A short prequel to The Death Wizard Chronicles, a six-book epic fantasy
When a man was accustomed to stone beneath his feet, sand felt too
fragile. The knight named Taala, who weeks ago had begun the long
journey from the black-granite fortress of Nissaya to the great desert
Tējo, now trudged wearily on a white sea of sand. The contrasts between his homeland and this foreign place disconcerted him. To make matters worse, the sun blew down like flames from a wizard’s staff.
Taala had been entrusted with a crucial mission. If he failed, Nissaya would be in grave peril. Yet he wondered now if failure was the more likely outcome. His horse had perished three days before
while in the midst of Barranca, the rocky wasteland that bordered the
western portion of the desert. Taala’s insistence on an urgent pace had
proven too much, even for a gelding bred for endurance. Now forced to walk on his own, Taala had run out of water. Could he survive long enough to deliver his message? If not, then many thousands might die.
In the distance, a jumble of boulders erupted from the sand—a sight as unexpected as it was welcomed. Head bowed, Taala marched with a relentlessness that defied his exhaustion, yet even then it took
most of his remaining strength just to reach the natural shelter. He
immediately was rewarded for his efforts. The boulders provided not
only shade but precious moisture. He discovered a cool puddle of
water cradled in an awkward crevice that was—Uppādetar be blessed—just within reach of his parched lips. Taala drank it all. It tasted as sweet as any forest stream.
Then he sat down and rested his
back against the stone.
He must have slept for a long time. When he opened his eyes, dusk had settled on the desert. At first he couldn’t seem to overcome his grogginess, but he was startled fully awake by the silent appearance of several black-clad apparitions, human-like but very large.
The Tugars had come.
The king of Nissaya had sent Taala to find the desert warriors, but
they had found him instead.
Like a man-sized worm bursting to the surface, The Torgon emerged
from beneath a blanket of sand. He rose to his full height, shook clean
his shoulder-length black hair and brushed off his black jacket and
breeches. In front of him lay leagues of desert baking beneath an
uncharacteristically brutal autumn sun. Behind him towered the
Simōōn, a whirlwind of dust and debris that had been magically
conjured to protect the Tent City of Anna. Only Tugars could pass
through the Simōōn’s slashing power unharmed. All others would be
shredded to the bone within seconds of making the attempt. The
Tugars’ secret? Their ability to slither beneath the surface of the sand
just out of harm’s way of the deadly winds.
Chieftain Kapala, Torg’s second-in-command, had summoned
him to this place with the news that a Nissayan knight had been sent to
the desert in search of the Tugars. This made Torg curious, to say the
least. In the half-century since he’d ascended to the rank of Death-
Knower and become the Tugars’ king, little of note had occurred
throughout the land. Torg enjoyed peaceful times, but it was in a
warrior’s blood to yearn for more.
Torg marched across a wide expanse of sand to where the knight
had been sequestered. Though barely breaking a sweat, he covered the
distance with remarkable quickness. About an arrow’s flight from the
border of the Simōōn, he entered a large open-air tent where Kapala
and several other desert warriors waited. The camel-hide roof was tall
enough for even Tugars to stand upright, providing plenty of room for
the Nissayan scout, who was more than a span shorter than the average desert warrior. Torg studied the man for a moment, noting his dry and peeling ebony skin.
Ātapatatta. Too much sun.
In comparison, Torg’s darkly tanned skin appeared almost pale.
The scout knelt in deference. But being a king not wedded to ritual, Torg bade him to rise. Then they clasped forearms. Like equals.
“Tugarian amatam acchati tumhe (Tugarian nectar awaits you),” Torg
said in the ancient tongue. This was a widely known greeting for newly
arrived guests. Even non-speakers of the ancient tongue could recite it.
The nectar was prized throughout the land. “But speak now before it
dulls your wits.”
Taala smiled, then nodded wearily. “King Henepola sent me to seek aid from our Tugarian allies. The black fortress of Nissaya is under siege.” The scout stopped for a moment and took a long breath, obviously needing rest more than discourse, but this was too important
for the luxury of delay. “The siege began with a clever diversion. A
small force of Mogols snuck in from the northern foothills and set fire
to many hectares of crops. In our haste to punish their impudence, we
sent more mounted knights than were necessary to confront them.” As
Taala spoke, his deep voice quivered.
“Meanwhile, an army of more
than fifty thousand monsters managed to march unseen over the plains
from the east, coming within ten leagues of the city walls before our
commanders became aware of its existence. Many innocent lives—
mostly farmers and their families—were lost.”
Taala stopped and grew silent, as if the enormity of Nissaya’s loss
was too much to bear. Then he drew in a ragged breath and managed
to continue. “Yet even when our knights returned from their errand
with the Mogols, we still lacked the numbers to face the army that had
gathered in full strength in the open field. So we were forced to flee
inside the fortress.”
A flurry of tears, uncharacteristic of a Nissayan’s typically stoic
demeanor, leapt from Taala’s eyes. He wiped them away with a dusty
forearm. Then he straightened his back and said, “You must forgive
our incompetence, lord. We have not fought a major war in our
lifetime. Now we huddle within our walls like frightened mice.”
Torg felt his power begin to boil. A threat to Nissaya, the black
fortress that guarded the eastern mouth of the Gap of Gati, was a
threat to the free world. He looked down upon the scout, the glow of
his blue eyes reflecting off the Nissayan’s dark-brown ones. “There is
no need to defend your worthiness to me. I am no judge.” Then he
smacked his hand on the scout’s shoulder. “Fear not. The Tugars are at
your service, as always.”
Taala smiled again, and this time Torg recognized the beginnings
of hope in his demeanor. “Their general names himself Slag,” the
knight continued. “He is a Stone-Eater—a bane from the bowels of
Mount Asubha—and he commands a hideous host of monsters that
he inspires with hate and rage.” Then Taala’s face took on a semblance
of defiance, tempered with sadness. “The walls of Nissaya have never
been breached, and Slag appears to lack the siege craft necessary to
threaten us in this way. But our stored provisions are low. If help does
not come, we will starve by midwinter.”
Torg had never seen a Stone-Eater, but he was learned in the ways
of Triken and knew much about its inhabitants, including its monsters.
Compared to someone the height of a Tugar, Stone-Eaters were not
much taller than boys. But the creatures’ bodies were stout, and their
hides were the texture of an elephant turned halfway to stone. Flames
flared from their flat nostrils and smoke from their pointed ears. Their
wicked magic made them formidable, even among the great.
