by Melvin, Jim
The witch laughed, but her eyes were full of menace.
“Step aside, ssssilly man,” she hissed, boils erupting on her hideous forehead. “You are no match for me. Put down the sword and ssssit down. When all of thissss is over, I will come for you. Perhaps Invictus will have use in Uccheda for someone with your skills.”
“I would prefer to stand aside. In fact, nothing would please me more. But, alas, I cannot. The Torgon is my friend. And I will not forsake him—now or later, no matter how painful it is for me.”
Incensed, Jākita raised her arms and cast them forward. Blobs of golden light, laced with threads of crimson, leapt from the palms of her hands. Without thinking, Rathburt held up the sword in hopes of deflecting just a portion of the onslaught. To his amazement, the sword absorbed all of the wicked energy, and still its blade was cold.
Jākita howled and rushed forward, her gnarled fingers spread wide to throttle him with her bare hands. Rathburt stepped back and almost tripped over Torg, who remained kneeling with his head down.
Now that Rathburt had dropped his staff in favor of the sword, the druids also converged on him, no longer fearing his blue fire. Rathburt looked down at the staff and concentrated, willing it like a puppeteer to stand on its own and shower the enemy. The druids retreated. Emboldened by his newfound ability, Rathburt turned back to Jākita, who now was just a few paces away.
This time his voice was steady. “If you come any closer, I will pierce your foul heart.”
Despite his new-found confidence, the witch was undeterred. She approached within a span of the point of the blade and stood there, unwavering. Rathburt’s skinny arms trembled from the weight of the sword. Jākita laughed again, then slowly transformed back to her beautiful incarnation. Intoxicating perfumes swirled into Rathburt’s nostrils. She smiled at him with the innocence of a virgin, but her skin, still glowing gold, betrayed her true intentions.
“You would stab me, ssssilly man . . . with that mean old sword? A sweet little thing like me?”
Then she glided even closer to the point, smiling all the while. “Do it, ssssilly man. Give it a try.”
Rathburt’s cowardice finally raised its ugly head. He could barely hold the sword aloft, much less stab the creature. Her radiance caused sweat to burst from his brow and stream down his face, burning his eyes.
“Ssssilly man. No sword can harm me.”
Rathburt looked down at Torg, who remained on his knees, head bowed, as if ashamed. “Torgon, help me . . . tell me what to do.”
But Torg remained silent. Instead, it was a cry from above that shattered Rathburt’s paralysis. Soaked with goo, Laylah stood on top of the druid queen, waving Obhasa over her head like a lasso. Blue energy laced with white strands spat from its rounded head, illuminating the entire chamber. Rathburt could see the bloated body pulsate in response, its folds and curves heaving.
Without further thought, Rathburt took a single step forward and punched the point of the blade between the witch’s breasts.
WHEN OBHASA touched Laylah’s cheek, an explosion of blue and white lifted Elu off his feet and tossed him backward, causing him to roll off the druid queen like a boy tumbling out of control down a steep hill. Urbana also was thrown to the ground, the dagger still jammed in her belly. The searing energy caused the druid queen to spasm, spreading open the folds that had held Laylah in place.
Covered with foul-smelling goo, Laylah struggled to her feet and looked down to see Torg kneeling on the ground beneath her, while Rathburt attempted to fend off the advance of the Warlish witch. The sight filled her with rage, and she waved Obhasa above her head and screamed with all her might. Then she swung the fiery staff down, smiting the bulbous flesh. Kattham let out an inhuman screech. In response, every druid in the chamber swarmed over the queen, forming a protective barrier. Undeterred, Laylah wielded Obhasa like a stave, knocking dozens of druids aside with each swipe. But there were too many. She was overwhelmed and sent tumbling herself. She fell off the queen and hit the ground with a thump, momentarily losing her breath. Suddenly a strong hand lifted her above the tumult. She started to fight, then saw that it was Torg.
“Beloved . . .” she said in the sweet tone reserved only for him.
“My love . . .”
And then: “The danger is not yet past,” he said. “We must flee.”
