylah had ever seen, even the legendary Chal. Her flesh glowed like gold, causing the dead leaves at her feet to crinkle and burst into tiny flames. And a woman Laylah recognized as her longtime nemesis, the vampire Urbana, followed.
As the witch approached, the druids froze.
The Daasa also halted, but not for the same reason. Their noses raised upward, as if sniffing something in the air. Without explanation, they shifted their bloated bodies and stampeded eastward. Lucius shouted for them to stop, but for the first time they paid him no heed. Laylah believed they were abandoning her and the others out of fear of the druids, but then she heard the ferocity of their growls and realized they weren’t fleeing at all. Instead, they were hunting something that enraged them even more than the druids, leaving Laylah, Lucius, and the others to face a Warlish witch, a vampire, and an army of druids alone.
The witch strolled within a pace of Laylah. She wore golden robes that matched her skin. “I am Jākita-Abhinno, queen of the Warlish witches, and I have come to take you prisoner, ssssister of the king.”
Lucius and the others, including Rathburt, gathered around the sorceress to protect her, but Laylah waved them off. “We cannot prevail by fighting. Not now,” she said to her loyal companions. Then she turned to the witch. “I imagine you have come for me and care little for these others?”
“Sssso true,” said Jākita, her smile remarkably lovely. “If you return with ussss without resistance, I will allow your friendssss to live.”
Urbana interrupted in characteristically obnoxious fashion. “Why should we do that? Now that the Daasa are gone, we have no need to bargain. Let’s kill them all—especially the traitorous firstborn—and then take her back with us, screaming and kicking. That would be so much more fun.”
“We might die,” Lucius said to the vampire, waving the uttara menacingly. “But you most certainly would.”
Urbana hissed, but Jākita only laughed. Then she raised her hand, and a yellow glob of molten fire leapt from her palm and incinerated the uttara’s blade.
Lucius staggered back and dropped the blackened handle at his feet.
“For now, these otherssss are not our concern,” Jākita said matter-of-factly, as if her display of power was beyond question. “Death will come to them all, whether now or later. All who oppose King Invictus will eventually perish or become his slavessss.” She smiled at Laylah. “What say you, ssssister of the king? Your life for theirs? Or would you prefer I turn Urbana and the druidssss loose? As you have heard, they would relish an opportunity for slaughter.”
“How can I know you’ll be true to your word?”
“If you fight ussss, you might be hurt or killed,” the witch said, her long auburn hair swirling, as if electrified. “That would not please your brother.”
Lucius stepped between the sorceress and the witch, his hand still shaking from the blow of Jākita’s power
. “None of us will abandon you to these monsters, as long as we’re able to stand.”
The others nodded vigorously, but Jākita threw back her head and laughed. “Let me ssssee: a newborn freak, a pirate whore, a failed wizard, a dimwit crossssbreed, an overgrown boy, and an under-grown man against thirty thousand druidssss.”
“We will die, but ya and the ug-gly beastie woman will die too,” said Ugga, in a tone of voice that caused even Laylah to shiver.
Jākita, however, was not impressed. “None of youuuu, save the sorceress herself, is capable of harming me. But enough talk. What say you, Laaaaylah? Your cooperation will buy your friendssss their lives.”
Laylah turned to her companions, her face resigned. “We are outmatched,” she said, prompting all six of them to protest. “Listen to me . . . we are outmatched. And all of you know it. I must accept her offer. It is your only chance—my only chance. The rest of you must follow the Daasa and see if you can win them back.”
To her surprise, Rathburt was the next to speak. “Do not fear, my lady. Though the battle appears lost, you will not be forsaken.”
“Aaaah, Rathburt. I’m so sorry now for my harsh words.”
“If you all don’t stop it, I’m going to bawl like a baby,” Urbana said. Then she turned to the witch. “Enough talk, Jākita. Let’s take her and be done with it. I’m sick of this rabble.”
Laylah looked into her friends’ eyes, one at a time. “Do as I say . . . please. Do not fight. Leave now. Run.” She started to hand Obhasa to Rathburt, but Urbana leapt up and yanked the staff from her hands.
“Give me that, you horrid little bitch. Do you mistake us for fools?”
Even as she wrapped her ugly fingers around the shaft, Obhasa crackled with explosive blue-green power. The vampire screamed and cast the staff to the ground, the palm of her hand charred and smoking.
Jākita laughed again. “Leave it,” she said to the vampire. “Like its masssster, it cannot be tamed. Come, Laaaaylah. Honor your bargain, and I will honor mine.”
The druids rushed forward, encircling the three women. Lucius and the others were shoved back and knocked to the ground. For several moments, the druids hovered over them, glaring with fiery eyes. Then they retreated, like a wave receding from shore. When the forest again was empty, Laylah was gone.
34
TORG’S VASI master used to say, “History repeats itself.”
As Torg ran across the plain, he saw the truth in those words. For the second time in his long life, a druid queen’s diversion had fooled him. The first time was during a war long ago with the Stone-Eater Slag. This, the second time, might cost him Laylah and everything else that mattered.
Eight centuries before, Bhojja the great mare had aided him, carrying him to the lair of the druid queen. Now he again heard the thundering of hooves. When he stopped and turned, she was there beside him, her jade coat glistening.
“I know you, in all your forms,” Torg said, “and I dared to believe you still lived.”
The mare pranced forward, her green eyes full of adoration. She flung her huge head from side to side, whinnying excitedly, and then bent down her neck, inviting him to mount.
Torg leapt aboard.
Without further encouragement, Bhojja galloped as fast as the wind, her hooves sparking on the grass.
