Blinded by Power: 5 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (28 page)

THOUGH PODHANA was more than two leagues from the battlefield when Kusala was slain, the Asēkha sensed the moment that the chieftain fell. In instances where a second in command was not alive and prepared to ascend, chieftains were permitted to choose their successor from any among The Twenty. But if a chieftain died suddenly without a second in command in place, then the highest of the
Viisati
was elevated.

Podhana was the eldest, by one decade over Rati, and also considered next in line to assume control. But the Asēkha was anything but pleased. Kusala’s death also indicated that Tāseti was not among the living. If she had been alive, Podhana would not have experienced his ascension.

The other Asēkhas and desert warriors stared at Podhana with worried faces, but they did not pressure him to speak. It was obvious that Podhana had sensed something terrible. When he finally told them that he believed Kusala was dead, the Tugars experienced a great swell of sadness.

Podhana’s behavior seemed to baffle the black knights, who had numbered one thousand when they fled Nissaya but who now were less than ten score. Since leaving the battlefield, their morale had increased—for an obvious reason: the Tugars intended to march eastward with the remaining black knights and retake Nissaya. No words more joyous could have been spoken to one of them. So they waited impatiently while the more numerous Tugars gathered around their new leader.

“Your orders, chieftain?” said Ukkutīka, who had silently sensed his own ascension to Asēkha when Churikā was slain.

At first Podhana did not answer. He was a hardened warrior, one of the most dangerous beings who walked the surface of the world, yet the loss of two people he had loved and respected for centuries still staggered him. Though he now was chieftain, Podhana would never consider himself the equal of Kusala or Tāseti. Either could have bested him—or any other living Asēkha—in one-on-one combat.

“My orders?” Podhana said.

Dalhapa stepped forward. She was so like Churikā. Who had been like Sōbhana, she who had died in an attempt to rescue Torg from the prison on Mount Asubha. “What are your orders, chieftain? Do we resume our march?”

“We shall do as
King Torgon
commanded. We shall flee the battlefield.”

“This sits ill with the Asēkhas. Our fallen will be desecrated.”

“Nonetheless
 . . .
”

But before they could proceed, Podhana felt another jolt of wrongness, and he could see from the reactions of the other Asēkhas and the rest of the Tugars that this time they too experienced it. The warriors, men and women alike, fell to their knees and sobbed. The black knights backed away, afraid that some madness had overcome the Tugars. But it wasn’t madness that had stricken their hearts. As one, they had sensed the demise of their king. The greatest Death-Knower to ever live was lost to them.

The Tugars huddled together—six thousand, all told—and wailed. The black knights slinked along the border of the intense gathering, unable to comprehend what was happening. It was late in the evening before Podhana and the others finally regained control of their emotions. The new chieftain called the Asēkhas together in a circle.

“Dalhapa, you and four Asēkhas shall continue to Nissaya with most of the Tugars and black knights,” Podhana said, his voice less than steady. “Once there, you will retake the fortress,
if
you believe it possible to do so without suffering significant casualties.

“The remaining Asēkhas and I, along with twenty score warriors, shall return to investigate the battlefield and recover the bodies of our fallen. Once we have accomplished this task, we will follow behind you and join you at Nissaya.” Podhana paused for a moment and shook his head, as if about to be overcome by a bout of dizziness. Then he resumed his speech. “I also will send a small force to Jivita. Something tells me that Navarese will not abandon the White City. It might be that our allies to the west will require assistance.”

“And what of Queen Laylah?” Dalhapa said. “With our king fallen, it is certain that she is now a prisoner of the sorcerer. Will we not attempt a rescue?”

“Avici is far,” the chieftain said. “This will be discussed after Nissaya is retaken.”

Dalhapa lowered her head and bowed. Then the young female led four other Asēkhas and the bulk of the Tugars eastward. Though exhausted, the black knights, eager for vengeance at Nissaya, followed hurriedly along.