Regardless, Torg was not deterred. “Help will come. The Tugars
will arrive long before midwinter. In the meantime, the Asēkhas and I
will serve as the Tugarian vanguard and begin the journey to Nissaya
tomorrow morning.”
Torg knew that the scout was well aware of the import of this.
The Asēkhas were renowned as the Tugars of highest rank, and
although there were only twenty in all, together they were as deadly as
an army of ordinary soldiers.
Taala’s round eyes sprang wide. “The Asēkhas! Ah, that is
wonderful news. And as I’m sure you have surmised, we are also
seeking aid from the Jivitans. With the help of our allies to the west
and from you to the east, victory is assured.”
“We shall see what we shall see,” Torg said. “For now, take comfort. Tugars never forsake their friends. But time is of the essence. The Asēkhas will travel quickly, though even then I believe the Jivitans’ vanguard will reach Nissaya before ours does—and well before the rest of our Tugarian army. The white horsemen’s journey is far shorter.
The aid you seek will come first from the west.”
Several weeks later, Torg and Chieftain Kapala crouched behind a
berm just a stone’s throw—by Tugarian standards—from the eastern
perimeter of the invading army. It was a dismal day, overcast and cool,
with an angry wind casting spits of rain, far different than the weather
in the southern desert. Though both men wore all black in contrast to
the gray grass beneath them, they still managed to remain unseen, so
trained were they in the art of camouflage. Tugars often were called
Kakaṇṭāka by their enemies, which in the ancient tongue meant chameleon.
“What does Slag hope to accomplish?” Torg whispered to the
chieftain. “Why attack Nissaya without the means to overcome its
bulwarks?”
“I know naught, lord,” Kapala said. “Slag is beyond my comprehension. And to further undermine his position, one of our scouts reports that Jivita’s main force approaches unopposed from the
west. Twenty thousand white horsemen are within a few leagues of the
fortress and prepared to rejoin their vanguard, which has been
harassing the enemy’s borders for several days before you and I
arrived. The rest of our Tugarian army will be here just a week from
now. Slag will be forced to fight or retreat.”
Torg nodded and then turned back to study the enemy. Mountain
trolls scouted the perimeter. They were not as large or dangerous as
their cave-dwelling cousins, but they were more intelligent and thrived
in daylight. Dracools, also known as baby dragons, flew in the skies like
circling vultures. Wolves as large as horses, with Warlish witches on
their backs, patrolled the interior. And huddling near the fires, Mogol
warriors sharpened the heads of poisoned arrows.
But one form of beast was noticeably absent. There were no druids.
Torg took a deep breath. “How many white horsemen remain in Jivita?”
“Fewer than five thousand, as far as I am aware. The bulk of their
army has come to Nissaya’s defense.”
The chieftain cocked an
eyebrow. “Why do you ask, lord? The White City is not in danger.”
Torg closed his eyes, then slowly shook his head. When he next
spoke, it was in a rueful whisper.
“Jivita, Nissaya and Anna have grown
soft. We have long chosen to ignore the remote mountains where this
army was born, but such malice does not sleep. Neither Slag nor the
Warlish witches are foolish enough to assault the black fortress when
victory is so unlikely. They may be evil, but they are not fools.” Torg
shook his head again. “Just five thousand . . .”
“Lord?”
“Have we have been deceived? Perhaps Slag and his followers are
no more than decoys used to lure the white horsemen to Nissaya,
while leaving Jivita in jeopardy. Does another army—long dormant in
Dhutanga’s deep forest—prepare to assail the White City while it is
unguarded?” Torg shook his head in dismay. “Jivita’s ancient enemy is
awake. I believe that the druids are again on the march.”
Kapala’s expression bore a glimpse of uncharacteristic puzzlement. “Why would you suspect such a thing? In my lifetime the druids have not been considered a threat. But if you are correct that
the evils of the world have struck an unsavory bargain, then Jivita is
doomed. Even if the white horsemen rode back without rest, it would
take them more than a week to return to the defense of their city. Jivita
would fall before then.”
“I am no soothsayer, but I fear the worst,” Torg said. “The druids
of Dhutanga might be the true architects of Slag’s aggression. Once
Jivita is crushed, will they march eastward through the Gap of Gati and
join the Stone-Eaters’ minions? Perhaps this is the reason that Slag’s
army does nothing but gather dust.”
“If this is so, then Slag has already won. Even if we could
summon the mountain eagles, there are not enough of them to
transport a sufficient force to Jivita in time to attempt a rescue.”
“When physical strength fails, magic must stand in its place. There
is one who might give us a chance to avert disaster. I must summon
Bhojja, the jade mare, and beg her to carry me through the Gap of
Gati and across the Green Plains.”
“Bhojja? Surely you jest. She is nothing but a tale for the
amusement of children.”
“I once believed the same. But the High Nun of Dibbu-Loka
convinced me otherwise. Sister Tathagata taught me that Bhojja is
indeed real and that she dwells along the shores of Lake Keo,
appearing only at moments of her own choosing.”
“Lord, do you mean to say that you have seen Bhojja with your
own eyes?”
“I have . . . and I know firsthand how special she is. Bhojja stands
twenty hands tall—dwarfing even the greatest of the Jivitan destriers—
but her speed and endurance are what truly set her apart from all
others of her kind. She could gallop from here to the White City in a
day.”
“That is impossible. Such a journey would test the limits of a
dragon in flight.”
“There is none like her, Kapala. She is the mightiest of all horses,
and her magic makes anything possible. But Bhojja comes and goes as
she pleases, and she has never tolerated a rider . . . until me.”
Kapala looked stunned. “She has borne you?”
“The privilege was afforded me—one time. Ten years ago, I
prepared a camp on Lake Keo’s eastern shore for the purpose of
achieving Sammaasamaadhi. When I returned from death, Bhojja stood
before me, nicking the ground with her hooves. She came forward and
inhaled my breath—and I saw that it pleased her. She did not protest
when I climbed onto her back. Then she galloped for many leagues,
with me as her companion. She was faster than any land creature I
have ever encountered. When she sprints, ordinary time appears to
lose meaning. I know not how else to describe it.” Torg sighed deeply,
remembering the moment clearly in his mind and heart. “I have not
seen her since that night. I will call her now and hope that she
answers.”
