Healed by Hope (3 page)

This amazed Rati. “Will we not make the attempt?”

“I didn’t say that,” Podhana said. “But first we will rest. In the meantime, perhaps the darkness will lose its infernal grip.”

Rati nodded. “It will be as you command, chieftain.”

Guided by the light of tridents and torches, they entered the gates. The open areas they encountered were eerily empty. Either every fiend in the vicinity had been slain, or those that survived had finally realized their peril and wandered to locations where their human prey didn’t put up such a ferocious fight. The Tugars and Pabbajja entered Avici and quickly found numerous places to eat and sleep. The homes and businesses contained a plethora of lamps and candles. But even when lighted, no fiends approached.

There was no way to determine the time of day or how long they slept. The outside air grew even chillier, but inside they lay beside blazing hearths. It pleased Rati to see that the Pabbajja ate ordinary food and drank copious amounts of wine, though the Asēkha never was able to detect even a hint of lips or teeth behind all the hair. Only the protruding eyes were visible, yet Rati found that he somehow was able to read their expressions. And he grew to love his diminutive companions.

Eventually, Podhana called them all together to begin a cautious march up the main causeway. Quickly they encountered pockets of fiends, some numbering one hundred or more, which were easily dispatched. Otherwise, the city was lifeless and devoid of light. Rati felt like he was walking inside a haunted cavern a thousand fathoms beneath the surface of the world.

The company wound this way and that and might have become lost had the main road not been broader than the lesser avenues. They moved slowly and drearily toward the apex of the dead volcano upon which Avici had been constructed. When they reached the top and gazed into the darkness, what they saw amazed them. The ruins of Uccheda were spread in all directions, glowing like the cinders of a fire kicked angrily apart. Millions of tons of golden stone glowed dimly, yet there was enough illumination to create a temporary oasis in the otherwise disconcerting darkness. Down they went, cautious yet curious.

Tew and Dhītar approached Rati, each bearing a smoking torch.

“I would not have believed it if I had not seen it with my own eyes,” the pirate said. “The tower was too strong to fall. Who has this kind of power?”

Rati shook his head. “I have no idea. But let’s hope the sorcerer fell along with it.”

They walked among the glowing chunks of crumbled stone, searching for signs of survivors. Amazingly, a lone and mighty tree remained standing amid the rubble, as if too stubborn to be uprooted by the upheavals. Eventually, the Tugars and Pabbajja, seven thousand strong, gathered around an enormous slab of gold-coated stone that must have weighed more than a hundred tons.

Yet something beneath it was great enough to cause the slab to quiver.

“Chieftain, do we dare move this obstruction?” Rati said. “What if the sorcerer is trapped beneath?”

Podhana chuckled ruefully. “The sorcerer would not be hindered, even by this.” Then he held his arms aloft. “Tugars! I have a task for you.”

The desert warriors pressed against the slab and slid it aside with relative ease, revealing a misty stairwell clogged with debris. From the battered darkness arose a being far larger, in stature, than Invictus.

“Yama-Deva,” Podhana said.

The snow giant looked about—and then smiled, revealing fangs that Rati did not find threatening.

“I have decided that I’m not quite ready to die,” Deva said.

“I am more than pleased,” Podhana said. Then in almost a whisper: “
The Torgon
? Was he here?”

“He was. I know naught where he has gone, but I believe he still lives.”

Podhana sighed. “And Invictus?”

“He is no longer.”

There was a collective gasp. Then the chieftain knelt at the giant’s feet and pressed his face against the valley floor—in obeisance.

Unabashedly, Rati joined him.

As did seven thousand others, including the rascally pirate.

4

ALMOST TWO WEEKS had passed since Rati and the nineteen Tugars had departed Anna in their quest to unveil the meaning of the High Monk’s vision. Since then, Aya had noted that several events of significance had happened in and around the Tent City in the desert Tējo. First, the Simōōn had been rebuilt, and for this there was rejoicing. But two days later, on the eve of the quarter moon, Gutta had sensed his ascension to Asēkha, an occurrence that had brought little pleasure to anyone in the Tent City, including Gutta himself. Somewhere, another Asēkha had fallen.

“Rati, are you with us no longer?” Gutta had wondered. “Or has one of the other
Viisati
perished in a far-off land?”

Not long after, all of the Tugars remaining in Anna, including Aya, had been dealt another blow. In unison they experienced the demise of
The Torgon
, casting the inhabitants of the Tent City into despair. Those who had been blinded in the battle with Tathagata seemed to suffer most of all. Even worse, they knew neither how nor what had occurred, surmising only that their king had fallen at the hands of Mala or the sorcerer. Who else had the power to commit such a heinous crime? And who now would lead the Tugars? Kusala was the obvious successor, but it was even possible that he was among the fallen and the reason for Gutta’s ascension. It was as if the citizens of Anna had been cut off from all news of the outside world. The times were dire, indeed.

