Torn By War: 4 (The Death Wizard Chronicles) (2 page)

“The noble ones say that it is a sin to kill a human being, that in doing so, you are dooming yourself to the endless cycle of rebirth. Sister Tathagata once told me that she thought it was wrong to kill a
fish
. I have to admit that, well, I don’t agree. It is not a sin to kill an
evil
person. And to be honest, I love the taste of fish.”

—Asēkha-Tāseti, in the middle of a night of heavy drinking around a desert campfire

THOUGH TORG KNEW it naught, Laylah woke soon after he peeled himself off her naked body. She lay still as a fawn and watched through the slits of her eyes as the wizard wandered a few paces away and then sat down in a cross-legged position on the grass. She had witnessed him in meditation one other time, in the rock hollow near Duccarita, and had been curious then too. Everything he did pleased her, but this was especially fascinating.

Immediately his body became motionless—except for the rise and fall of his chest. Soon after, even that steady movement ceased, and when his head fell forward she became puzzled and then frightened. It dawned on her how little she knew about his abilities. He was a Death-Knower; she could surmise what that meant. But to consider it psychologically and to view it physically were two different things. Suddenly her heart pounded, and her breath came in gasps. Beyond belief, Torg was dead. The reality of it struck her like a blow from a war hammer.

Laylah didn’t know what to do. Should she cry for help? Or rush to Torg and shake him? Even as she sat up, the great stallion she had named Izumo came up silently behind her and nuzzled her on the ear, startling her so much she nearly joined the wizard in death. Her scream caused the horse to bolt, spin around, and snort. It took Laylah what felt like a very long time to regain her composure.

When she again could breathe semi-normally, she crawled toward Torg on hands and knees, her arms and legs trembling so much she could barely support her own weight. The night was so quiet she could hear herself shuffling through the scorched grass, which was carpeted with wilted petals. She also heard a strange thudding sound—and finally realized it was her own heavy tears striking the ground. Her beloved was dead! She could see it, sense it,
feel
it.

Laylah crept within an arm’s length of her lover’s lifeless body. She wanted to grab him and hold him. Sob and shout. But she was afraid to touch him. If his death became that real to her, she might go mad.

Without warning, Torg’s head jerked up, his eyes sprang open, and his mouth opened so wide she could see the back of his throat. Blue-green energy roared from his body and battered her face, lifting her off the ground and casting her several hundred cubits. She landed on her naked rump in a cushiony patch of wildflowers just beyond the scorched circle. Obhasa came to rest beside her, but she noticed in her daze that the Silver Sword remained where she had left it. The blast would have killed almost any creature on Triken. But other than feeling dizzy and stunned, Laylah was unharmed. As if concerned for her welfare, Izumo trotted forward bravely and nuzzled her cheek; this time, she didn’t shout, which regained his trust. The stallion backed a few paces away, lay down, and rested his muzzle on the ground like a loyal dog.

Soon after, Torg came over and took her in his arms. “My love. What have I done? Are you hurt?
Tell me you’re all right
!”

“I’m . . . fine.” Then she looked into his eyes, where she again saw life. “In fact, I’m better than fine.”

Torg squeezed her so hard she grunted. Then he released her, sat back, and leaned against his hands. “I’m sorry, Laylah. You appeared to be sleeping so deeply . . .”

“You frightened me.”

Torg chuckled ruefully. Then he took a deep breath and sighed. “With all the running we’ve done since Kamupadana, we’ve never had a chance to fully discuss
Maranapavisana
, my visits to death. They are brief in duration but appear unnatural to those unprepared. I apologize again. I made a severe mistake in judgment. But when the mood comes upon me, it’s safer and easier for me if I succumb to it quickly.”

“Succumb to what?”

“To the desire. My magic comes from
Marana-Viriya
(Death Energy). I have lived a thousand years—and died a thousand deaths. Only a Death-Knower is able to fall—and rise. When I return from death, I am renewed.”

The wizard leaned close to her face, speaking now in a whisper. “At this moment, I am greater than I have ever been. But the trials that lie ahead will require all my strength. Will it be enough?” Then Torg lowered his head.

Though Laylah had been with him for just a few weeks, she already knew him well enough to sense that he was holding something back. “This time was . . . different?” she said.