Before leaving to summon Bhojja, Torg gathered the rest of the
Asēkhas. “Wait here until dusk. If I return to you before then, it will
mean that I have failed. If I do not return, you must take charge in my
absence and meet with the Jivitan king. Tell him where I have gone—
and what it is that I suspect. Whether he remains here or rushes back
to the White City will be his decision.”
“If Bhojja carries you to the west, what will you do when you
arrive?” one of the Asēkhas said. “If Jivita is besieged by the druids,
will you defeat them by yourself?”
“We shall see what we shall see,” Torg said, permitting no further
discussion. Then he set off into the high grass, jogging for several
miles until well away from Slag’s army. Eventually he strode to the top
of a hillock. To the east lurked Java, the Dark Forest; to the south
stood the Kolankold Mountains; to the southeast loomed Lake Keo. It
now was early afternoon, and an unfriendly wind arose to join forces
with the gloom.
Torg wielded an ancient uttara that had been forged more than a
thousand years before. The sword was named Paramita, which in the
ancient tongue meant perfection. For nine Tugarian generations it had
been passed from parent to offspring. After completing his warrior
training, Torg had been bequeathed the sword by his father.
Paramita’s slightly curved single-edged blade had been hammered,
folded over, and hammered again thirty times by one of the most
accomplished Tugarian sword-makers who had ever lived. The
magnificence of its blade, however, was not the only thing that
separated the weapon from most others. It was commonly known that
all great dragons contained a jewel in the thick meat of their tails that
fueled their magic. One such acorn-sized jewel—hacked from a
renegade dragon just after being slain—had been affixed to the end of
Paramita’s ornamented handle, giving the sword a supernatural
advantage that flowed from the jewel to the point. The blade was so
sharp it could slice through oak; and so strong it could not be sundered
by ordinary means.
Torg gripped the blunt edge of the blade in his hands and lifted
the hilt high above his head, pointing the dragon jewel skyward. As he
spoke ancient words, the jewel sparked and grew hot.
Torg had planned to repeat these words many times, but it turned
out to be unnecessary. After the passing of just a few short breaths, he
saw dust rising in the distance and heard the pounding of hooves. The
mare thundered to his side.
Love shone in her eyes, which were as green as pine needles. Her
coat also was green, though her mane and tail were alabaster. She had
never tolerated a master, but Torg seemed to bewitch her.
He returned Paramita to its sheath, though its jewel continued to
glow. Then he leapt upon Bhojja’s back.
Somehow she already knew where he wished her to go. She
charged westward.
The chill wind raced across the plains.
Bhojja outran it.
Faster than should have been possible, the mare galloped from the
heart of the Gray Plains to Iddhi-Pada, the magnificent road that ran
for hundreds of leagues across the midsection of Triken. Bhojja carried
Torg westward through the Gap of Gati, around the northern shores
of Lake Hadaya, and over the Green Plains west of the mountains.
Leagues passed beneath them like single breaths, yet the horse did not
tire—and she needed no direction or encouragement. During the night
Torg slept for long stretches. He did not fear that he might fall; her
magic would not permit it.
About thirty leagues from Jivita, Bhojja veered off the road and
headed northward. The grasslands of the Green Plains were lush even
this late in the year, and the steed seemed to favor the spongy ground,
galloping even faster than before, if that were possible. Torg did not
understand why she had changed course so dramatically, but he did
not doubt her. She was in charge, taking him where she wanted him to
go.
For the most part, the Green Plains were flat and devoid of trees,
and even lesser eyes could see for long distances. As dawn broke, Torg
noticed a disturbance in the west. Smoke rose into the sky, spreading
like thin clouds, and it appeared likely that a vicious battle was being
waged somewhere north of Jivita. But he was too far away to know for
certain.
“What is it, sweet lady?” Torg said, stroking the horse’s mane.
“What awaits us?”
In response to his questions, Bhojja veered even more northward.
To their left Torg saw fire and more smoke, but the mare seemed
disinterested in whatever caused the conflagration.
“Why do you avoid the battle? Are we not needed there?”
Despite his bemusement, the mare did not alter her course.
Instead she carried Torg farther and farther north, finally reaching the
Cariya River, where she charged along its shore rather than attempt to
cross its churning waters. Soon they approached the southern edge of
Dhutanga, the largest forest in the world. After another few miles the
trees became as thick as a tangle of thorns. Without slowing her pace,
Bhojja plunged into them. She could not be stopped.
As Bhojja thrashed deeper into the heart of Dhutanga, Torg
trusted that the mare led him toward something more crucial to their
cause than the battle raging near Jivita. Torg believed that Bhojja was
ancient and potent—and knew things mortals did not.
Dusk arrived early in the forest. The shadows grew deeper,
consuming the remaining light in a series of hungry bites. They crossed
a narrow stone bridge that towered high above the rapids of Cariya.
On the other side of the river they came to the base of the most
enormous tree Torg had ever seen, its upper limbs swallowed by the
darkening sky.
Several dozen druids guarded an opening at the base of the trunk.
The sight caused Torg to relive a memory of a raucous night at a
tavern in the dense interior of Jivita. Soon after he had achieved the
rank of warrior, but before he had become a Death-Knower, Torg had
visited the White City for the first time and had been enthralled by its
castles, cathedrals and taverns. Several white riders had come to him
and boasted they could drink any desert warrior under the table,
despite being aware that the average Tugar male stood almost five
cubits tall and weighed more than twenty stones. Needless to say, Torg
had proven them wrong. In addition to his enormous size, his
Tugarian metabolism had burned up most of the alcohol before it even
entered his bloodstream, giving him an unfair advantage. As the night
wore on, the riders became less and less able to keep up with him.
As is the tendency at drunken gatherings, there was much
backslapping and storytelling. One Jivitan horseman bragged of a
perilous midnight encounter with a band of druids in the heart of
Dhutanga. “The druids fought like a swarm of ants,” he said. “No, not
ants. Termites . . . giant termites.”
The bar went quiet. Everyone stared with wide eyes. The
horseman stumbled against a table. “Well . . . they do eat wood!”
The bar erupted into laughter. Giant termites, indeed.
It was easy to laugh about druids in the safety of Jivita, but Torg
wasn’t laughing now. The creatures that faced him were deadly—and
more so given their numbers. Despite his swordsmanship and magical
powers, he still was just one against many. It would have been so easy
to turn and flee, leaving the Jivitans to their fate. But it was not in his
makeup to run from anything. He would destroy the foe in front of
him—or die in the attempt.
