Chained By Fear: 2 (21 page)

After Vedana twirled and vanished through the entryway, Laylah became almost comatose. Lucius sighed, again and again. He wasn’t sure
he
could survive another day of this, much less she.

Guilt and shame washed over him as he kissed her lips, but that didn’t stop him. He couldn’t believe some of the things he’d considered the past three days. During her periods of unconsciousness, he had been tempted to lay upon her and enter her, but he was too afraid she would wake up later with soreness and despise him. No
 . . .
he couldn’t do that, no matter how much he lusted for her. But now he allowed himself a peek at her breasts, admiring their fullness and gazing overly long at her nipples. When she coughed, he was so startled he had to fight back a yelp, and he covered her up and turned away, burying his face in his hands. What would he do if it turned out she didn’t love him? In so many ways he was a fraud, created by an evil god out of bubbling goo. What right did he have to such a wonderful woman? And yet, who else deserved her as much as he? Could she put aside what he was and still love him? If not, could he bear to live another day?

Just then Vedana burst through the opening, carrying a woven basket. Lucius smelled roasted fowl and baked bread.

“I went to the market and bought you a new tunic and breeches and Laylah a plain brown dress so that she won’t attract attention,” the demon said. “You can pay me back later.” Cackling. “Okay, I didn’t buy it. I just took it. Anyway, there’s chicken and bread and apple wine. I don’t go for this stuff, myself. Raw flesh is my favorite food—and blood my beverage of choice.” More cackling. “Oh
 . . .
don’t look at me like that. You’re not so perfect. Have a wonderful time changing her clothes.” Then she winked and slipped out the door again.

“Foul beast!” he shouted after her, his face red with anger—and shame. But in his heart he knew she spoke the truth. He
wasn’t
perfect. How could he be? In most ways he wasn’t even real.

The day passed so slowly he felt as if eternity had crept up and cradled him in its arms. He ate most of the bread and chicken, stunned by how good it tasted, but he saved enough for Laylah to have a snack, just in case she woke with any kind of appetite.

Despite the demon’s taunting, he did enjoy removing Laylah’s clothes. He left her naked on the blankets far longer than was necessary, studying the entire length of her perfect body while she slept. The delicate place between her legs almost stopped his heart. Finally, he could no longer resist, and he touched it with his fingers and then licked it with his tongue. In response, her abdomen clenched and bulged, which startled him again. After that he didn’t dare touch her anymore.

When eternity became bored and left him alone, dusk arrived and then darkness. It rained briefly, then a rush of wintry air followed. Laylah slowly woke from her stupor, shivering as she rubbed her eyes.

“Where are we?”

“We’re in some kind of hellhole outside the city’s walls. But the demon brought us clean clothes. I dressed you while you slept.”

Laylah blushed. “Do we have water?”

“No, but we have wine
 . . .
and I saved you some chicken and bread.”

“I’m not hungry. But I’ll have a sip of wine. Did Vedana say anything more about the healer?”

“She said we wouldn’t be able to find him until morning. I have no idea what makes him so special. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Laylah sat up. “I hope Vedana is right about the healer. I don’t have much strength left.”

Lucius peered out the door into the alleyway. “I can’t believe how cold it’s become. It feels like winter.”

“It will be cold tonight, but warm tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. What do you see?”

“Darkness and shadows, though I hear all kinds of strange sounds. This is a dreadful place.”

“All we can do is wait for Vedana to return. I feel weak, but at least I don’t feel so sick.”

Lucius stared at her, his face stern. “Laylah, there’s something I need to say. I’ve kept it to myself until now because it was never safe for us to talk in Avici. But I can’t hold back my feelings any longer. I
must
tell you how I feel.”

“Lucius
 . . .
”

“Just listen! When we first met, I was assigned by Invictus to befriend you and to report back everything you said and did. In that regard, I betrayed you. But as you know, I finally turned against your brother. And along the way, I developed feelings for you that went beyond friendship.”

“Lucius
 . . .
as I said on the kabang, I’m still too frightened to talk about this. What do you expect from me?”

“I’m frightened, too. Yet my fear doesn’t diminish my feelings for you
 . . .
it
strengthens
them. What do I expect from you? I want to hear you say that you love me as much as I love you.”