Podhana and the remaining Asēkhas and Tugars turned and sprinted westward. By the time they returned to the battlefield, it was midnight.

A litter of corpses was strewn for more than a league in all directions, but there was no sign of Torg, Laylah, or Invictus. However, evidence of Bhayatupa’s demise was everywhere: crimson scales, slabs of charred flesh, talons as large as full-grown men. They made a quick search for the dragon jewel in Bhayatupa’s tail and found that even it had been destroyed, so great had been Invictus’s power.

Already the stench was nauseating, though the cool evening breezes dissipated enough of it to make it bearable. Three thousand Tugars were scattered among the dead, including the gruesome remains of Kusala. They also found Queen Rajinii, though they left her where she lay, believing it was the Jivitans’ duty to claim her.

“Laylah has been taken, as Torg had feared,” Podhana mused. “But where lies our king? Was the sorcerer so powerful that he was able to destroy all traces of his body? Or did he take his corpse with him to display as a trophy?”

A Tugar came to him, holding a scaly feather as long as his arm. “Sampati
 . . .
” she said.

Podhana nodded. Then he went to where Mala lay in a crumpled heap, the chain nearby, cold and impotent. The monster’s altered appearance amazed the new chieftain. Before, he had been so hideous. Now he was as beautiful as Utu had been. Podhana knelt and sniffed around Mala’s nostrils, recognizing that the Chain Man still lived but pretending to believe otherwise. The chieftain feigned ignorance and backed away, instead going about the gruesome business of retrieving the fallen Tugars, most of whom were disfigured in some fashion. In an extraordinarily brief time, every Tugar was removed from the battlefield and laid side by side in a depression filled with flowers that was out of sight of the carnage.

Before leaving for good, Podhana studied the stunted tree. He had no memory of it being there before. Amazingly, he found Obhasa lying casually in the grass at its base; until then, the ivory staff had remained hidden from view. Podhana lifted the staff and cradled it. It welcomed his embrace. While doing so, he noticed the exposed tang of a sword, whose hilt had been destroyed, protruding from the trunk. Podhana attempted to draw it from the tree—and was surprised to find that he lacked the necessary strength. Several others also made the attempt and failed as well.

Though unworthy of such a weapon, Podhana took Obhasa for his own. He also found an
uttara
to replace the one Invictus had destroyed.

After departing, Podhana ordered the warriors to dig a mass grave in the soft soil beneath the flowers and bury the bodies, which were too dense to be burned without the use of magic and too heavy to be carried for long distances without camels, horses, or wagons.

“When the grave is complete, you will go to Nissaya and lend aid whence you are able,” Podhana said.

Then he and the Asēkhas returned to the border of the battlefield, unseen by living or dead. There they lay on their chests in the grass and waited.

To the surprise of all, a large mountain warrior—Podhana knew him to be Elu, having witnessed the transformation—appeared among the carnage, carrying an enormous axe. A black bear—all that remained of what had once been Ugga—was at Elu’s side. The unusual pair spent a great deal of time among the bodies, and the Asēkha chose not to confront them.

Elu was naked, but he stripped the clothes from the broken body of a Duccaritan pirate and dressed himself. A while later, he and the bear left the battlefield and headed in the direction of Dhutanga. Podhana considered sending an Asēkha after them but decided against it. At this point it wasn’t worth it. His full attention was on Mala and what he might do.

After Elu and Ugga departed, the Chain Man sat up. His left arm ended in a stump above the elbow. Podhana watched with fascination as Mala approached the tree and ran the fingers of his right hand along the smooth brown bark. The monster—though he no longer looked like one—began to sob. Then he whispered something, but the Asēkha was too far away to make out but a few of the words: “. . . pain
 . . .
coward
 . . .
”

Sinking to a kneeling position, the snow giant grasped the tang of the sword in his right hand and drew it from the trunk with little apparent effort. Only
The Torgon
had been that strong. Then Mala pressed his hands against the tree. Where he did, green conflagrations lit up the night. Finally he drove the blade deep into the ground at the base of the tree.