Bhojja showed no fear. At Torg’s slightest touch, she sprang
toward the opening like a warrior’s destrier. Several druids, each more
than seven cubits tall, moved to block their way. But when Torg leapt
up and stood upon Bhojja’s back, he now towered above even the
largest of his foes, giving him an advantage they could not withstand.
Even as they reached for him with branch-like arms, he struck them
down one by one, cleaving each of their heads from above. Soon their
broken bodies lay scattered about, oozing green gore. The dragonjewel
in Paramita’s hilt glowed, as if proud of its superiority.
The mammoth tree was hollow. More druids attacked, but Torg’s
fury grew ever greater. From his perch on Bhojja’s back, the enemy fell
like grass under the sweep of a scythe. Bhojja and Torg penetrated ever
deeper into the tangled mass of druids. Several times, bony hands
grasped his calves and ankles, but downward slashes easily eliminated
those assaults. With all the humming and buzzing and waving of arms,
Torg felt as if he had entered the world’s largest beehive. But he had
not yet been stung. And though he was beginning to tire, the numbers
massed against him were now considerably lessened, making it easier
to dispatch those that still dared face his wrath.
Inside the tree, something large and lumpy loomed in the twilight.
It was disgusting to behold, a thing swollen by malice. The queen of
the druids lay helpless and immobile, caught in the same trap she had
sprung against Jivita—the majority of her protectors were elsewhere.
Torg leapt off Bhojja’s back and strode unopposed toward the
loathsome creature. But she was not as helpless as she appeared. Her
last defense was the strength of her mind, which was powerful enough
to compel thousands of druids to act as one. She bent her will upon
Torg, attempting to crush him before he could destroy her. Torg felt
her ravaging his thoughts, searching for weakness, suffocating his
resistance. Within moments he stood limply before her. His mind still
was active, but his body seemed unable to comply.
More druids scrambled through the opening, closing in on him
from behind. In the vagueness of his awareness, he heard Bhojja
whinny and stamp the ground. Then she trotted next to him, lowered
her head, and nibbled Paramita’s pommel. Instantly the dragon-jewel
caught fire, causing the inside of the tree to become bright as day. The
queen was revealed—a pale blob, thick as a dragon. The drunken
Jivitan warrior had come closer to the truth than he had realized. The
druids were very much like giant termites, and they worshipped a
bloated egg layer.
This broke the spell. Before any druids could reach him, Torg
sprang forward and thrust Paramita into the queen’s pulsing flesh,
piercing her with ease. Hot green blood gushed out, and she squealed.
The druids faltered, pressing their skinny hands against their ear holes
and staggering this way and that.
Torg pricked the queen again. And again. He sliced and chopped.
The grotesque blood splashed everywhere, but she would not die.
Finally he climbed onto the queen’s rubbery back and smote her from
above. Still, she squealed. Still, she lived. He drove Paramita so deep
the sword slipped from his grip and burrowed into her bulk beyond his
reach. The dragon-jewel erupted. Bolts of crimson lightning tore
through her flesh.
The queen burst asunder.
Torg tumbled to the ground and rolled onto his side. He was
dazed, lying motionless in a pool of bubbling goo.
Around him, the tree trembled, tearing itself apart. Bhojja’s wet
mouth pressed against Torg’s cheek. His body quivered, and his eyes
sprang open. He stood, weak but aware. They had to get out before
the tree collapsed and crushed them.
Before climbing onto Bhojja’s back, Torg saw something
glistening amid the mound of shredded flesh that had once been the
druid queen. He stumbled over and grasped Paramita by the handle.
The mare urged him to mount and then carried him through the
opening just in time. The tree shivered and fell into ruin.
As he rode south through the dense forest, Torg returned
Paramita to its sheath.
The blade remained intact, but the sword’s handle wrap was
charred.
And the dragon-jewel was gone.
It had taken the magic of one titan to destroy another.
Torg and Bhojja rushed toward Jivita. By the time they emerged
from the forest and entered the Green Plains, dusk had succumbed to
darkness, and a bright moon now floated over the fields. Though night
had arrived, Torg still could see a long way.
Bhojja halted, then lifted her head and nickered.
Torg gasped. Thousands of ghostly shapes approached from the
south, floundering toward the forest. The army that had attacked Jivita
had lost its reason for existence. To his eyes, the druids looked empty,
and it filled him with ironic pity. Without their queen they were
helpless—like termites turned from the mound. He believed most
would be dead by morning.
With heads bowed, he and the mare waited until most of the
druids had disappeared from sight. Then they continued their
roundabout journey to the White City, passing a field where thousands
of dead Jivitans and their destriers lay bleeding in the grass. Less than a
league from the city, Torg overtook a small company of survivors
leading their horses on foot. Most had removed their heavy white
armor—both from themselves and their horses—and left it lying in the
field along with their dead.
Torg sought out the leader, finally grasping forearms with a
captain named Sagga, whose dusty cheeks were streaked with blood.
The captain’s expression bore only shock. The enormity of such
slaughter seemed too large for mournfulness.
Torg knew the survivors needed succor. He raised his arms
toward the sky. Sweet smoke issued from his throat and filled the air
like a drug. “The druids are destroyed,” he said in a booming voice.
“Though many Jivitans have fallen, you can still claim victory. Do not
grieve overlong for your dead. Their sacrifices are not without merit.
The skill and bravery of the white horsemen have saved Jivita and all
who remain within the city.”
Sagga’s broad shoulders sagged further.
“More likely it was you
who saved Jivita. You and this magnificent steed, the likes of which I
have never seen. But I do not understand how you did it. You robbed
the druids of their will to fight. What magic did you employ? Or did
the One God lend his mighty hand?”
“Sadly, murder and mayhem are all I can claim,” Torg said. “But
the deed is done, and I do not regret it. We must not tarry here,
Captain. Let us ride to the city and take some rest. The men and
women who fought beside you deserve nothing less. And Bhojja,
especially, should receive the finest treatment your stalls can provide.
She—more than I—turned the tide.”
Then both riders and destriers overcame their weariness, and they
cantered into Jivita with heads held high.
