Healed by Hope (26 page)

70

LEEMOR, HIGH PRIESTESS of the Sāykan army that held sway over Kamupadana, held her oaken staff in front of her in the same way she would a shield. Alābha-Abhinno, the reigning queen of the Warlish witches, was ranting again, storming this way and that on the second floor of the ziggurat and casting bursts of magic from her gorgeous fingertips that came dangerously close to searing flesh. Alābha’s hag servants—some beautiful, some ugly—lay snarling and sobbing on the floor.

Leemor found the entire scene offensive. In the past, she had often admired the Warlish witches for their cold calculability, but now things had changed—much for the worse. Alābha and her remaining brood seemed to have lost control of their minds, and they were giving orders that made no sense. Her Sāykan scouts had assured her that there was no army within many leagues of Kamupadana, yet Alābha had ordered them all to withdraw within the fifth wall and prepare for an invasion.

“He issss coming!” Alābha said.

“Who’s coming?” Leemor said, trying to remain calm. “Tell me, so that I can prepare.”

“Don’t patronize meeee, you fool!” Alābha shouted. “Look into Vedana’s basin, and you’ll ssssee for yourself.”

“I
have
looked. The basin reveals nothing.”

“Because you are
blind
,” Alābha said. “At least Nammu had ssssome sense of what she was doing.” Then to Leemor’s amazement, the Warlish witch sprang forward, knocked the staff from her grasp, and wrapped her hands around Leemor’s throat. “Our mother is dead . . .
really
dead . . . and he issss coming . . . for us!”

The strength of the witch’s hands stunned Leemor, and she dropped to her knees, hoping that another priestess or a soldier might witness her distress and come to her rescue. But it proved unnecessary. Alābha loosed her grip and allowed Leemor to spill gasping and coughing onto the floor.

“He issss coming,” Alābha repeated. “Without mother, what will we do?”

Leemor crawled away, dragging her staff along with her. She reached the stairwell and clambered upward. A pair of soldiers finally found her and helped her to her chamber on the fourth floor. Once there, she collapsed into a cushioned chair and sipped honey wine to soothe her throat.

“What are your orders, priestess?” said the high-ranking captain who had managed to survive Torg’s attack at the base of the ziggurat several months before. “The witches have gone mad. One of them leapt off the fifth wall and wandered naked into the moat, where she allowed the eels to devour her. Another attacked a full squadron of soldiers and slew half a score before we could subdue her—and only then because she suddenly quit fighting and begged to be stabbed in the heart.”

Leemor sighed. “For whatever reason, the Warlish witches are no longer dependable allies. It appears we must cast them from Kamupadana by force, before they threaten all of us. But that will be easier said than done.”

“Priestess, they cannot stand against ten thousand warriors,” the captain said. “And twenty priestesses also remain, yet the witches are fewer than a dozen.”

“Who knows what the Warlish are capable of?” Leemor said. “Certainly they have the strength to destroy me and the other priestesses, and I would just as soon that not happen.”

“The Sāykans are sworn to defend both the priestesses and the witches, but the priestesses were here first, and it is with you that our true loyalty lies. You need but say the word, and we will march against the witches and their hags and drive them from the fifth wall—and beyond. Even without your orders, we already have closed off the first floor of the ziggurat so that they cannot escape through the tunnels below.”

Before Leemor could respond, several more soldiers burst into the chamber.

“High Priestess,” said one, “Alābha and her brood have departed the ziggurat and are rushing to the fifth wall. With the arrival of dawn, a challenge has come from without.”

“What is the nature of this challenge?” Leemor said.

“I know naught, other than rumors that gods have come to assail our walls.”

71

THE MASTER SWORD-MAKER sat in a chair in the cluttered bedroom and hunkered over a wooden table. His work was nearly complete. The Silver Sword had a new guard, hilt, and pommel, though the materials used to complete this reconstruction were vastly inferior to the metal of the blade. The sword-maker’s stubby assistant, still wearing a blood-spattered tunic, held the flat of the blade with a pair of padded wooden tongs while his master completed the final crossover of the hilt binding. The master had chosen black silk braiding and a basic style of wrapping.

“He told me to keep it simple, master,” the assistant had said.