Laylah closed her eyes. This was the last thing she needed right now. But he deserved the truth.

“Lucius, I’ll try to be as honest as I can. I have spent most of my life as my brother’s prisoner. I was humiliated, tortured, even raped. But of all the bad things that happened to me, there were two very good things: Bhacca and you. Bhacca became the dearest friend I’ve ever known. And you
 . . .
you kept me sane. Without you, I wouldn’t be alive today. So
 . . .
I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay.”

Lucius started to respond, but Laylah stayed him with her hand. “You ask me if I love you. My answer is
 . . .
I don’t know. Not because of any failure in you, but because of my own failures. I’m not an ordinary person, and I haven’t lived an ordinary life. Does that mean I’m incapable of love? Maybe it does. But I can tell you one thing for certain: I’m terrified of being forced back into that nightmare—so much so, that my other emotions are stunted. I honestly can’t tell you whether I love you or not, at least not in the way that you mean. I love you as a friend. But until I’m in a situation where I can feel safe, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you that I love you the way you want me to.”

She had managed not to lie to him. But she had left out one crucial element: her obsession with the man in the wagon. How much of a role was that playing in her lack of feelings for Lucius? She wasn’t sure. Then another thought occurred to her. Maybe her obsession was just a symptom of the abuse she had endured for so long. After all, the man she could not seem to forget was probably dead. It was absurd to pine for him. But before she could explore that idea further, Lucius interrupted her thoughts.

“Laylah, I’m so sorry. What you say makes perfect sense. It’s selfish of me to pressure you. I’ll try not to bring it up again, until we both agree the time is right.”

Then he lay down and turned away from her. He had a soldier’s ability to take advantage of brief opportunities for sleep, and in an instant he was snoring. But he still held the hilt of the rusty sword in his hand. Laylah didn’t believe it would be easy to surprise him. She remembered the game she used to play with Takoda. Her adopted father would become so frustrated every time he failed to sneak up on her. Even now, more than seventy years later, Laylah missed him so much. And she missed her first father and mother. And Bhacca. The tears came then, respectful of the past.

Inside the filthy shack, Lucius slept most of the night. Laylah was grateful for his snoring, which drowned out most of the sounds from outside. Several times she heard footsteps in the alleyway, but no one tried to enter. Had Vedana cast a protective spell? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Nothing could happen now that would be any worse than what she already had endured.

Finally Vedana appeared. “Hurry
 . . .
hurry
! I’ve found the healer.”

Lucius awoke, grabbed Laylah’s hand, and followed the demon through the opening. Outside it was chilly and still. Most of the fires had burned out, and even the hardiest refugees were asleep. But dawn was near, and Laylah felt like she was getting sick yet again.

“We must pass through the gates,” Vedana said. “It’s half a league just to the ninth wall—and more than a mile after that to where we need to go. Carry her if you must, Lucius. Time is precious.”

“We’re going as fast as we can,” Lucius barked. “What’s the big hurry? So we can meet the marvelous, stupendous
healer
. I couldn’t care less.”

“You had better care, if you want your sweetie to live another day,” the demon snarled. “Put aside your jealousies and stop acting like a boy.”

Vedana led them onto a roadway. Though it was still dark, they were joined by several hundred who also were headed for the markets. Most appeared to be traders on their way to their booths within the ninth wall. They walked alongside ox-drawn carts stocked with fresh meats, fruits, vegetables, clothing, perfumes and even jewels. Female soldiers patrolled the road, questioning anyone who looked suspicious, but they gave Vedana and her two companions a wide berth. It was not apparent to Laylah whether they were aware of the demon or just discomforted by her aura. But it made their going easier, and when they passed within the ninth wall, no one accosted or detained them.

They walked without incident within the eighth wall, wandering past a line of inns and taverns. Though the sun had not yet risen, the morning was growing bright—and with the new light came a blast of illness that caused Laylah to gasp. By now Lucius was almost carrying her, but no one seemed to pay them any attention. Others stumbled along the road, returning drunk from the previous night’s gallivanting. The firstborn and Laylah blended right in.

Finally, they stopped in front of a tall wooden inn with a single turret on its roof. An armed guard watched them suspiciously from above.