The peculiar darkness that came next had caused even more distress. Near dawn, the cloud had approached from the northwest like a rushing tide, flooding the sky with blue-blackness as opaque as stone. Most of the inhabitants of the Tent City already were awake and beginning their morning ablutions when the darkness appeared, throwing the lesser among them into a state of confusion. It had been difficult for Aya to gather everyone together, even with the help of a thousand Tugars and their Vasi masters. Still, most had reacted with relative calmness, using torches woven from sagebrush leaves to light their way. Even the little girl Nimm and her foster mother Ura had been brave about it.

Including those who were not warriors, thousands gathered around hastily built fires fueled by piles of camel dung; yet Aya could see only a fraction of them all, so consuming was the darkness. Gutta stood next to him, along with Mudu the Vasi master and Dammawansha the High Monk. It was time for a speech, though Aya was uncertain what to say.

“Tugars, citizens of Anna, and noble ones,” he shouted loudly enough for all to hear. “I know naught the origin or intent of this sorcery. Many of us witnessed its approach from the direction of Avici, so I’m sure it has entered your mind that Invictus is to blame. But I’m not so certain. Do you not smell the sweet essence of Death Energy in the air?
The Torgon
no longer walks among us, or at least we so believe. But I wonder if the apparition in the sky is not a sign of hope rather than despair. What say you, High Monk?”

If Dammawansha was surprised to be addressed, he did not show it. A chill breeze ruffled the monk’s robes as he spoke. “I am not overly fond of visions—especially those that come from noble ones. The monks and nuns of Dibbu-Loka are trained to believe in what we see, not what we imagine. Yet many of you know that Asēkha-Rati left Anna on a dangerous quest purely to pursue the untenable threads of my conjurations.” The monk’s bald head glistened in the firelight. “To make a long story short, as my new friend Mudu is fond of saying, I believe that
The Torgon
still lives, and that it was he who gave birth to this darkness.”

“Ema!
Ema!”
the Tugars chanted hopefully.

Aya turned to the High Monk. “Why do you believe this?”

Dammawansha spoke in a voice that only Aya and a few others could hear. “I have had another vision, even stronger than the first. I tell you that
The Torgon
will return to Anna—and with him will be a wife . . . who is with son.”

5

IN JIVITA, THE dark cloud did not arrive until the first hints of dawn had already brightened the eastern horizon. Vikkama and the other Asēkhas who had remained in the White City were dismayed more by the resultant chaos than by the darkness. Many of the citizens, and at least some of the white horsemen, panicked and became dangerous. Hundreds ran screaming through the streets, proclaiming that the
One God
had come to wreak vengeance on the unbelievers who walked among them. Vikkama was forced to head-butt an obese citizen who tried to stab her with a dagger, causing the harmless fool to tumble backward and disappear into the black air, as if swallowed whole. Somehow, Burly found his way to their side, his tiny staff providing as much light as a dozen torches.

“We must build a fire . . . an
enormous
fire!” the enchanter said to Vikkama. “I can show you where there is plenty of wood, well-seasoned. You must haul it to the fields north of the palace. If we build a fire, they will come.”

Vikkama had learned that it was not wise to ignore Burly’s suggestions. The Gillygaloo seemed to know everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, and he exploited them with good intentions.

Within a bell of the mysterious cloud’s arrival, the Asēkhas had constructed a bonfire behind the queen’s palace that was twenty paces broad and two stories tall. Even then, it could be seen for only about a quarter mile, so the warriors added even more fuel to the fire, tossing in anything that burned, including small trees ripped from the ground and ornate furniture that in past times would have been considered obscenely valuable.

The horses arrived first—by the hundreds and then thousands. Vikkama sensed little distress in their demeanor. In their clever minds it was just a particularly long and dark night, their other senses making up for their lack of sight. But the fire was hot and interesting, and so they came. It took the humans a while longer to respond, but eventually they also were attracted to the flames, which now sprang above the tall rooftop of the palace. Vikkama recognized Bernard, Julich, and even Navarese, the latter of whom had grown disconcertingly thin in the past few days. Most of the others also were hollow-eyed and slumped, as if the stress of defending Jivita against the potential threat of the sorcerer were some kind of disease.

Archbishop Bernard was the first to speak, which did not surprise Vikkama in the slightest. Bernard, Burly, and Captain Julich were the best of this bunch, in her warrior’s opinion.

“Good people of Jivita,” Bernard bellowed, his voice rising above the crackling flames. “It is wise that we have come together, for these are dire times, and the darkness has brought out the worst in some people.”

“
Ekadeva
is punishing us!” an unidentified voice shouted back.

“Punishing us?” Bernard said. “Why would that be?”

“For allowing the unbelievers to walk
unpunished
among us,” another said.

