Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (4 page)

The maw was just wide enough to swallow the ring.

Which fell and fell.

Beyond mortal reach.

“I’m not Deva,” Mala repeated. “I’m not Deva!”

THOUGH MONSTERS attacked from all angles, Torg and the Asēkhas were thus far holding them back. Torg already had slain the largest Kojin he had ever seen, as well as a cave troll and half a dozen newborns. Despite this frenzy of activity, Torg sensed the pure
Maōi
draining Mala’s power, as if the infernal heat of a star was being absorbed by the blessed emptiness of eternity.

When the night sky turned bright as day, hope was again extinguished. An impossibly powerful blast knocked Torg off his feet. Only his warrior instincts enabled him to retain his grip on Obhasa and the Silver Sword. Fending off dizziness, Torg managed to stand and lean on his ivory staff for support. Meanwhile, the fighting continued all around him, Tugars and black knights against snarling newborns and a myriad of monsters.

From the tumult of clashing bodies, a dark shape emerged, small but formidable. Torg attempted to step past it, desperate to reach Utu. But the figure blocked his way.

BUNJAKO THE Stone-Eater had worried that Mala might fail. Whatever the other snow giant was doing seemed to be sucking the life out of the Chain Man—and perhaps with it, the will of his army. Like most of the others, Bunjako was a transfixed spectator.

The bolt from above changed everything. Bunjako was far enough away from the impact to keep his feet, but he saw the snow giant collapse beneath the force of the blast—and more importantly, the damnable Death-Knower cast brutally aside. Sensing an opportunity that might never come again, Bunjako fought through the tumult until he came face to face with the wizard.

“Do you know me,
Torgon
 . . .
?” Bunjako said, still holding a glowing chunk of the magically imbued obsidian. Then he swallowed the black stone, arched his back, and prepared to destroy the enemy he had grown to hate so much, the one who had murdered both his father, Gulah, and grandfather, Slag. The golden belt around his waist expanded, and his head sprang forward. But just before the obsidian vomited from his mouth, something long and sharp punched cruelly into his side, misdirecting his aim.

KUSALA RUSHED TO protect Torg. More by luck than design, the Asēkha chieftain stumbled into the Stone-Eater. Without hesitation, he punched the point of his
uttara
between the creature’s foul ribs and twisted the blade before wrenching it out. The obsidian burst from the monster’s mouth, launched into the sky, and soared toward the interior of the city. Whatever damage it caused was beyond Kusala’s range of vision, but the Stone-Eater, at least, would cause no further harm to anyone. He was already dead at Kusala’s feet, his carcass smoking.

“To Utu! To Utu!” Kusala heard Torg shouting, not just to him but to any Tugar within range. Then his king fought past him and disappeared into the slashing madness of the vicious battle.

KUSALA HAD REMOVED the threat of the Stone-Eater, and for this Torg was thankful, but now the courtyard was flooded with all manner of creatures from both armies—and Torg had barely room to move. The newborns fought with a ferocity born of hatred, pain, and starvation. If not for the Tugars, it would have quickly deteriorated into a rout. Using his sword and staff, Torg bashed, stabbed, and shoved his way through the throngs. Suddenly he burst into a clearing where even the monsters dared not enter. There he saw Mala just as he was nudging Utu’s ring into a hole in the stone.

With a rage he hadn’t felt since destroying the great spider Dukkhatu, Torg unleashed a flare of power from the head of Obhasa that surpassed all others he had ever conjured, striking Mala in the face.

The Chain Man collapsed.

But before Torg could approach any nearer to finish Mala off, a pair of Kojins came to their master’s aid, screeching in their peculiar fashion. Protectively, they huddled over him and were joined by more than a dozen cave trolls. Torg started forward, intent on killing them all, if possible, but a female Asēkha suddenly leapt in front of him.

“My lord, King Henepola is in danger!” Churikā screamed. “Only you can save him.”

Torg hesitated, torn between his desire to kill one being and his desire to save another, but then he left Mala behind and followed Churikā even deeper into the chaos of battle.

WHEN THE SKY lit up, Henepola’s first thought was that God had chosen that moment to arise from his sleep and vanquish the forces of evil. But when he saw Utu collapse, the king of Nissaya realized that a god other than his own had intervened. Then the newborns came in droves, and Henepola was driven away from the broken gate of Hakam.

The king waved his staff of
Maōi
back and forth, showering the attackers with milky globs of energy. Even the newborns could not withstand him. But his black knights were no match for the golden creatures, and they were being slaughtered by the hundreds, then stripped of their armor and cruelly devoured.

“Father, they are too strong and too many,” he heard Madiraa shout. “And they desecrate our people.”

“Stay near me!” was all he could think to say.

“I am with you, as well,” Indajaala said. “As are most of the conjurers and several Asēkhas, but Utu has fallen, and Torg has been swept away.”

