Healed by Hope

by Jim Melvin

  Vedana sobbed.

  Sighed.

  Chuckled.

  Laughed.

  Could it be?

  Yes . . . she was alive!

  It had taken more than one hundred millennia. But finally she was alive. And bombarded by physical sensations.

  When Vedana stood, her legs were wobbly. She fell face-forward and then rolled off the side of the mountain, tumbling several times before sliding to a halt. A few chips of ice got into her mouth, and she lay on her stomach and tasted them, the sensation amazing her. After these melted, she ate some more. If ice tastes this good, she thought, what will food taste like?

  The water gave her strength. Now when she stood, she was steadier. But her stomach was making all kinds of unusual noises. This is what it feels like to be hungry, she thought. Not very pleasant . . . and she had nothing to eat, which was troublesome. Before, her physical incarnations had eaten flesh and drank blood, but then it was more for show than sustenance. Now, her body needed food to survive. How strange that was.

  What to do? Where to go? First she tried to enter her former realm and found that she could not. That was a bit annoying. Her only choice was to journey to Kamupadana, more than seventy leagues to the southeast. There she would find allies. Or if not, make them her allies.

  The darkness brought even worse cold. Vedana decided that she didn’t like the shivering one bit. Did she still have her magic? Until now, she had been afraid to test herself. But she had no choice.

  She willed a film of crimson flame to ignite upon the surface of her naked skin. As easily as before, the flame roared to life—only this time it covered her with warmth. Vedana was alive, but she had not lost her powers. This made her laugh. How glorious!

  Vedana began to giggle and then dance, starting with a series of wiggles that progressed into all-out jumping, spinning, and screaming. Crimson magic burst from her mouth, eyes, ears, and nostrils, spitting on the ice like a fountain filled with acid. Beneath her, there was a great maelstrom of cracklings and sizzles, and pools of water alternately boiled and froze, forming a clear sheet of ice at her feet.

  “I’m alive!” she screamed. “Alive . . . alive . . . alive!”

  She leapt onto her stomach and slid wildly, laughing all the while. She smacked face-first into a crusty mound of snow—and this made her laugh even more.

  She had power, but she also had life. Nothing of her essence remained in the Realm of Undeath. The cataclysm that had so obviously destroyed Invictus had freed her from her prison.

  How utterly wonderful!

  But not entirely wonderful. Eating the ice had quenched her thirst somewhat, but she was discovering that the sensation of hunger could be downright maddening. Snarling replaced her laughter, and she looked about with crazed eyes. She needed to find meat—raw, bloody, and warm. It was clear that she could not go from here to Kamupadana without eating something along the way.

  For a time Vedana chose to walk. But her hunger pangs worsened with each step, and she realized that she would need to move faster if she was to reach Kamupadana before dying of starvation. The markets inside the ninth wall contained every form of food and drink, including a variety of livestock. The thought of sinking her fangs into a squealing pig made her mouth water.

  Vedana transformed into a raven, though this relatively simple feat was more difficult than it had been before she became a living being. Now instead of imitating, she was re-forming—and it took more energy and concentration than it had before. In the swirling winds, her flying was erratic. Early on she spun out of control and crashed headfirst into the ice. An ordinary raven might have broken its neck; she only cawed and cursed before taking to the air again.

  When she saw the mammoth standing alone in the darkness, Vedana circled several times before landing less than a stone’s throw away. Then she shape-shifted back to her favorite physical incarnation—the gray-haired woman—only this time she remembered to include her tattered robes. The mammoth towered over her like a mountain of flesh, sinew, and shaggy hair. The demon admired its curved tusks, imagining how wonderful it would be to break one of them off and suck out the steaming marrow.

  The mammoth’s eyesight was poor, but its sense of smell was not. Suddenly it became aware of her presence—and didn’t like it. First the great beast reared on its tree-trunk hind legs and bellowed. Then it turned and thundered away. But Vedana gave chase. And when she unleashed a torrent of crimson flame, the mammoth thudded heavily on its side, slid for a hundred cubits, and did not move again.