Not long after, Podhana heard the approach of horses. The ruined snow giant also noticed them—and suddenly he sprinted eastward.

“Ukkutīka
 . . .
follow the snow giant!” the chieftain said. There was no time for further orders, though none were needed. The newly ascended Asēkha knew what to do. He sprang to his feet and chased after what had once been Mala.

“Chieftain,” said Vikkama, an extraordinarily tall and muscular female. “The Jivitans come. Shall we greet them?”

“No
 . . .
I prefer to wait and watch,” Podhana said. “I am not yet of a mood to reveal our presence.”

“And what of the sword?” said Nīsa, who stood a span shorter than Vikkama and was thin by Tugarian standards. “It must be the remains of the great weapon that was wielded by our king. Should it be so lightly discarded?”

“Was it lightly discarded? My instincts tell me otherwise. It stays where it is.”

“Ema
 . . .
Ema
 . . .
”
the warriors whispered in unison.

The Jivitans arrived, four hundred strong, and scoured the battlefield, unaware that Tugars were hidden less than a quarter-mile away, watching their every move. They soon found Rajinii and bore her body away while the rest went about the wearisome task of erecting a massive pyre of human bodies. The monsters were left to rot.

But the Tugars didn’t wait to witness the completion of the pyre. Instead, Podhana ordered Vikkama, Nīsa, and four other Asēkhas to journey on to Jivita and lend aid where they may. “If you are not needed at the White City, then come back to Nissaya. Further orders will await you there.”

By the time these six departed, the first hints of dawn were clawing at the darkness. Podhana and his company started southeastward, eventually coming upon the burial site of the fallen Tugars. The warriors had only their swords and hands with which to dig, so the great pit still was not completed. The chieftain and his fellow Asēkhas assisted with the labor. It would take them until midafternoon to bury three thousand dead. When they were finished, even the wildflowers had been replanted, leaving hardly a trace that the field had been disturbed.

SNOW GIANTS WERE solitary beings, and little was known about them other than the obvious, that they were placid creatures of great size, strength, and beauty. But the
Himamahaakaayo
also wielded powerful magic. To underestimate them was foolish.

From the moment the chain had slipped off his body, Yama-Deva had feigned death. After falling from Bhayatupa’s jaws and smiting the ground, the snow giant had lain motionless, eyes closed, chest rising and falling ever so slightly. Finally freed from the horror of the sorcerer’s immense power, Deva’s sanity returned, battered but intact.

Sane or not, Deva had no intention of becoming Invictus’s slave a second time. If he were to reveal that he still lived, the sorcerer would again imprison him in the superheated chain that had caused excruciating torment. Deva had spent too many years in hell. Not even Yama-Deva the Wanderer could bear any more of that.

So he lay motionless and bided his time.

Even as Bhayatupa was killed.

And
The Torgon
mutilated.

When Invictus approached, Yama-Deva was nearly overcome with terror. Every shred of his awareness screamed at him to flee. But he didn’t believe that he could run fast enough to escape. No
 . . .
he would not flee. Instead, he would continue to pretend that he was dying. It was the only way he could avoid being trapped in hell again.

“
Hmmmm
 . . .
not quite dead yet, but soon
 . . .
yes
 . . .
soon,” he heard Invictus say.

Yama-Deva was surprised that the sorcerer had been able to detect any heartbeat at all, so slow had he willed its rhythm. But it had been just enough to fool his dreaded nemesis.

Watching through the slits of his eyelids, Yama-Deva waited until the Sampati was out of sight. Then he waited some more. Darkness came, yet still he lay motionless amid carnage of horrific proportions, the smell of blood and the beginnings of decay assaulting his nostrils.