“Do you mean the Tugars?” the archbishop said, his tone exaggerating his puzzlement. “They have walked freely among us—and fought by our sides—for our lifetimes and many before. Why would
Ekadeva
just now become angry?”

To this, there was no response. Vikkama stomped forward. “We returned to Jivita for one reason only—to offer assistance to the good people of the White City. The dark cloud is not of our doing, and you’d be fools to blame us for it. But if you want the Asēkhas to leave, we will do so immediately. We have been long from our homes—and we are weary.”

Now Navarese came forward, though the very act of walking seemed to overwhelm him. Only those within a few dozen paces could hear his first words above the crackle of the enormous fire. “I have finally come to realize that Queen Rajinii was right all along,” he mumbled.

“Speak up!”

“Can’t hear you!”

The general cleared his throat and then spoke in a much louder and angrier tone. “Queen Rajinii was right!” he repeated. “There is no glory in surviving such a battle.
Ekadeva
cares only for the dead.”

“No, general!” Bernard said with alarm. “Your words are tainted by sorrow and exhaustion. You know as well as I that the
One God
loves all his children, living or dead. However, you
are
right in one regard: It is only the living that he tests.”

“If this is a test, then I have failed,” Navarese said, his voice again weak. Then he staggered into the darkness and disappeared. Fulcher Grousset, the general’s personal guard, chased after him.

“What did he say?” people were shouting.

“Why did he leave? We couldn’t
hear
!”

Bernard tried to calm them, his voice booming yet somehow gentle. “The general needs to rest . . . that is all. Do not be concerned.” Then he raised his voice another notch. “However, there is something you
should
be concerned about. Anyone among us who would presume to condemn the Tugars is not a true child of
Ekadeva
. The
One God
loves all his children and certainly has room in his heaven for those who have courageously shed blood on Jivita’s behalf. I am ashamed that such words were spoken.”

This was greeted with obstinacy. Vikkama and the other Asēkhas stood together, wary of the distrustful faces that loomed beyond the reach of the firelight.

What happened next amazed Vikkama. Burly the enchanter leapt upon her broad shoulder and whispered in her ear. “Please step closer to the fire, so that all might see us. It is time for
me
to speak—and I have wonderful news. Would you hold out your hand and allow me to stand upon it? To one as great as you, I will weigh but a trifle.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Vikkama whispered back.

And so, Burly stood on the palm of her outreached hand and waved his magic wand. Behind him, the flames roared in response, casting sparks as varied and bright as fireworks. When he spoke, his usually squeaky voice was loud enough to be heard for a great distance.

“
The Torgon
still lives,” the Gillygaloo bellowed. “We know this because he has walked among us. We also know that he recently left Jivita with the goal of defeating the sorcerer. I am here to tell you that Torg has succeeded. Invictus has been destroyed by the very darkness you have grown to despise!”

Vikkama expected another uproar, but instead there was profound silence, broken only by the crackling fire and then by a good-natured nicker from a stallion that stood nearby. This prompted laughter, a sound that warmed the Asēkha’s heart.

Captain Julich came forward and bowed respectfully. “Burly Boulogne, are you certain?”

The enchanter nodded his tiny head. “Queen Rajinii, if she still lived, would have uttered these same words. I have sensed the sorcerer’s demise, and the joy of it astounds me. Triken is free!”

“And what of Queen Laylah?” Julich said.

“Of that, I cannot be certain,” Burly said, lowering his voice so that only a few could hear. “But I believe that she also lives.”

Vikkama sighed with relief. Then smiled—and laughed.

The Asēkha felt lightness in the air that had not been there before. The enchanter’s words rang true.

TO NAVARESE, THERE was no other explanation.
Ekadeva
, the
One God,
had forsaken him. It was one thing to leave a city poorly defended, another to shroud it in blackness as horrid as blasphemy. What had he and his people done to deserve such punishment? Were his failures so unforgivable? His queen had
ordered
him to retreat from the Green Plains. Was she not now speaking on his behalf before
Ekadeva
’s throne?
Why
this darkness?

Navarese fled the fires, fled his people, into the mysterious nothingness. The ground at his feet was soft and forgiving, but the black air into which he ran swallowed him without regret. He was blind.

Voices, behind him, clambered at his heels. He had no desire to listen. What meaning did they hold? None that he could discern.

Now he was on his knees, sobs wrenching his throat and chest, tearing sanity from his sinews. He was alone in a world as black as hopelessness, and not even his god was there to render assistance.

Then the horses came. He sensed that he was surrounded by huge, powerful bodies. Snorts as loud as explosions encompassed his kneeling form. In the minds of the destriers, Navarese was not a failure. Instead, he was one of their beloved masters.

The general found the resolve to stand. Though he could not see, he was able to hear, smell, and touch. The great horses pressed against him, proud and unafraid, the heat from their bodies as intense as furnaces.

Finally Navarese understood his god’s mind.

Now he was unafraid. Never again would he question his god.