“For a blade this beautiful? Is he some sort of fool? You said he was dressed like a Svakaran?”

“Yes, master . . . but he was no savage. And he had powerful magic. You saw what he did to my belly.”

“I saw what you
said
he did.”

The sword-maker completed the wrapping and then examined the blade again. In the candlelight, the metal shone brightly—but coldly. The master ran a thick wooden peg against one of the cutting edges, and the peg split in two as if made of paper.

“I have been fashioning swords for fifty years, and I am held in high regard in many places. But never have I seen a blade anywhere near the equal of this one. No sword ever made can be struck edge to edge without the likelihood of some sort of damage. Even the legendary
uttaras
can be notched. But this blade . . . if you slammed it against granite, it would suffer no harm. It is . . . magnificent. I
must
have it.”

“He
paid
us, master . . .”

“Then I will pay him more in return. Everything has a price.”

“The Silver Sword is not for sale,” came a deep voice from just outside the doorway. A tall, muscled man, dressed all in black, lowered his head and stepped inside the room.

“It’s him, master,” the assistant said. “I told you he was big.”

An extraordinarily beautiful woman followed the man into the chamber. She also wore black, though she carried a white staff. “Well done,” she said, gesturing toward the rewrapped hilt.

For one of the few times in his life, the master was speechless. The woman was more magnificent than the sword.

She smiled knowingly, then looked up at the large man, who also was beautiful. “Do you approve, beloved?”

“It will do,” he said. Then in a blur of motion he swiped the sword off the tabletop and whipped it above his head, just avoiding the ceiling. Crackles of light filled the air and popped like miniature bursts of thunder. The large man smiled. “It will do,” he repeated. Then he looked down at the master and his assistant. “You have been paid—better even than you realize. Think no more of the Silver Sword . . . and dare not desire it. This weapon is mine, and I love it. No army now exists that could take it from me, much less two men such as you.”

Gravely, the master bowed. “I am honored to have even touched it.”

“Me too!” the assistant said. Then with sincere passion, he added, “Thank you, great sir . . . for saving me life.”

The large man nodded. “All debts have been paid between us. Leave us now, for we are weary.”

72

TORG AND LAYLAH slept upon the bed on which they had first met. Though it was small and lumpy, it felt as luxurious as the finest mattress in Jivita. Before dawn they arose and drank black tea and ate white cakes the innkeeper’s aide brought to their room.

“What now?” Laylah said.

“We make our presence known.”

“And if we are attacked?”

Torg smiled, but it was a dangerous smile. “My love, none remain who can withstand us.”

As the sun rose hot and brilliant, Torg and Laylah made their way through the streets of Kamupadana, dressed all in black. Torg bore the Silver Sword in a scabbard on his back, and the sorceress carried Obhasa. They passed through gateways in the seventh and sixth walls before emerging between a pair of bathhouses and approaching the dreaded moat that surrounded the fifth wall of the Whore City. The great drawbridge that spanned the moat had been raised, partially disassembled, and carried inside the bulwark. The wall walk of the fifty-cubit-tall bulwark was lined with hundreds of archers aiming the tips of their arrows at the wizard and sorceress.

Unafraid, Torg walked to the edge of the moat, with Laylah at his side. Sheaths of magic made them impervious to ordinary weapons. No arrow could harm them, no matter where it might strike.

“As king of Anna and leader of the free peoples of Triken, I have come to this place to make a pronouncement,” he said in a voice so loud he could be heard all the way to the ziggurat. “Bring your masters forward. I wish to speak to them directly.”

A beautiful woman peered over the parapet, but even from a distance, Torg could see that she was disheveled in a way that betrayed her physical perfection. “How dare youuuu come here, after all that youuuu have done!” she screamed, though her voice sounded weak in comparison to Torg’s.

“We do as we please,” Torg said, nodding toward Laylah. “We are above all command.” Then he swept his gaze along the wall walk. “But when I asked for your masters, I was not referring to Warlish whores. They are beyond redemption and no longer have a place in this world. It is the priestesses who should heed my call. They might yet play a role in the rebuilding of Triken.”