Thousands lined the White City’s torch-lit streets, greeting the
riders and their two new companions with teary-eyed applause. They
cheered until their throats grew raw. On this night, at least, horror and
happiness managed to mingle.
Torg spent the rest of the night inside one of Jivita’s elaborate
castles, sleeping in a comfortable bed for the first time since departing
the Tent City. Bhojja, meanwhile, had rushed into the darkness the
moment Torg dismounted. But he did not doubt she would return
when he again needed her.
At dawn Torg arose and ate a light breakfast. He then
accompanied Sagga and several prominent bishops to a banquet room
inside the castle, where they sat in plush chairs at the end of a long
table. Bright sunlight poured in through arched windows, as if the day
was too cheery to be dampened by a somber mood.
“I will soon call for Bhojja and beg her permission to carry me to
Nissaya,” Torg said, taking a sip of black tea from a silver cup. “She
was able to gallop from the Gray Plains to the interior of Dhutanga in
less than a day. The return journey need not be so pressing, but I still
expect to reach the fortress in less than two days.”
“Does Bhojja sprout wings?” Sagga said, his voice raspy from the
previous day’s rigors.
Torg managed a smile. “Who knows what form she is capable of
assuming. She amazes, but does not explain. What she is—or might
be—remains a mystery. But I believe that the forces of good need not
fear her.”
One of the ecclesiastic officials, a high-ranking bishop, spoke next.
“When Nissaya was assailed, King Avikkhepa unselfishly led our army
eastward to aid in the defense of the fortress. Because we did not
perceive the peril that lurked so near our own borders, Jivita was
drained of most of its strength and leadership. Captain Sagga was the
highest-ranking officer left behind who survived the terrible battle.
This is not meant as a slight to Sagga, who has more than proven his
worth. But we believe that we should take directions from you, in our
king’s absence.”
“Very well,” Torg said, “though I doubt my commands will hold
any more wisdom than Sagga’s or yours. Prepare the city for
evacuation. Send scouts as far as Lake Hadaya to watch the road. If we
are defeated at Nissaya, Slag’s army will come this way.”
“Evacuation was underway as soon as our riders lured the enemy
from the city,” the bishop said. “Our elders and children departed
immediately, and the rest are ready to flee to our havens near the sea if
necessary.”
Sagga interrupted. “I am confused, Lord Torgon. When the druids
were defeated, I believed our victory was assured. Are you saying that
our doom has only been delayed?”
“Slag’s army is powerful—far more so, even, than the druid horde
that attacked you,” Torg said. “Regardless, I am confident that the
combined forces of Jivita, Nissaya and Anna will prevail. But the war is
not over yet.”
Torg then stood, and with little fanfare he bade them farewell,
quickly leaving the castle and striding down the nearest boulevard. The
air was clear, the breeze slight. The beautiful morning felt like a reward
for the previous night’s victory.
At ten leagues in diameter, Jivita was by far the largest city in
Triken. Torg marched along one of its many stone causeways, passing
several meticulously kept manses with lawns as broad as pastures. Not
long afterward, he entered the heart of the White City, where row
upon row of homes and businesses sparkled beneath the bright sun.
Elaborate cathedrals with stained-glass windows stood tallest of all,
each of their steeples topped by a single pale spear.
Though the risk had been considerable, many of the White City’s
residents had not abandoned the city. Druids were deadly, but when
bunched together they moved ponderously.
Even if the wood-eaters
had managed to defeat the horsemen, many of the residents of Jivita
still would have had time to escape.
Knowing this, thousands of the
hardiest men and women had remained, and these now gathered along
the streets to cheer and bless the Death-Knower king, following him to
the eastern border of the city where a magnificent white bridge
spanned the churning waters of the Cariya River. Torg knew, though,
that this occasion was a brief respite from their woes. Soon they would
head en masse into the Green Plains to care for their dead. They would
erect great pyres, and the smoke would be visible for league upon
league.
Leaving the throngs of well-wishers behind, Torg crossed the
bridge and strode into the lushness of the Green Plains. He was several
leagues south of the fields where the recent battle had occurred, so
here the land remained pristine. Though winter was only a few weeks
away, the grass still smelled sweet.
This was one of the most glorious
places west of the mountains. Goldenrod, asters and camphorweed
bloomed bright yellow amid the wide green. Torg reveled in their
beauty.
As it turned out, he did not need to summon the mare. She waited
for him, head down, grazing leisurely. Her jade coat and matching eyes
blended with the grass. She looked fresh and strong.
Torg walked over to her and hugged her neck. Bhojja knelt before
him and invited him to climb onto her back. As soon as he mounted,
the mare bolted eastward across the plains. Once again, she knew
where to go.
She galloped at a lesser pace on the return journey. Even so, the
leagues blurred beneath them. They reached Lake Hadaya by nightfall,
resting on its western shore. Before dawn of the following morning
they were on their way again, circumventing the lake to the north. By
late afternoon they approached within twenty leagues of Nissaya. What
greeted Torg there did not surprise him.
A large portion of Jivita’s army rode westward. From a distance,
Torg could hear the clomping of hooves and the clanking of armor.
He soon discovered that King Avikkhepa had ordered half of his
Jivitan riders to abandon Nissaya and return to the defense of the
White City.
“Praise be to Ekadeva, his mercy knows no bounds,” a general said
to Torg after hearing the news of the druids’ demise. “And the
thousands who died on the Green Plains defending our city are now in
a better place than this. In paradise, there is no war and no death.” He
lowered his head. When he finally looked up, his eyes glistened with
tears. “What now, Lord Torgon? You are great even among the wise—
and your counsel is prized. What shall we do? Since Jivita is now
deemed safe, should we return with you to the defense of Nissaya?”
“How many are your number?” Torg said.
“We are ten thousand,” the general said.
“An equal number
remains at Nissaya, including our king.”
This amazed Torg. The Jivitan king leaving half his force at
Nissaya was surprising enough, but it was even more stunning that the
king himself would remain there. “Avikkhepa is to be praised,” Torg
said. “It could not have been an easy decision.” Then he paused for a
moment to gather his thoughts. “Prized or not, my counsel is this:
Continue to the White City. Avikkhepa will rest easier when I tell him
that Jivita is again well-defended.”
Bhojja covered the final leagues to Nissaya in a blurring rush.
Once there, Torg went straight to Chieftain Kapala, and the pair
grasped forearms. Then they entered Avikkhepa’s camp, where a white
pavilion large enough to hold fifty men had been constructed using
balsa poles and bleached hide. Within it were several squat tables laden
with bread, cheese and wine.