The wizard appeared surprised. “I will never be able to deceive you. In our future together, that should work to your advantage.”

It was Laylah’s turn to chuckle. “You don’t strike me as the lying type.”

“I have weaknesses, but lack of truthfulness is not among them,” Torg agreed.

Then he described to Laylah what it felt like to die and what he witnessed while in the Realm of Death. He also told her about seeing the green energy for the first time—and hearing the disturbing voices. By the time he finished, it was almost dawn.

“Did you understand anything the voices said?”

“Whoever, or whatever, it was spoken in no language in which I am fluent,” Torg admitted. “I sensed neither friendship nor hostility. But I was stunned, nonetheless. After more than a thousand visits, I was arrogant enough to believe that I knew everything about death and its accoutrements. Apparently, I could not have been more wrong. I have been humbled.”

As if in response, Izumo nickered. They both laughed.

“Maybe Rathburt is speaking through the horse,” Laylah said.

They laughed even louder, though afterward they fell into mournful silence that lasted until the first fingers of dawn crept across the plains.

Afterward, Torg and Laylah put on the clothes that they had worn to the banquet the night before and then climbed onto Izumo’s bare back, carrying Obhasa and the Silver Sword with them. By the time they approached the great white bridge that spanned Cariya, a squadron of Jivitans already had crossed to the far side of the river. The horsemen cheered as the couple passed, waving their swords and crossbows in salute and tossing in a few good-natured hoots and whistles. The wizard shook his fist, but he laughed as well.

Several dozen foot soldiers guarded the bridge, but their lackadaisical attitude made it clear that the White City did not yet fear attack. Squadrons and scouts were spread out for leagues in all directions, making it nearly impossible for Jivita to be assaulted unawares.

Even before the wizard and Laylah passed through the eastern gate, she could see the roofs, chimneys, and church spires of the main business district looming behind the wall. Izumo trotted proudly between the double-leaf iron gates, which were flanked by a pair of modest watchtowers. There was more cheering, and Laylah waved to the guards above.

Just then, the dawn bells rang out from every church and cathedral in Jivita. Even from the outskirts of the city, the harmonic sound was deafening.

“How marvelous!” Laylah said, squeezing Torg’s waist from behind.

“Yes, I’ve always loved the bells—though these remind me that we haven’t eaten in quite some time. Are you hungry?”

“Famished. But I’m not sure I can stomach another meal at the queen’s palace.”

Torg nodded. “I know a place that is out of the way.”

“Do we have time? Captain Julich said there would be an important meeting of the Privy Council this morning.”

“The queen and her advisors can wait a little longer . . . or start without us, if they prefer. I’m tired of rushing everywhere we go. War is on the horizon, but it won’t begin today. Let me show you where the common folk of the White City break their fast. The décor isn’t nearly as grand as the queen’s palace, but it’s gentler on the eyes and stomach.”

Izumo carried them along the main thoroughfare that led to the business district. Parallel to the road was a manmade canal, one of several that spun off the Cariya River and supplied Jivita with drinking water. At this point, open field still surrounded them, but a mountainous cluster of buildings loomed in front of them, broader and denser even than the inner ward of the fortress of Nissaya. Though no single structure in Jivita approached the height of Nissaya’s central keep, Jivita did contain great cathedrals and numerous other tall buildings. All told, more than one hundred and fifty thousand had dwelled in this area of Jivita before the evacuations, and many who lived farther away had come there to perform some form of business.

Where it pierced the crowded conglomeration of stone structures, the main thoroughfare was thirty paces wide. Shops and houses framed the street, their corbelled upper stories looming over passersby. All the buildings were either painted white or sheathed with white marble, but an array of colorful wooden signboards hung over the doors of shops, taverns, inns, and other businesses. Even in the early morning, the street swarmed with people, most on foot or in horse-drawn carriages. Torg and Laylah were the only people on horseback, other than a few mounted sheriffs on patrol.

Among the throngs were housewives wearing gowns and mantles, merchants adorned in fur-trimmed coats, and clergymen in long white albs. Almost everyone was pale-skinned with white hair and gray eyes, but Laylah noticed a few who did not match that description, though they appeared to be treated no differently than the others.
If it’s this crowded now
, Laylah wondered,
how must it have been before some of the Jivitans fled to the havens
?