TORG WAS LOST in his own nightmare world. He had been cast into a raging sea and was fighting with all his strength to remain afloat. Thunderous waves flung him about, threatening to submerge him. A small part of his mind was aware that he was under the druid queen’s spell, but he was powerless to resist. It was all he could do to save himself from drowning, and he was growing weaker by the moment.
When Laylah screamed, the psychic assault dropped from his mind. Under threat from the sorceress and Obhasa, the druid queen became intent on her own survival, withdrawing her will and focusing it instead on her “children,” whom she called in a panic.
In response, the druids swarmed over her in layer upon layer, forming a shield far stronger than armor. Torg shook the dizziness from his head and stood. To one side, he saw Rathburt step forward and punch the point of the Silver Sword between the witch’s breasts. Her golden shield shied from the blade in the same way the flames had parted when Torg had slid it into a fire in the foothills of Asubha. The witch’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“What have you done?” she said to Rathburt, stepping back in bewilderment. She touched her hand to her chest and held it to her face. Blood dripped off her fingertips, sizzling on the dirt at her feet.
Rathburt had not driven the sword deep enough to kill the witch, but now she knew she was dealing with something more dangerous than she had realized, causing her to back away.
Torg reached over and took the sword from Rathburt’s hands. “You’ve done well. I’m proud of you. But now it’s my turn.”
Jākita yelped and started to run, but a wall of druids blocked her and then cast her forward. She tumbled at Torg’s feet and looked up, inadvertently transforming again. The act froze her in place just long enough.
“I’ve told you this before, but your kind never seems to listen,” Torg said. “You are not my match.”
In one swift motion he beheaded her. She died in the same way the demon had died, with flames and smoke bursting from the base of her neck. Then Torg turned just in time to see Laylah tumble off the queen. He forced his way through the druids, wielding his sword like a machete, and then lifted the sorceress to her feet. She was covered with putrid-smelling goo. He was amazed that she still held Obhasa.
38
AT THE SAME time Torg was slaying the witch, Rathburt was scrambling on hands and knees toward his staff, which had remained standing amid the druid horde like a living entity with a mind of its own. A lone druid charged past him and inadvertently kicked him in the ribs, sending him tumbling. But it turned out to be a lucky blow, rolling him right next to the staff.
Rathburt stood and grasped the shaft with both hands, willing more power into the ancient wood. Blue fire exploded from its head, arcing outward. Dozens of druids were consumed, and the rest shied from him. Rathburt strode forward, waving the staff in front of him while scanning every speck of the ground in search of Elu. Finally he saw the Svakaran crumpled in a heap just a few paces from the druid queen’s body, where the stampeding creatures had stomped him into unconsciousness.
“No,” Rathburt cried. “Not you! Not you!”
He rushed to Elu’s side and barely was able to lift him onto one shoulder, the small man’s weight amazing him. Rathburt staggered away from the queen, but it was difficult to manage both Elu and the staff. The druids, sensing weakness, closed in again.
“Torg, Laylah . . . help!”
A blast of blue energy laced with curling white tendrils blew a hundred druids to pieces. Then Laylah and Torg rushed forward. Torg sheathed the sword and took Elu from Rathburt, casting the Svakaran over one shoulder as easily as he would a child.<
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“He’s hurt,” Rathburt said, barely able to hear his own voice above the tumult.
“Follow me,” Torg shouted back. “I can help him, but first we must fight our way free.”
“He’s trying to say something,” Laylah said, leaning close to Elu’s face. “The dagger. He doesn’t want to leave the dagger.”
Rathburt was incensed. “To hell with the dagger!”
But Torg lifted his free hand and spoke words from the ancient tongue. “Kantaara Yodha tam! (A Desert Warrior calls!)”
The air crackled above their heads, and then the dagger leapt into Torg’s palm, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake.
“Come, now! No more delays. We must flee.”