Soon, they came upon the Daasa. All ten thousand were stampeding eastward, making a sound that resembled thunder. Bhojja stopped and allowed them to surge past her, some passing within a finger-length of her muscular barrel. At first Torg was confused, but then he understood. They were things of rage drawn by rage. And the druids, or whoever led them, knew they could bend the Daasa’s will in this direction.
Torg urged Bhojja forward, but she resisted. Then to his surprise, she veered around and followed the Daasa.
“Wait! Wait!” Torg shouted. “I care naught for these beasts. Take me to Laylah. Only she matters. Only she.”
Bhojja would not stop.
When Torg tried to leap off, a strange gravity pinned him to her back. For a moment he grew wild with frustration, drawing the Silver Sword from its scabbard as if to pierce her. But then he heard growls and screams and looked up to see the Daasa crashing into the fiends, tearing and rending in a rage unlike any he had ever witnessed. At first it appeared the Daasa would destroy the enemy with ease, but then the demon joined the fray, cracking her whip in a series of blurring snaps, each one striking a single Daasa and blowing it to pieces.
In the brief moment it took Bhojja to reach the demon, Pisaaca had killed more than a hundred. It was possible the demon could kill them all, if given enough time. But Torg saw Bhojja’s mind and realized he still had a duty to perform before he could attempt to rescue Laylah.
All around the wagon, fighting and bedlam reigned. The Daasa battled both the fiends and the mounted wolves, winning with relative ease. But they were no match for Pisaaca, who rained death upon them as she wailed.
The winged demon was so preoccupied with killing, she seemed not to notice when Torg stood on Bhojja’s back and leapt onto the seat of the wagon. This incarnation of Pisaaca was more than four times his height, the top of his head barely reaching her knee, but her immense size was more illusion than grandeur. If the demon had known who stood beneath her and what weapon he wielded, she would have fled back to the Realm of Undeath. But now it was too late to escape.
Torg drove the Silver Sword into the meat of Pisaaca’s thigh, twisting it and tearing it out sideways with such force that he almost severed the leg.
The demon screamed—loud enough to be heard leagues away—and then collapsed on her wounded leg and tumbled off the wagon.
Torg leapt after her, landing feet-first on her chest and slashing at her throat—once, twice, three times, until her head fell away. Crimson flames and a putrid cloud of fumes burst from the base of the demon’s neck, and she ceased to exist, both in this realm and her own.
Fleeing the deadly smoke, the trolls dropped the wagon tongues, but they managed only a few strides before the Daasa engulfed and mangled them.
With the threat of the demon removed, the Daasa had their way with the enemy. Like Torg, they were immune to the undines. The fiends were mindlessly vicious, but they lacked the Daasa’s size and strength. Recognizing they were outmatched, the wolves and Mogols fled, riding northward toward the nearest ridge of mountains.
Bhojja came up and urged Torg to mount, but there was still one last thing for him to do. He climbed back into the wagon and freed the captives, hacking apart their metal chains. Afterward, they stared at him with pleading eyes.
“I know naught who you are or where you are from, but I cannot remain with you,” Torg said. “You must find your own way. There are no safe places left in the world. If I were you, I would go south and search for haven in the mountains.”
One elderly woman dared to challenge him. “You would leave us here with these monsters?” she said, pointing a wrinkled finger at the Daasa. “It would be more merciful if you slew us with your sword.”
“They have no interest in you and will not harm you,” Torg said. “As for mercy, it has become too precious a commodity these days. I cannot afford it.”
Then he leapt onto Bhojja’s back and headed west in a rush.
JĀKITA AND URBANA each grabbed one of Laylah’s arms and dragged her toward the trees. The druids closed around them, forming an impenetrable wall, and then moved off with surprising speed. Whether her companions were spared or harmed, Laylah could not tell. The druids were almost twice her height, blocking her vision of everything but the ground at her feet and the uppermost portions of the trees. The volume of their humming dazed her senses.
They marched for more than a league before the trees thickened considerably. Though it still was early afternoon on a sunny day, it became as dark as dusk in the forest, its canopy closing above them like a thatched roof. Laylah did not recognize these trees, though it seemed obvious they were some form of evergreen because of their st
raight trunks and sharp scent. They reminded her of pines or spruce, but they were many times taller and broader than any she had seen before, and their skin-like bark was as dark as kohl. A spongy layer of fallen needles covered the ground, choking off plant life other than a few odd-looking ferns and some clumps of moss that glowed as if phosphorescent. Brown deer mice scampered near her feet, their pointed noses twitching. Nutcrackers and crossbills flew in startled bursts just overhead. Black-furred squirrels leapt from branch to branch.
Somehow the massive army of druids managed to pass by without damaging the surroundings. As ugly and evil as they were, Laylah sensed that they treasured this forest and anointed themselves its keepers.
One time she stumbled over a fallen branch and nearly fell.
“Keep your feet, your horrid little bitch,” Urbana said, digging clawed fingers into the flesh of Laylah’s arm. “There’s a long way to go. If you don’t keep up, I’ll kick your curvy ass all the way there.”
“I musssst say, Urbana, you have a way with words,” Jākita said. “Don’t you agree, ssssister of the king?”
“Except for my brother and his servant Mala, she is the most hideous creature in the world,” Laylah said, glaring at Urbana. “No matter what else occurs, you will not survive this.”
The ancient vampire hissed, but the Warlish witch remained amused.
“You have spirit, Laaaaylah,” she said. “Perhaps, when all is said and done, you and I will become friendssss.”