Slowly they were forced backward toward the main causeway that led from the courtyard into the front portion of the congested city. Henepola witnessed a black knight slay a vampire and then realized it was Palak who had performed the deed. One of his conjurers struck down a ghoul before a troll trampled him. A horrific creature with the body of a spider but the head of a man leapt at one of the Asēkhas but was vanquished with a blur of strokes and left wiggling on its back without the use of its eight gnarled legs—though its head continued to emit a sickeningly humanlike wail.

Then Henepola noticed that several hundred Tugars were backing toward him, engaged in battle with an enormous shape that emerged from the darkness like a walking mountain. There was just enough starlight and torchlight to reveal the remaining three-headed giant stomping toward him, casting aside all in its path with titanic sweeps of its hammer. Even the desert warriors were no match for its ferocity.

Henepola sighed. “You are right, my daughter,” he thought, “they are too strong and too many.” Nonetheless, the conjurer king strode forward to meet the monster, his long white hair flowing beneath his black helm.

“Father
 . . .
no!” he heard Madiraa shout. But Henepola paid her no heed, watching as the giant swung the hammer downward. Henepola leapt aside just in time to avoid the crushing blow. The great iron head smashed the stone near his feet, casting shards of granite. Now on his knees, Henepola aimed his staff and unleashed a terrific blast of milky fire, striking the creature in the chest with enough force to stagger it.

While Henepola was preoccupied, a dracool swept down from the sky and tried to ambush him, but an unseen bead from a Tugar sling dropped the
baby dragon
a few paces from where Henepola knelt. The dracool, far heavier than a man, rolled when it fell and knocked Henepola onto his side. From this position, Henepola unleashed a second blast to the giant’s chest, but it had less effect than the first. The titan swung the hammer again, splattering the stone less than a pace from where he lay. Then it raised the tree-sized weapon above its head in preparation for a third blow.

However, before the giant could attack again, its middle head tilted oddly and then tumbled off its shoulders to the ground. The outside heads wailed in agony before meeting similar fates, one after the other. The giant’s enormous knees gave way, and the body followed, sagging with surreal gentleness before collapsing onto its chest. From amid the ruin of the gigantic carcass came
The Torgon
, flicking blood off the blade of the Silver Sword.

Henepola stood and heard cheering all around.

FENDING OFF NEWBORNS and other monsters, Kusala fought his way back to Henepola just in time to see Torg scramble up the giant’s back and wreak havoc with the Silver Sword. Kusala cheered along with the rest, but then his eyes opened wide, and he shouted words of warning to Henepola that the cacophony of battle drowned out. Unseen by all but a few, a Kojin charged from the darkness and grabbed the king from behind, squeezing with crushing force. The
Maōi
staff tumbled from Henepola’s grasp and clattered onto the stone floor, casting angry sparks from its head. From his chest to his knees, the king’s armor crinkled like tin.

Madiraa cried out, “Father!”

Shrieking in triumph, the Kojin released Henepola from her grasp. The king landed on his sollerets, sagged to his knees, and collapsed onto his chest in the same almost gentle manner as the giant had so recently fallen.

Kusala reached the Kojin first, lashing at the ogress’s heavily muscled thigh. The magical sheath withstood the blow, but his assault bought the time needed for Torg to close the gap. The wizard leapt in the air, spun, and took off the Kojin’s head. Purple flames spewed in all directions.

Torg’s heroics came too late. Henepola was mortally wounded, blood oozing from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. But his eyes continued to glow defiantly. For a few moments the nearby fighting halted, as it had when Utu and Mala had come together. Sobbing, Madiraa knelt and took her father’s head in her arms, but the king seemed more intent on Kusala, gesturing for him to come closer. Kusala dropped to his hands and knees and pressed his ear against the king’s bloodied mouth.

“Take her
 . . .
to the keep,” Henepola said. “Don’t let her die
 . . .
like this.”

Though Indajaala stood nearby, Madiraa was the only other close enough to hear. “Father
 . . .
I won’t run. Not now.”

Henepola continued to focus on Kusala. “Take her to the keep.
Please
 . . .
I love her so much.” Finally he turned to Madiraa. “I love
you
so much.”

Then the glow left the king’s eyes, and life passed from his body. Madiraa continued to sob, cradling her father much as she had on the balcony of the great keep named Nagara. The snow giant Utu had healed Henepola then, but now there was no hope of a miracle cure. The king of Nissaya was no longer.

Torg leaned down. “There is nothing to be done for him. Even if Utu were here, healing would not be possible. You must honor his final request and retreat to the keep.”

“I will
not
!” the princess said.

“Madiraa, you must honor his request,” Kusala agreed. “Besides, the keep is far from this place. There’ll be plenty of fighting to be done between here and Nagara.”