STILL DRIPPING goo from her hair and clothes, Laylah used Obhasa to lead the way, spraying blue-white fire in all directions and slaughtering druids by the score. But Kattham Bhunjaka drove her children forward with her psychic might, ordering them to attack with a madness that overcame any fear. Rathburt protected their rear, his own staff thrumming, as if eager to destroy. Though he still carried Elu on one shoulder, Torg was able to use the Silver Sword to hack apart any druids that came too near, cutting through them like parchment. The four of them managed to squeeze through the opening and into the blinding sunlight of the clearing. It was not yet noon.
Even though they were now outside of the tree, tens of thousands of druids still surrounded them. Laylah was disheartened. How could they possibly escape? Even if they made it to the forest, it would offer little protection. The druids would continue to hound them.
Then the druids suddenly halted their assault and tilted their pointy heads skyward. This puzzled Laylah. Was it another trick? She looked up as well and gasped. High above them all—circling the uppermost branches of the great tree—flew a crimson dragon, glittering in the bright sunlight. The enormous creature dove toward them, and when it neared the ground it spat molten fire from its gaping jaws.
“Bhayatupa comes,” Torg said in a puzzled voice.
“But why?” Laylah said.
“Who cares?” Rathburt shouted. “What are we waiting for? We should make for the river.”
“Rathburt’s right,” Torg said. “Cariya is our only chance.”
Bhayatupa dipped down, soared just over their heads, and burned a wide path. They scrambled through it, stepping over the charred remains. The dragon swept around and flew low again. Laylah looked up and saw a gray-haired woman riding on his neck, cackling with glee.
The four of them made for the forest. A few dozen druids followed close behind, but dragon fire cut off the rest. Bhayatupa continued to pass low along the tree line, creating a blazing wall of flame that the druids could not breach. It didn’t take Torg long to kill the few who had made it past the fire. Suddenly, they were alone in the forest.
The wizard dropped Elu onto a bed of needles. Rathburt knelt beside him.
“Don’t let him die, Torgon. Please . . .”
“I’ll do my best. But I need Obhasa.”
Laylah passed him the ivory staff. The wizard waved it over Elu’s broken body. “Minta . . . Minta . . . Minta,” he whispered tenderly, as a blue-green glow emanated from the rounded head and flowed into the Svakaran’s flesh.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Torg finally said to Rathburt. “Elu is small, but he is stronger even than I realized. When you rebuilt his body, a part of your magic must have remained in his flesh. He has some bruises and some injured ribs, but I believe he will recover.”
Just then, Elu sat upright and shouted: “Aalokadharana.”
Rathburt yelped and fell back onto his buttocks. “Elu! Are you trying to stop my heart?”
The Svakaran remained dazed and said nothing, but Torg smiled.
“What does that mean, beloved?” Laylah asked.
“In the ancient tongue, Aalokadharana means ‘container of light,’” Torg said. “It is a secret Tugarian name for Obhasa.”
The wizard looked down at Elu. “Allow me to carry you a while longer, my friend. We still have a ways before we reach the river, and the druids will eventually find their way around the fire.”
Elu nodded.
39
VEDANA COULDN’T remember the last time she’d had so much fun—probably all the way back to her sexual encounter with the The Torgon in the bowels of Asubha. She was so distracted that she failed to veil her presence from Invictus. Bhayatupa was putting on a great show of power, blasting the druids apart with ridiculous ease. And yet, he was being careful not to slay too many. After all, their goal wasn’t to cause serious harm to the druid army—just to make it look like that’s what they were trying to do. Their real goal was to provide enough distraction to allow Torg, Laylah, and Rathburt to escape. Elu mattered naught.
After the wizards and sorceress made it to the forest, Vedana leapt off the dragon’s neck, transformed into her raven incarnation, and sped across the clearing to the great tree. Once inside, she cawed with delight upon seeing Jākita’s headless corpse lying limp on the floor of the chamber, while the druid queen quivered with fright, her bloated body shrouded by her “children.”
Urbana still lived, but barely. The vampire had suffered a severe wound to the abdomen but had managed to crawl over to the witch’s body, leaving a trail of black blood in her wake. Vedana had half a mind to transform into her grandmotherly persona and give the druid queen a good tongue-lashing for attempting to betray her, but she saw with satisfaction that Kattham Bhunjaka was already suffering enough.