The king of Jivita paced to-and-fro.
When he saw Torg he
stomped toward him, his waist-length alabaster hair dancing in his
wake. “How is it that you return so quickly?” he demanded. “What
news do you bear? Speak! Every moment I spend away from my
people is a torment to me.”
Torg had never taken well to such challenges, and his rage rose in
response. But he told himself that Avikkhepa spoke out of love for his
own people, and this enabled Torg to suppress his own anger and
speak kindly in response. “The news I bear is both good and bad. The
druids are defeated, the White City is saved, and none of its innocents
have been harmed. But fewer than one hundred of the five thousand
horsemen you left behind still live.”
“The good is obvious, but the bad outweighs all else,” the Jivitan
king said, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. “The fall of almost five
thousand white riders is a grievous event. And why were they
sacrificed? To rescue Nissaya from a similar fate? I have made an
unforgivable error. The king of the black knights remains inside his
own gates even as we speak. Why did I not do the same? Our proud
horsemen did not deserve such a fate.”
Several Nissayan knights who stood nearby took offense to
Avikkhepa’s brash words. A high commander strode forward, wearing
black armor the same color as his skin. In comparison, the Jivitan
king’s face looked pale as bone.
“Nissaya has always been your ally, King Avikkhepa,” the
commander said, far overstepping his bounds in terms of rank. “We
have long protected the maw of Gati, at the expense of our own
welfare. If not for us, many foes would have marched upon you from
the east, including the evils that dwell in Java. Do you say that you
would forsake us, after all that we have done for you?”
“I say, Master Underling, that I regret my decision to abandon my
city in such perilous times.”
Torg stepped between them. “Enough!” For a moment the air
seemed to superheat, causing a portion of the white tarpaulin to
crinkle. “Poor choices were made, perhaps. And many brave men and
women have fallen. But such is war. We are assailed both east and
west. The danger in the west has been removed, but the east remains
strong. There is still fighting to be done. More lives will be lost. But
Slag must be destroyed.”
The Nissayan commander bowed low and moved back several
paces.
Avikkhepa remained upright, silent and grim. But he did not
retreat.
Torg turned to the king and placed the palm of his hand over
Avikkhepa’s heart. “If you had remained in the White City, you likely
would have faced the druids alone. I would have stayed here and
fought alongside Nissaya, deeming Jivita properly defended. Your
horsemen would have encountered an army almost twice their number.
In such a scenario, would fewer have perished?”
The anger in Avikkhepa’s face flared, then faded just as quickly. A
single tear slid down his cheek. “There is wisdom in your words.”
Then in a near whisper, he said, “I do not understand how you
prevailed against the druids. And in such a short time. Has The Torgon
grown so great that he can cross leagues in an instant and stand alone
against tens of thousands?”
Torg detected no sarcasm, only puzzlement. “I am not so great.
And I did not stand alone. Bhojja, who now runs free in the fields,
carried me to the west. And it was she who led me to the creature who
had long devised your ruin. But tales such as these are better shared at
the end of wars, not while they are still raging. For now trust me when
I say that Jivita will remain secure as long as we stand between Slag and
the White City. If you wish to ensure safety for your people, you must
first help us destroy the enemy that remains.”
Avikkhepa sagged wearily. “Very well, Torgon. It will be as you say.
We will draw the line here.”
This settled the matter. With Slag’s army entrenched and
purposely immobile, Torg and Avikkhepa rode unthreatened into the
black fortress to meet with Henepola, king of the Nissayans. But first
they had to pass through the three concentric walls of black granite
surrounding the fortress. Each had been given a name from the
ancient tongue: the outer wall Balak, the middle wall Ott, the inner wall
Hakam. Each was a natural bastion of stone that had been sculpted by
human hands only on the upper walks, inner stairwells and tunneled
entrances.
Within the third bulwark stood the inhabited portion of the
fortress, a titanic labyrinth of roads, courtyards and buildings. Some of
the buildings were made of ordinary brick and wood; others were
natural stone towers with hollow interiors. At this point, the labyrinth
ascended so steeply that the buildings toward the center stood even
higher above the floor of the gap than Hakam.
In some ways Nissaya was as much a city as a fortress, capable of
housing more than one hundred thousand in addition to its army and
populace. There were hundreds of markets, mills, taverns and shops,
and the bustling business district hosted armorers, goldsmiths,
shoemakers, oil merchants, wine sellers and numerous craftsmen and
makers of wares. Throughout the interior stood courtyards broad
enough to sleep thousands.
Torg and the small company passed by all these things on their
way to the keep of Nissaya, which was known as Nagara. The keep
rose from the center of the fortress like a titanic spire, a natural
formation of black granite as huge as the arm of a god. Passageways
and chambers laced its interior, most forming naturally over the
passage of time before humans existed on Triken. But some of the
chambers had been chiseled and molded over the millennia to better
accommodate its most-recent inhabitants.
Torg and the others dismounted and entered Nagara. With their
arrival, the keep now held three kings, each willful, each formidable.
Together they would devise the strategy that would defeat the invaders.
Asēkha-Kapala briefed them first, reporting that Slag’s army had
continued to behave strangely during the time Torg had been absent.
Rather than aligning in attack formations, it had remained drawn in a
tightly defended circle with Slag and his closest advisors huddled in the
center.
King Henepola took a long drink of wine from a silver goblet and
gestured for the others to do the same.
Then he spoke, his voice as
deep and throaty as the roar of a Tyger.
“It is as Chieftain Kapala says.
Slag’s army slew many innocents and burned our fields as it marched
to our gates, but then it came to a halt and did little more than mingle
about. Either Slag means to starve us, or he’s awaiting
reinforcements.”
“And it is plain that the ‘reinforcements’ would have come
through the gap after destroying Jivita,” Torg said. “The question now
becomes, what does Slag know of these latest developments? Kapala,
does it remain true that no druids have been seen among Slag’s
horde?”
“None that I am aware,” Kapala said.
The others agreed.
“If I had known that druids were among them, I might have
become suspicious that they were again active, and I would not have
abandoned Jivita,” King Avikkhepa said.
“Their plans were well
devised.”