This made Madiraa smile, but her expression was filled with madness. Then she stood and raised her sword high above her head. “Squires of the king, heed my call! Bear my father’s body and his staff to Nagara and burn them with honor upon the pyre prepared for this occasion. Thus will King Henepola X avoid desecration.”

Even as she spoke, the fighting grew heavy all around them, and the air became filled with snarls, screams, and the clanging sounds of longswords careening off the newborns’ magical armor. An escort of black knights and Tugars bore Henepola away. Kusala looked to Torg for orders, but once again the wizard stunned him with his commands.

“Henepola knew the truth,” Torg said. “The fortress is lost. Not even the Tugars can prevent a slaughter. Call my warriors to your side and lead them and the princess to the keep. Escape through the catacombs and then march as quickly as you can to Jivita. I will meet you there.”

“Lord, will you not fight alongside us?”

“I must go to Utu,” Torg said. “He might still live—and if not, I will see to it that his body is not desecrated. If possible, I will return to you. But do not wait for me. Once you are inside Nagara, seal its doors and flee. Before all is said and done, you and I will meet again.”

The wizard sprinted toward the entrance of Hakam. For a moment, Kusala stood motionless, watching his king disappear into a throng of hideous monsters. But then Churikā was yanking on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Chieftain, our position is difficult to defend. We must make for the keep. It’s now or never!”

Kusala nodded. But before he started forward, he looked toward the sky and let out a high-pitched shriek that was audible only to his own people. The chieftain had called the Tugars, and they would come without question, though anything that blocked their path along the way would be fair game.

Their company started toward the keep, which loomed in the heart of Nissaya like a symbol of escape. It was a long and winding march from where they stood, and the streets were flooded with thousands of the enemy. Kusala shuddered to think what horrors already were occurring inside the city. But, as Torg had said, there was little he or the Tugars could do about it now. When Utu failed to destroy Mala, their hopes of avoiding a slaughter had ended.

Kusala, Madiraa, and Indajaala led the way. Two dozen conjurers, seventeen Asēkhas, several thousand Tugars, and at least fifty score black knights joined them. Overall, the monsters were far greater in strength and number, but the concentrated force surrounding Kusala and the princess was too dense to penetrate. They flew into the city like a spear, gliding through the streets and casting aside anything that stood in their path.

The monsters were vicious and ravenous, but also disorganized, especially with Mala nowhere to be seen. To anyone not familiar with its layout, Nissaya appeared to be a titanic labyrinth of narrow streets, courtyards, and blind alleys. Though the newborns and other monsters numbered more than five thousand score, there remained a lot of territory to be covered and countless places to hide. In terms of nooks and crannies, Nissaya resembled the world’s largest termite mound.

Kusala felt as if he were in the feverish throes of a nightmare. The darkness swarmed with myriad sounds, which all told were as loud as an army of humming druids. Though he stayed within a pace of Madiraa, he could barely hear anything she said, even when she shouted orders. Flashes of magic filled the smoky air, lighting the sky like fireworks. The conjurers of Nissaya fought bravely alongside the black knights and Tugars, unleashing gouts of milky flame from their staffs of
Maōi.
But beings of superior magic pursued them, including the Warlish witches, Stone-Eaters, and remaining Kojins.

To make matters worse, Kusala sensed rather than saw an even greater menace closing in from behind. Mala had joined the chase. Kusala urged Madiraa to quicken their pace. If the Chain Man overcame them before they reached Nagara, they would be doomed.

A cave troll that stood at least seven cubits tall thundered within an arm’s length of Madiraa and punched at her with a boulder-sized fist. But the blow never met its mark. Instead, the hand separated from the wrist and thumped onto the pebbled causeway. The troll’s resultant howl halted abruptly when its head leapt into the air. Kusala saw Podhana flick kohl-colored blood off his blade before plunging back into the horde.

Suddenly, the causeway narrowed, creating a funneling effect that slowed their retreat. They were sandwiched by tall black buildings, some hollowed from natural stone spires but most made of stone blocks sheathed with ashlars. Nissayan archers leaned from many of the windows, and Kusala marveled at their courage. Rather than flee to the deepest recesses of the fortress, they chose to fight. Kusala saluted them.

They moved so quickly and in such a restricted area, the slowest and weakest began to stumble and fall, and those who did were trampled. It grew even worse when refugees joined the evacuation. More than once, Kusala heard things squish and crunch beneath his boots, yet he could not have stopped had he tried with all his strength. He felt as if he were trapped in the currents of an angry river, the buildings resembling towering cliffs and the streets channels and sluices.

Though he knew Nissaya well, Kusala began to feel disoriented. Nothing looked as he remembered, and he realized that he was lost, trusting whoever led them. Suddenly, a shower of golden fire swept over their heads, and from it fell tiny gold beads, each as deadly as a spoonful of molten stone. The beads seared through helm and skull alike. One landed on top of Kusala’s head, and though it did no serious harm to his Tugarian flesh, it was quite painful. This was Mala’s work.