“Wait here,” the demon said. Her robes and flesh became translucent, and then she spun and vanished.

A short time later, a stout iron gate opened, and an extremely obese but cheerful-looking woman thundered out to greet them.

“Come in. Come in,” she said, taking Lucius by the arm. “I’ve been waiting for you. Let me show you to your chambers.”

Lucius and Laylah followed woodenly, staggering up the stairs like a couple of zombies. The fat woman led them to a vacant room and sat them down on the side of a bed facing a window. They could hear snoring in the adjacent room through a small door left ajar.

“Do not wander,” the innkeeper said. Then she departed.

Laylah sagged against Lucius, her breath coming in ragged bursts. The long walk had nearly done her in. The firstborn looked around the room and found a pitcher of water, but when he offered some to Laylah, she refused. She was too ill even to swallow.

So they sat, waited and wondered.

In most ways Laylah felt at peace. Dying would be far preferable to how she had spent most of her life. And dying would free her of the sickness. She leaned against Lucius, engulfed in the sweat and grime of his flesh beneath his clean clothing. But it was not unpleasant. The odors reminded her of death. She was ready.

Laylah barely heard the creaking floorboards or the door opening slowly behind her. But suddenly she felt a blast of heat on her back.

The healer had finally arrived.

On the same night that Laylah flew on the back of Izumo from Lake Ti-ratana toward the Whore City, Torg the Death-Knower wizard stood on a hill just a couple of miles from Laylah’s destination. On the third night after their departure from the longhouse, Torg and his companions—another Death-Knower named Rathburt, a Svakaran name Elu, and two woodsmen named Bard and Ugga—had been traveling for three days to reach Kamupadana, where they would sell their litter of skins. They now camped less than the flight of an arrow from a massive throng of refugees who had gathered in a wide field just north and east of Kamupadana. At least ten thousand fugitives from the Gray Plains, the shores of Ti-ratana, and the foothills of Mahaggata had constructed crude shelters on the tromped-down grass, raiding the garbage heaps of the Whore City for wood, metal and discarded fabrics. Within the camp, there was little room and less food. Mayhem and murder walked hand in hand with disease and death.

The fugitives had fled to this foul place for a variety of reasons. Rumors of the horrors of Avici were spreading, and many lived in terror of one of Invictus’ slave-hunting expeditions capturing them. Poverty and filth were preferable to torture and dismemberment. And there were other reasons to run. The Mogols had grown bolder and were taking slaves, and the cannibalistic Porisādas were said to be performing dreadful deeds, destroying entire communities and feasting on the flesh of their victims. As if that weren’t bad enough, the black wolves were on the rise, venturing farther from the heights than ever before. Anyone who lived in the proximity of Avici was in peril.

As darkness fell, Torg stood on a hillock overlooking the camp. Trails of smoke rose from a speckling of bonfires. Beyond the camp he could see the first and largest of Kamupadana’s nine walls. And in the distance, beyond the walls, Torg recognized the upper portion of the mammoth ziggurat in the center of it all. Except for the tower of Uccheda and the main keep at Nissaya, the ziggurat was the largest edifice on Triken. And it was very old. Some said the ziggurat had stood for fifty millennia. The Warlish witches had become its master fewer than ten millennia ago.

Torg had entered Kamupadana several times in his life, but never since the birth of Invictus. The last time had been at least two centuries ago, but Torg still remembered it well. After he agreed to tolerate an escort, a cadre of witches and hag servants had taken him on a tour of the ziggurat. At the time, the witches feared the might of Anna and were relatively well-behaved, at least in their public dealings. But the recent rise of Invictus had emboldened them. Some now roamed freely, wreaking havoc throughout the land—including Dibbu-Loka, as Torg recently had discovered firsthand when Chal-Abhinno had made her blasphemous appearance on the balcony of Bakheng.

Bard walked over and stood next to Torg. The trapper had entered the city hundreds of times but had never passed within the sixth wall. The markets were within the ninth wall, the inns within the eighth, and the brothels within the seventh. After that, Bard and Ugga said that they knew no more, nor did they seem to care.

“When Ugga and I were last here, there were not so many of them,” Bard said, referring to the refugees. “It’s getting worse.”

“There is death in the air,” Torg said. “And so much pain.”