  Vedana leapt onto the beast’s thick carcass and sank her fangs into its hide. She spat out a mottled ball of hair and then took another bite. And another. Eventually, her stomach began to protrude, as if she were pregnant.

  The mammoth’s carcass remained warm. Vedana yawned and lay down, using the dense hair as a blanket. For the first time in her existence, she slept.

  Beyond hope

  63

  LARGE AS A MOUNTAIN, a ball of crimson fire thundered downward at fantastic speed. In its wake was a smaller figure giving chase. Both fell out of sight behind the ice bulwark—and then a blinding flash of light leapt into the sky, followed by a shuddering explosion. The wall of ice seemed to come to life, bowling outward like a frenetic tidal wave. It blasted Torg in the face and knocked him onto his back, the furious cataclysm tossing him to and fro. When calm finally was restored, Torg found himself buried by frozen water. But not enough so that it was inescapable. He twisted around until he faced upward toward the light and then used Obhasa to scorch a tunnel to the surface. Soon after, he climbed free and looked about in amazement.

  A crater as broad and deep as the largest canyon in the world loomed before him. Its floor was made of ice that was as clear as monochrome glass, and it leaned downward like the sides of a funnel. At the base of the canyon—several thousand cubits below where Torg now stood—was a wide pool of deep-blue seawater that frothed and boiled. The explosion had burrowed all the way through the ice to the ocean that hitherto had been sealed beneath.

  Torg leaned against Obhasa and stared, his breath smoking in the frozen air. Then he shook his head, as if to break a spell. Laylah . . . he had to find Laylah.

  First he called her name. Then he blasted bolts of blue-green energy into the sky. But nothing seemed to attract her. Torg ran in all directions, looking for any sign. Finally, he realized that she must still be buried under the ice—and probably unconscious.

  Torg searched for the rest of the afternoon but could discover no signs of her. At one point, he found what appeared to be a chip of bone, and for a panicked moment he became convinced that the explosion had blown Laylah apart. With a supreme effort of will, he forced himself to stand still and watch his breath. In this manner, he grew calm and regained his composure. The bone could have belonged to anyone or anything. Besides, Laylah was too strong to not survive. She was alive. But where? And for how much longer?

  When dusk arrived, Torg’s panic returned. Perhaps Laylah was buried so deep that not even she could fight her way free. If so, he probably would not find her, regardless of how long he searched. At the same time, he knew that he would never give up, even if it meant using his magic to melt every speck of ice in Nirodha.

  Torg clambered up the wall that surrounded the frozen crater. From its crest he could see far, despite the intruding darkness. To the east rose the gibbous moon amongst glittering stars, and to the north, multicolored bursts of light danced in the sky. Torg scanned the basin for any sign of movement. Then he smiled and let out a shout. Far below and to his right, a patch of clear ice glowed alabaster.

  Laylah!

  Torg raced down, slipping and sliding like a lunatic. When he reached the area of illumination, he placed the rounded head of Obhasa on the ice and scorched it with blue-green heat, melting it at an astounding rate.

  Fi
fty cubits beneath the surface, he found Laylah lying motionless on her stomach. Torg set Obhasa aside, knelt beside her, and took her in his arms, willing healing energy into her body. Though he could sense that she still lived, it felt like forever before she finally responded. Then she did so violently, arching her back and screaming. White magic blasted Torg’s face, hurling him backward. He smacked against the ice with such force that he slid partway up the side of the hole he had magically excavated before slipping back down and landing roughly on his rump.

  Laylah was on her hands and knees, coughing. Torg scrambled over to her and cradled her like he would a child. Again he bombarded her with the blue might of Death combined with the green magic of the Vijjaadharaa. Obhasa lay off to the side, thrumming on the ice as if anxious to be a part of the reunion.