When the quarter moon began its rise at midnight, a band of Tugars accompanied by a dozen Asēkhas arrived to scour the battlefield. They searched for survivors, retrieved
uttaras
and daggers, and carried away the bodies of their dead, including one that had been decapitated. Yama-Deva knew this to be Kusala, whom Mala had held in disdain.

A bell before dawn, the field finally emptied of activity.

By now, Deva had willed his life functions to return to a state of relative normalcy, and he sat up. At first he was dizzy, so much so that his huge head fell backward with a thump, but eventually he was able to stand and walk. From their vantage point more than ten cubits above the ground, his eyes were able to see far, even in the darkness. Corpses of every size, shape, and creed were strewn for a league in all directions, and the stench of death poisoned the air. But the night also was filled with cool spring breezes. The contrast was unsettling, to say the least.

Other than a few hundred vultures and rats, there was less evidence of scavenging than was typical in the untended aftermath of such a huge and bloody battle. Deva reasoned that the lingering scent of the black mountain wolves might be scaring other animals away.

The bodies of the soldiers, which included newborns, Jivitans, and even a few scattered Nissayans, were already bloating within the cramped confines of their armor. Grotesque portions of their faces protruded from the slits in their helms. The cool weather had slowed down the rotting process, but a good deal of damage had already been done.

Deva’s mind contained a maelstrom of emotion. In some regards he felt like dancing and laughing, so great was the sensation of relief since being released from the torment of the chain. But a larger part of him felt like sitting down and sobbing, so great was the horror of his memories. Deva remembered everything he had done as Mala: murder, cruelty, and perversion beyond measure. Yet worst of all had been witnessing the death of Yama-Utu.

If not for the sheer joy of freedom, Deva would have taken his own life at that moment. Instead, he made the decision to return to Okkanti, and there, among the
Himamahaakaayo
, attempt to find healing. Never again would he leave the blessed peaks. His days of wandering were over.

Deva stood beside the tree and ran his fingertips along its smooth bark. The tree was barely his height. Two branches sprang out from the trunk, each bearing a single leaf. Deva wiped tears from his eyes with his remaining hand.

The tang of the Silver Sword protruded from the front of the trunk at about the level of his knee. Deva knelt and examined it. Sap the color of blood oozed from the bark where it had been pierced. Deva peered around the back of the tree. Less than a finger-length of the blade protruded through the back side. Sap also dripped from this wound.

Now Deva was sobbing.

“I have felt such pain—and caused it, as well,” he whispered. “I am so sorry
 . . .
for everything I’ve done. I will forever be remembered as a monster.”

Deva knelt in front of the tree and grasped the tang in his right hand. With relative ease, he slid the blade from the trunk. Then he pressed his hand against the wound and willed healing energy from its palm. Afterward he did the same on the other side. Finally, he drove the Silver Sword straight down into the dirt near the base of the tree, until no part of it was visible.

“If you cannot wield it, neither shall anyone else,” he said. “
Torgon
, I remember how you tried to help me. Even as you offered your assistance, a part of me was screaming
yes
! But I didn’t have the courage to scream loud enough.”

Then he collapsed onto his face. “And now
 . . .
when you need
my
help, I can offer nothing but tears.”

Suddenly Deva lifted his head, his large lips smeared with dirt. In the distance he heard rumbling, and with his superb night vision he could see destriers approaching from the west. The Jivitans, at least some of them, were returning to the battlefield. Though Deva no longer bore the chain, he was concerned that the white horsemen might mistake him for Mala and attack. He didn’t fear for his own welfare, but he wanted to make certain that he harmed no others. He could afford to tarry no longer.

“Goodbye,
Torgon
,” Deva said, waving the stump of his left arm. “
Bhaveyya, te pavattanamÈ anantaramÈÈ sādutaramÈ
(May your next existence be better than this).”

Then he stood and sprinted eastward, his white mane flowing behind him like a keel.