Vedana cawed once more and fled the chamber.
Bhayatupa continued to put on an impressive display, knocking druids over with the downdraft from his wings while fanning the fire just enough to keep the army pinned inside the clearing. She buzzed by the dragon and winked, thinking, “He’s not such an old codger after all.” Then she flew up and over the fire and zoomed down to check on the progress of the sweet lovers and their companions. To her delight they’d already jogged more than a mile, but then she noticed that a swarm of druids—returning in a rush from patrol—was approaching unseen from the south. That wouldn’t do.
Vedana incarnated into a mountain eagle—she’d been practicing this ever since seeing the Faerie do it so well—and swept down upon them, intending to summon an army of efrits to destroy them, even though it would be a dreadful waste of her precious babies. But then she saw other creatures foraging nearby, and a better idea entered her devious mind.
Nine great apes in all: two large males, four females, and three youngsters. The males stood more than nine cubits tall and weighed a ton apiece. The females were about two-thirds that size, but still huge—and each of the six adults was many times stronger than a druid.
Vedana poised herself in the path of the approaching druids and transformed into an infant ape. Her incarnation wasn’t anywhere near perfect, but it was believable enough to fool the adults. She began to make loud, panicked hoots. The druids—more than a score, all told—came forward to investigate, their senses already on hyper-alert because of the psychic cries of their queen. When they saw the infant ape, they chose to ignore it, attempting to rush past on their way toward the clearing. But by then, the adults had arrived, and the two males tore into the druids in a primal rage, thinking they meant to harm the orphan. Only two druids managed to escape the males, and they were killed by the females who hid nearby. Afterward, the confused apes spent a good deal of time trying to find the infant, which had mysteriously vanished.
Once again in the form of a raven, Vedana flitted from tree to tree until she found Torg and the others. Now they were less than five leagues from the river and would reach it before dusk. The demon rushed ahead to prepare their transportation, a boat strong enough to survive the rapids, if cleverly maneuvered. A pair of Mogol warriors, who had remained loyal to Bhayatupa, guarded the craft—but with orders to flee when the wizard and his companions approached.
Then Vedana returned to check on Torg and Laylah’s progress. “Hurry up
. . . hurry up!” she whispered from above. “The druids will catch you, if you’re not careful. Do you expect me to do everything?”
THE FOREST thickened and darkened once again, and though it was midafternoon, it became difficult to see more than a few dozen paces. Despite being burdened by Elu, Torg was the quickest. Laylah did her best, but the physical and emotional severity of her ordeals among the druids had drained her. To make matters worse, the goo had dried all over her, making her clothes as stiff as a suit of armor. Rathburt was exhausted and could barely walk, much less jog.
Torg began to fear they would not reach the river in time. And even if they did, escape wasn’t guaranteed. None of them were capable of surviving the rushing currents without some sort of craft.
“Rathburt, can you not walk any faster?” Torg said, no longer able to conceal his annoyance.
“I’m trying, Torgon, I swear,” Rathburt said, his voice almost pitiful. “Maybe the rest of you should go on ahead. My legs don’t seem able to hold me up.”
“We’re not leaving anyone,” Laylah said. “Torg, maybe if you carry Rathburt and I carry Elu, we’ll move a little faster.”
“You’re strong, Laylah, I’m not denying that, but Elu is a lot heavier than he looks. Believe it or not, I think he might be even heavier than Rathburt. He weighs as much as a boulder.”
The Svakaran finally spoke. “Elu can walk now.”
Torg stopped and set Elu down in the darkness against a tree. “We all should rest,” Torg said. “But for just a short while.” Then he knelt next to Elu. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk just yet. Your injuries are mended to some degree, but only time will heal them completely. It might be a week or more before you can move around like you did before.”
“We don’t have a week,” the Svakaran rasped. “Elu can walk now. His legs weren’t broken. The great one should carry Rathburt, instead. If the druids catch us, we’ll have to fight again. Elu can walk, but he can’t fight.”