  This time Laylah responded in calmer fashion, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing hard. After a while Torg pulled away and stared at her lovely face. Finally, she opened her eyes and then smiled. To his utmost delight, she crushed her cold lips against his and held them there for a long time.

  When the kiss was over, her lips were warm. She whispered, “Beloved, can you feel it? Invictus is dead. This time for good. We’re finally . . . free.”

  Torg could find no response, other than to sob. They were so close, the two of them, to being “free.” But one obstacle remained.

  “Vedana . . .” he said.

  “Beloved?”

  “The demon took Jhana, my father.”

  “But Vedana’s gone. Surely she could not have survived.”

  “She lives . . . I can sense her.”

  Laylah crawled to Obhasa on hands and knees. “As can I,” she admitted. “Then let’s find her, together. I crave vengeance as much as you.”

  Torg reached behind his neck and felt the exposed tang of the Silver Sword. The cold, disinterested metal gave him comfort.

  “As you say, my love . . . together it shall be.”

  64

  ONCE THEY SCRAMBLED free of the hole, it wasn’t difficult for Torg and Laylah to find Vedana’s trail. The air stank of her, and there were droplets of crimson poison on the ice that were as gruesome as a sprinkling of blood. Together they marched toward the southeast in search of a quarry that to this point had evaded everyone, including Invictus.

  As dawn swept over the frigid wastes, they found Vedana atop the mammoth. Torg felt an instant surge of hatred, and he grasped the tang of the Silver Sword and drew the deadly weapon from its scabbard. Laylah held Obhasa like a torch. They stood motionless and watched the demon sleep. She snored as loudly as Ugga once had.

  “She’s different,” Laylah finally whispered. “Do you sense it?”

  “She’s alive,” Torg said. “But does that make her less dangerous? Or more?”

  “I’m not sure. But I believe it gives us at least one advantage over her that we previously lacked.”

  “Tell me.”

  Laylah smiled wickedly. “She can’t vanish quite so easily.”

  Torg nodded. Still whispering, he said, “Sister Tathagata, if she were here now, would counsel both of us to walk away. The High Nun would say, ‘Violence begets violence. This is the law . . . immutable.’ The snow giants chant this in their communions. What say you, Laylah? Will you walk away?”

  “I love you, Torgon—now and for many lifetimes to come. You are my king, and it would bring me nothing but pleasure to follow your every command. But if you ordered me to walk away now, I would defy you. The demon is alive. This must not be permitted.”

  Torg’s smile was wickeder than hers. “Quoting a friend of mine, ‘Violence begets violence, but sometimes it is an answer, nonetheless.’”

  Torg said these last words louder than a whisper, and it was enough to cause Vedana to stir. Dawn was now in full flame, and when the demon lifted her head, Torg could see that her scraggly hair and wrinkled face were caked with dried blood. It was hideous.

  “Who’s there?” Vedana said groggily. Then she brushed gore from her eyes and repeated, “Who’s there?”

  Laylah spoke first. “It’s your granddaughter.”

  “And the son of the man you murdered.”

  Vedana gasped but then cackled. “Speak more plainly! I have had thousands of granddaughters. And countless men are fatherless because of me.”

  “We speak how we please,” Torg said. “It is you who must do as you are told.”

  At this, Vedana rose atop the ruined mammoth, her eyes suddenly aglow.

  “You’ve always been full of yourself, Death-Knower. So very proud. But as you so like to say, you are not my match.”

  “We shall see what we shall see,” Torg and Laylah said in unison.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” the demon taunted. “You’re so in love, you can read each other’s thoughts.”

  “Right now,” Laylah said, “we are in hate, not love. We hate you. And we have come to destroy you.”

  Vedana cackled again, then coughed and spit up a gob of hairy flesh. “Uggh,” she said. “That’s gross.” Then she continued, “Destroy me? Many have tried, all have failed. What makes the two of you so special?”

  “Mayam vo niyati (We are your doom),” Torg said.