Delectable aromas from hundreds of cookshops blended oddly with the pungent smell of trampled horse dung. Hundreds of narrow side streets fed off the main road, leading to a variety of businesses: blacksmiths, butchers, doctors, fish merchants, laundresses, shoemakers, tailors, tanners, and wine sellers, to name a few. The congestion reminded Laylah of Avici, though there was an antiquation to it that felt less threatening. Not every Jivitan was a member of the royal class or military, but each one was free to come and go as he or she pleased. Laylah envied them.

Torg brought Izumo to a halt, and he and Laylah dismounted. Several dozen people gathered around them, some out of adoration and others sensing a potential customer. The wizard whispered in the ear of a groomsman, who nodded and led Izumo away to be watered, fed, and brushed. Then the wizard took Laylah’s hand and led her down an alleyway almost as claustrophobically narrow as the ones they had traversed in Duccarita, the City of Thieves. As they walked, small dogs nipped playfully at their ankles. Finally they stopped at a wooden door that barely came up to Torg’s chin. Outside was a sign with painted red lettering that read
Boulogne’s
. Torg rapped his tough knuckles on the splintered wood.

While they waited for a response, he gave Laylah a rascally look. “I only take you to the finest establishments.”

“I can
see
that.”

“Don’t worry . . . as I said before, the décor isn’t much, but the food and drink make up for it.”

“If you like it, I’ll like it.”

The door swung inward, and a man less than half the size of Elu, the diminutive Svakaran warrior, squinted up at them. Other than being tiny, he looked a bit like Bard the woodsman, with the same black beard and piercing blue eyes.

“
Lord Torgon
, how wonderful to see you again!” he said in a squeaky voice. “It’s about time you showed up. I had hoped you might stop by last night. And I see you have brought your lady with you. She is even more beautiful than my informants described.”

Torg laughed—and the tiny man did the same. “Laylah, allow me to introduce you to Master Baldwin Boulogne, the owner of this establishment and a longtime acquaintance. As you can see, he is not a pureblooded Jivitan.”

“Damn right! And proud of it! But where are my manners? Come in! No offense, but you both look like you’ve had a rough night. Did you stay up late to watch the fireworks?” Then he winked at Laylah and scampered off.

MASTER BALDWIN Boulogne had always liked to flirt, especially with women several times larger than he. This amused Torg immensely, and it never ceased to charm him. As the tiny innkeeper trotted off, Torg found himself thinking back to the first time he had met Boulogne many years ago.

The known land contained three great forests: Dhutanga, the largest; Java, the smallest; and Kincara, which lay south of Jivita and west of the Kolankold Mountains. Kincara was the least explored of the three; few enemies emerged from its borders, so the White City found little need to pay it much heed. Even the trees seemed to mind their own business.

In his long lifetime Torg had entered Kincara several times, but only once did he travel to its interior. What he discovered amazed him. Rather than being dark and spooky like the inner sanctums of its two sister forests, Kincara was sparkly and playful, with a feathery canopy that permitted plenty of sunlight to reach the floor. Torg enjoyed his visit, learning a good deal about the magical inhabitants.

A race of enchanters and enchantresses called Gillygaloos dwelled deep within Kincara, but they were little known to most of Triken’s people. Their diminutive size enabled them to conceal their whereabouts from intruders, and they made their homes underground in tunnels that wove within the tree roots. The Gillygaloos were related to the Mugwumps of Kolankold, though the latter did not have any magic of which Torg was aware, while their cousins to the west wielded impressive power.

Torg’s first encounter with the Gillygaloos occurred unexpectedly. When Torg was five hundred years old, he delved alone into Kincara’s interior. On a dreary day in late winter, he smelled smoke in the air, and in silent Asēkha fashion he came upon a dozen Gillygaloos gathered around a campfire. Each of the creatures was little more than a cubit tall but otherwise very humanlike in appearance. The males wore beards that hung past their waists, and the females had pretty faces with red lips. When Torg stepped into view, they scattered like frightened mice.

Torg felt guilty for startling them, and he called out, first in the common tongue, then the ancient, and finally in various forms of Mahaggatan. He even tried the coarse language of the wild men of Kolankold, but to no avail. Eventually he began to question his own sanity, wondering if he had been hallucinating.