“But now their tactics turn against them,” Torg said. “Slag has
kept a tight rein on the dracools. He wants them as fighters, rather
than spies. Because of this, he might still be unaware of what has
occurred in the west. If druids were with Slag, he would now know—
by the change in their behavior—that their army had been defeated.
Since no druids stand with him, he might still believe reinforcements
are on the way. Rather than attack us aggressively, he seems content to
remain in a defensive posture. That gives us time. Kapala, how long
before the Tugars arrive?”
“Our army should have already crossed the Ogha River at
Senasana,” Kapala said.
“Then the Tugars will come several days before the druids would
have gotten here,” Avikkhepa said. “I perceive your thoughts, Torgon.”
“We appear to know much that our enemy does not,” Torg said.
“Even so, I will take no chances. To assure our victory I must stab
Slag’s army in its heart.”
The Stone-Eater named Gulah stood by his father, the great general
Slag, on a hilltop within sight of Nissaya. From there he could see far,
but not nearly as far as the demon that accompanied them. Vedana
appeared capable of perceiving movement for dozens of leagues, but
now she seemed to have gone mad. Her eyes were white and weird,
and she panted like a diseased animal. It was disgusting.
“Why do you rave, foul demon?” Slag yelled with such exertion
that smoke burst from his ears. “Explain yourself.”
Among them all, only Slag had the courage to reproach Vedana;
and for reasons unknown to Gulah, she tolerated most of his
admonishments. Was it possible that the mother of all demons feared
his father? Was he that powerful?
This time, though, she ignored Slag’s commands, continuing to
shriek and babble. “Bastard . . . son of an ass . . . Abhisamsati! (I curse
thee!)” Long black claws sprang from her fingers. She dropped to her
knees and dug deep clumps of grass from the ground, then stood and
heaved them toward the west. Foul-smelling blood spurted from her
nostrils, and her body alternately glowed and grew dim.
Gulah beheld her gnarled bones within her undead flesh and was
sickened. The Stone-Eater staggered backward, waving his hands in
front of his face in an unconscious attempt to ward off her evil.
But his father did not appear to be dismayed. Slag was shorter
than Vedana but much heavier and stronger than the physical
incarnation she had chosen to assume.
The Stone-Eater stepped
forward, grabbed the demon by her skinny arms, and shook her.
Focus returned to her eyes, and she glared at Slag and growled.
“Fool. You are blind. Can you not sense what has occurred? Everything
is awry. We are lost.”
With that, she turned and fled northward. All who stood in her
path—even the trolls—jumped aside. The grass caught fire beneath
her feet, leaving a sizzling trail. In a matter of moments she was gone.
With Vedana’s departure, the Warlish witches grew anxious. More
than five score had marched with Slag’s army, and some of those
began to follow the blackened path. But Gulah’s father would not
permit it. Slag was full of might, his powers coming from volcanic rock
that he devoured with his hard, flat teeth. Obsidian contained wild
magic that only Stone-Eaters could ingest. Their bodies were furnaces,
spitting fire and vomiting magma.
“Butcher anyone who attempts to desert,” Slag ordered. “The
witches, the wolves . . . anyone. I don’t know what that horrid bitch
was screaming about, but good riddance to her. There’s no room in my
army for cowards.”
Intimidated by the Stone-Eater’s threats, the witches returned to
their original posts and complained among themselves. But the
grumbling eventually quieted, and Gulah was relieved when the next
few days passed without further incidence. Even better, the situation
improved—in Slag’s favor. The cowardly Nissayans hid in their
fortress. The vanguard of white horsemen had been chased off. Both
seemed afraid to show their faces without the Tugars to back them up.
And Gulah knew Slag remained confident that the druids would arrive
in time to help them deal with the desert rats.
After they vanquished the Jivitans and Tugars outside the fortress,
Slag’s army would assail Nissaya’s walls. Who needed siegecraft when
you commanded fifty Stone-Eaters? Nissaya would be no match for
their fiery vehemence. It would take time, but they eventually would
burn through the bulwarks. And once his monsters were inside the
walls, the last of their enemies would be easy prey.
The pieces were in place, but Torg chose to leave nothing to chance.
When he had said that he would stab Slag’s army in its heart, he had
meant it.
The point of a blade was minuscule in comparison to the size of
its victim, but that made it no less deadly. When Torg and the Asēkhas
went forth against an army of fifty thousand monsters, they did so
without trepidation. They were the most fearsome fighters in the
world, led by a wizard of high renown.
Fear held no sway over them.
The enemy was spread out for a league in all directions. Torg saw
trolls, dracools, Mogols, ogres and witches, but he paid them all scant
attention. He was a predator on the hunt, and his prey was Slag.
Torg rode Bhojja, while the Asēkhas were on foot. Even as they
entered the perimeter of the huge encampment, they were hardly
noticed at first. Asēkhas could move without being seen, even in broad
daylight. And Bhojja bore some magic that caused the monsters to
avert their eyes. But they were finally seen by a troll—of all things—
and it pounded forwarded wielding a club the size of a man. Kapala
took off one of its legs with a single stroke of his curved sword,
causing it to cry out and collapse. Another Asēkha used his sling to
bring down a dracool with a small metal bead. It fell from the sky in a
ball of fire. Suddenly, there was chaos. But this pleased Torg and the
Asēkhas. Chaos was their ally.
They reached a hillock in the center of the army. Two Stone-
Eaters stood on its pinnacle, shouting commands. Torg’s hearing was
extraordinary, and he could make out their speech even above the
rising tumult.
“What madness is this, father?” the smaller of the two was saying.
“They attack an army of fifty thousand with one hundred men?”
“Not one hundred . . . twenty,” the larger one responded. “The
Asēkhas are here. Stone-Eaters, circle ’round. Summon the trolls, and
order the dracools to return to the ground. Assassins approach . . . and
they come for me.”
Torg had found Slag.
He and the Asēkhas pressed incessantly forward. Another troll
fell. A witch lost her head. A blade hacked a wolf in two. Dozens of
ogres and Mogols were slaughtered. Blue flames leapt from the palms
of Torg’s hands, setting fire to anything in his path. On the ground
beneath him, the Asēkhas moved with a speed that defied belief. In
comparison the trolls looked like statues. Even the wolves appeared
slow.
Bhojja suddenly halted. She always knew what to do at exactly the
right time. Torg had grown to love her. When he spoke, the fighting
stopped and all were transfixed. “Slag . . . show yourself.”