  The demon seemed to consider this. “You know . . . I could just fly away. It’s not like you could catch me. But I’m in the mood for fun. And with the two of you out of the way, who else would be left to oppose me?”

  “Flee or fight,” Torg said. “It matters naught. One way or the other, we will hunt you down.”

  “Ooooh . . . bold words from such a silly little boy. You want to play?”

  Then the demon bent over and appeared to dissolve. A moment later, she was gone. Torg and Laylah looked in all directions but could find no signs of her.

  “Can she still enter her realm?” Laylah said warily.

  “I do not believe that she can,” Torg said. “She is here somewhere. But she has retained the ability to shape-shift, which is a high power.”

  As if in response to his words, the carcass of the mammoth came disturbingly to life, rocking several times on its side before rising to a kneeling position and then standing. The beast was huge, and its eyes glowed crimson. One of its tusks had been snapped in two.

  “Yes, we want to play,” Torg whispered. The Silver Sword was cold, but that made it no less dangerous. In Laylah’s hands, Obhasa glowed like a spire of lava.

  From the ruined tusk a flare of fiery poison erupted. Torg noted that it was directed at Laylah. The demon saw her as the more dangerous of the two and desired to eliminate her first. Torg felt a twinge of pride. Laylah deserved this kind of respect, even if from a creature of such evil.

  From Obhasa came a countering blast that broadened and flattened. The red fire was cast harmlessly aside. The mammoth trumpeted, as if enraged.

  But Laylah wasn’t through. She thrust Obhasa forward and unleashed a searing bolt of blue-white energy, striking the beast on the top of its gigantic skull. Hair and flesh splashed outward, spinning grotesquely in the air. The mammoth trumpeted again.

  By then, Torg was climbing up the beast’s side, using its mottled hair like a rope ladder. Once atop its bulging spine, he swept the Silver Sword down in a blurred arc, hacking through hide and bone in one mighty stroke.

  The second injury, combined with the first, proved fatal, and the mammoth sagged and then collapsed. Torg leapt easily aside, flicking steaming blood off the two-edged blade. Laylah appeared next to him, her blue-gray eyes ablaze.

  “Too easy,” she said.

  “Much too easy.”

  Though the mammoth’s death throes had already subsided, a portion of its thick hide seemed to bloat and then bubble.

  Vedana burst from the creature’s side with a howling screech. The demon could not have been mo
re disgusting if she had bathed in a pool of gore. She shook her head wildly, flicking red droplets from her hair. Then she glared down at Torg and Laylah, her eyes as menacing as a rabid beast’s.

  “I . . . didn’t . . . like . . . that.”

  “And you think we care?” Laylah said.

  Slowly Vedana dropped her head back so that her wrinkled face was aimed skyward. Then she let out a bizarre screech riddled with growls, moans, and cackles. This spooked even Torg, and he took a step back, noticing in his peripheral vision that Laylah had done the same.

  When Vedana brought her head forward, her appearance had changed—for the worse. Now she bore the hideous face of a Warlish witch in her ugly state. Her eye sockets were empty, her cheeks hollow, her mouth filled with jagged teeth. When she smiled, she resembled the most horrid nightmare of any child’s dreams.

  But Torg and Laylah were not children, and this time they held their ground.

  “You will care before I am through,” Vedana said. Then she added, “It’s two against one, but not for long. Do you think that I don’t have friends? While I slept, they came to me and said hello. Just because I’m changed doesn’t mean that I’m forsaken.”

  Now the sun had risen far enough to cast a blinding light over the frozen wastes. The air was dry and cold, and there was little wind. Torg and Laylah had walked a great distance the previous night and left the crater far behind, and now the ice-packed ground was flat for as far as they could see. Coming toward them across the plain were several score white figures, so perfectly camouflaged that at first they were virtually invisible. But as they grew near, Torg could make them out plainly enough.

  White wolves. A hundred, at least.