There was a shrieking sound, followed by puffs of black smoke that rose like wobbling bubbles in the still air. Then a monster appeared where the beautiful woman had once been. She pointed a gnarled finger and said, “Strike them down, you fools . . .
now
!”

Of the hundreds of arrows that could have been unleashed, only a pitiful dozen or so were loosed, and none came within a stone’s throw of their mark. Soon after, nasty arguments arose from behind the parapet. Blasts of crimson light followed. The arrows once aimed at Torg and Laylah suddenly drew inward, and there were whizzing sounds and yelps. This lasted for quite some time, during which Torg and Laylah stood motionless.

“You knew this would happen?” Laylah said in a voice only Torg could hear.

“I am certain of nothing, other than impermanence,” he said, though his expression was full of mischief.

Eventually, a plain-featured woman of indeterminate age leaned over the parapet. She held a tall wooden staff that appeared from a distance to be on fire. Several others of similar ilk joined her.

“We’re listening,” the woman said.

“The witches?”

“The one named Alābha is no longer. Two others also have fallen. The rest have . . .
retreated
 . . . back to the ziggurat.”

“I would like to hear your reasons for turning against them,” Laylah said, her voice also magically amplified.

The plain-featured woman smiled. “We have grown weary of their occupation. It is time for a change.”

At this, the soldiers who lined the wall walk cheered.

Torg drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and held it high. “I agree,” he proclaimed. “But tell me, what will you do to ensure the end of this occupation?”

“We will hunt down the witches and cast them from Kamupadana.”

“And if they resist?”

“We will cast them into the hell from which they came.”

Torg swept the sword through the air. The new hilt felt good in his hands. There was a flash of light, followed by an explosion so loud that the eels were awakened, causing the surface of the moat to boil.

“I will return, with the Tugars at my side,” he said. “I will not tell you when, only that this will be so. And my queen will be with me.” Then he knelt and lowered the point of the sword into the black water, willing a surge of blue-green energy from his hand into the blade. Instantly, the water began to hiss, and a foul mist arose. When he finally backed away from the moat, thousands of eels floated lifelessly on its surface.

A profound silence ensued.

The mist cleared.

Torg said, “Upon our return, how will we be greeted?”

The woman raised her staff and cracked it with surprising force against the cream-colored stone. “Kamupadana will be yours to do with as you will,” she said.

To this, there were neither cheers nor jeers.

Only silence.

73

THEY DEPARTED Kamupadana without further incident, though Laylah insisted that they say goodbye to the innkeeper and her skinny assistant one final time.

As if honored, the innkeeper whispered, “Please don’t tell anybody, but my name’s Mary and his is Ted. We’re kind of fond of each other, to be honest.” Then she sighed. “If I had known that dear old Ugga and Bard were going to meet their maker in that damnable war, then I’d have told them our names, too. I miss them two boys something fierce.”

“They knew your name,” Ted murmured. Then his cheeks blushed. “Sorry, Mary. I told Bard and Ugga your name a long time ago.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Mary said. She seemed surprised, but not displeased.

Laylah laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. The days of having to conceal your names are over. When Torg and I return, we will not be alone. But when we return, may the two of us stay with you again?”

Mary blushed. “To be honest, missus, there are nicer inns in Kamupadana than this one. For such great people as you . . .”

“There is no nicer inn in the world, as far as I’m concerned,” Laylah said.

Afterward, Mary gave them each a pack with plenty of food, wine, and extra clothing. “They’re heavy, but you both seem strong enough to carry them. Still, we could get you horses, or there are men you could hire.”

Torg waved her off. “It won’t be necessary. Thank you so much for your generosity.” Then he reached into a pouch and withdrew a white diamond the size of his fist. “For you, Mary.”

The innkeeper was aghast. “This is worth more than my entire inn . . . worth more than most of the inns put together. I could . . .
retire
.”

“It is worth even more than you know,” Torg said. “For it came from a very special place, deep within a mountain. But please don’t retire. Instead, how about if you just spruce up the décor a bit?”

Laylah smiled. “Yes, Mary . . . have some fun. That’s what Ugga and Bard would have wanted you to do.”

“You know, missus . . . you’re right. That’s exactly what my boys would have wanted. And that’s what I’m”—she winked at Ted—“
we’re
going to do.”