At first the larger Stone-Eater seemed to cower, but then red
flames spat from his eyes, and he regained a general’s swagger. “You
are surrounded, Death-Knower. There is no escape.”
“I am where I choose to be, Slag. I come and go as I please.”
“Why should I consort with one as pathetic as you, Torg? You
and your carrion are doomed, though you are too ignorant to
comprehend it.”
“If you believe we are stupid because we are unaware of the
druids, think again,” Torg said. “They are vanquished. The demon
knew better than you, and she was wise to flee. I would have tolerated
her no more than I do you.”
“Be gone, and take your lies with you,” the smaller Stone-Eater
said, though his voice sounded frightened. For a moment Torg shifted
his penetrating gaze toward the creature, causing him to shudder. But
then he re-focused his attention on Slag.
“A battle of champions, Slag? If you defeat me, the Tugars will
withdraw. I give you my word.”
“I will fight him, Father,” the smaller Stone-Eater shouted.
But Slag could not be so easily dismayed. “Stand back, Gulah. I
will destroy this fool and leave his Asēkhas for your pleasure.” Then he
raised his fist and shook it at Torg. “Withdraw? Ha! You are already
dead. Someone bring my cudgel.”
A witch came forward and presented Slag with a black club. It
flared when the Stone-Eater grasped it. Torg recognized it as a dragon
bone, which blackened when exposed to air but otherwise retained its
supernatural mettle. Such bones could not be damaged by ordinary
means.
Slag strode toward Torg, growling wickedly. His eyes glowed red;
his mouth spewed molten stone.
Torg dismounted. He wielded Paramita, its hilt damaged but its
blade still whole.
When they came face to face, Torg towered almost three spans
above Slag. But Stone-Eaters were many times stronger than they
appeared. A chant began among the enemy ranks, and the volume rose
like a torrent. “Slag . . . Slag . . . Slag . . .” It felt like lust. “Slag . . .
Slag . . . SLAG!”
Slag swung the club. Torg deflected the blow with his sword.
There was an explosive clash—red against blue—and it knocked Slag
backward.
Even so, the Stone-Eater’s cudgel remained intact while
Paramita’s blade snapped. Without the dragon jewel in its hilt, the
sword had become an inferior weapon to the dragon bone. Torg
tossed away the charred hilt.
Slag stood unsteadily, but when he saw the broken sword he
regained his confidence, charging at Torg in an attempt to strike
another immense blow. But Torg caught Slag’s wrist and wrenched the
cudgel from his grasp. Then he held the club aloft and shouted words
from the ancient tongue. Blue flame enveloped the dragon bone. A
cracking sound—loud as a wall of stone shorn from the side of a
mountain—shook the countryside, and the cudgel exploded into a
thousand fiery shards. Any who stood near were cut down, except for
the Asēkhas.
Steaming blood gushed from Slag’s neck where a sliver of bone
had pierced his hide, but the Stone-Eater ignored the pain. His rage
seemed to consume all else, and he rushed at Torg again, wrapping his
stocky arms around his waist and squeezing with enough force to snap
the trunk of a tree. But Torg’s magic protected him. It would take
more than the physical strength of a Stone-Eater to harm his body.
Faster than a snapping whip, Torg pounded his fists against Slag’s
temples. There was a sickening crunch.
The Stone-Eater stumbled,
arms flailing. Without pause, Torg continued his assault, leaping into
the air and simultaneously kicking Slag in the face and throat. The
Stone-Eater gagged and fell.
Torg was immediately upon him, a blur of power and grace. He
drove his weight feet-first onto Slag’s chest. The Stone-Eater’s ribs
burst apart, and blood spewed from his mouth, nostrils and ears. The
viscous gore stank like smoke.
The Asēkhas encircled Torg. Bhojja stood nearby, stomping the
ground with her huge hooves. Otherwise there was silence. The
chanting had stopped. Slag’s army was paralyzed by the sight of their
fallen leader.
Gulah fled down the side of the hill and disappeared from Torg’s
range of vision. But Torg had no interest in chasing after the other
Stone-Eater. He had a war to win.
He lifted Slag above his head, holding the back of his neck in one
hand and his right leg in the other. Then he twisted the quivering body,
snapping Slag’s spine. When he hurled the corpse into the arms of a
troll, the beast dropped it, stepped back, and wailed.
Torg leapt onto Bhojja’s back and thundered to the top of the hill.
Then he raised his arms high above his head. Blue power spurted from
his eyes, scorching the sky. “Nissaya! Jivita! Anna! It is time for
vengeance. Black knights! White horsemen! Desert warriors!
Unsheathe your swords, and strike down your foes. Murder and
mayhem. Blood and death. Show no mercy.”
Jivitans and Nissayans approached from the west, Tugars from the
east. Slag’s army, already stripped of its will, was trapped in a deadly
vise. In the chaotic battle that ensued, the forces of good destroyed
nearly all of the enemy. Great evils were removed from the world.
Torg and the Tugars reveled in the battle. On this day, they
quenched their thirst for blood.
Torg passed his first true test as king.
I am not fond of this genre. While it seems to be inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien's popularity with many iterations of his original novel, the focus on constant fighting to overcome perceived fanciful evil, is getting a little old. Tolkien, at least, focused on quests and redeeming traits rather than simply action for action's sake… Just another thriller with a lot of fighting to keep the adrenaline pumping, an unfortunate, and all too human, trait.
That said, the piece is well written, and I must commend you for keeping track of all the strange names, places, languages, and other stuff that you have to pack into any fantasy novel. The sad thing is, most fantasy is just human soap opera. True to life historical fiction is much more to my liking. And true stories are often much better than fictional ones.
Ragged and weary from their previous ordeals, Braxton and his motley crew of elves, dwarves, and humans, set off into the Wilderkind Forest in search of the Sapphire of Souls. The problem is, the last time anyone saw the powerful gem was over a hundr
Deemed One of the Top 10 indie Fantasy releases of 2010 by Fantasy Book Critic, and listed in the first ever Publishers Weekly Indie Select issue, the original 235k word epic title was written in longhand in a Texas prison cell by M. R. Mathias.
Now in its second edition, To Build a Tunnel is the first book of the trilogy, The Chronicles of Henry Roach-Dairier. This fantasy will be enjoyed by youth ages 10 or 11 and up, as well as adults. Younger readers enjoy the adventure. Adults see the a