“Ugga and Elu found a place to conceal the cart and skins. Do we dare light a fire tonight, Hah-nah?”

“If you wish. There are fires everywhere. Another won’t draw attention.”

“Should we retire, then?” Bard said. “In the early morning, we can enter the city. There will be a great crush of peoples. It’s easy to blend into the crowds.”

Torg continued to gaze at the camp. The crescent moon already was setting in the cloudless sky. “I’m not ready to retire. I cannot resist the urge to explore.”

“It’s not safe, Hah-nah. I can see from here that it’s a terrible place.”

But Torg would not relent. “Tell the others I’ll return before morning. If for some reason I do not, go on without me.”

Bard started to protest again but seemed to realize that no further argument would be tolerated, so he left Torg alone. Torg pulled his hood over his head to conceal his face. The Silver Sword was strapped to his back, but his cloak hid it. He started toward the camp, feeling the need to witness the suffering firsthand in order to strengthen his resolve.

When Torg reached the base of the hillock, the stink assaulted his sanity. For a moment he felt dizzy, reminding him of the claustrophobia he had experienced in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Mount Asubha. But Torg was not one to give in. Instead, he entered a narrow alleyway that wound through a maze of poorly constructed shacks, tents and lean-tos. As Torg progressed deeper into the camp, the odors grew more wretched. All about him was a cacophony of despair—moaning, sobbing and occasional screams. He passed through the ramshackle structures and came upon a group of refugees gathered around a bonfire and drinking from wooden cups. Torg approached them.

Before he reached the fire, an old man staggered into his path. He was bent and broken, forced to use a rusted sword as a cane.

“Can you help me find my daughter?” the man said, peering at Torg through watery eyes. “She is lost.”

“There are so many places she could be,” Torg said. “But I think I can help.”

Torg placed his hand on the old man’s lower back. There was a cracking sound, like the breaking of a dry stick. A moment later, the man was able to stand upright.

“Maybe I can find her now,” he said, before walking away without using of the makeshift cane.

Torg approached the fire. Six men stood around it, their breath reeking of spoiled wine. One of the men began to cough, and blood spewed from his mouth, sizzling in the flames. The man grasped his stomach and then collapsed.

“He told me to cut his throat when the sickness got too bad,” one of the others said. “Is now the time?”

“Yes,” another said.

The first man reached into his belt. A dagger sparkled in the starlight. He walked behind the coughing man, yanked back his head, and ran the blade against his throat.

“They are burning bodies over there,” another said. “The fire is big and hot.”

“How far?”

“A hundred paces. No more.”

“Too far.”

“I’ll carry him,” Torg offered.

The others wandered off in relief. Torg lifted the bloody corpse in his arms. Though the man had been tall, Torg guessed he weighed less than ten stones. His body had wasted away.

Torg found the pyre. More than two dozen corpses already were burning. He tossed the body into the fire. One of its arms flopped in a wide arc as it fell.

Torg continued his journey. Next he came upon a sobbing woman holding a silent baby. He touched the infant’s forehead with the tip of his right index finger, but he was too late. The fever already had consumed the little girl. He took the baby from the woman’s arms and placed her in another fire. When he turned to speak words of comfort, the woman was gone.

Torg walked some more. A girl with a grimy face and yellow teeth came to him and offered her services.

“I have no money,” he said. “How would I pay you?”

“After you’re finished, great lord, stay the night with me and hold me in your arms. That would be enough.”

Torg pressed his lips against hers and exhaled blue-green vapor into her mouth. She stepped back, startled, and then smiled. Her teeth now were white. She wandered off, pleased.

Near the center of the camp was a single tree, stunted and bare. Torg touched its bark and sensed remnants of life still flowing in the wood. A man in orange robes sat beneath the tree, his back pressed against the trunk, his face peaceful and radiant. Torg sat beside him and closed his eyes, counting five hundred long breaths in silent awareness. Now it was the middle of the night. The man remained in the same position. Torg could not guess his age.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Torg finally said.

The man opened his eyes, slowly registering his presence.

“Why do you hide your face?” he said to Torg.

“Will you not answer my question first?”

Without warning, the man pounced upon Torg, knocking him backward with a surprising burst of strength. Then he pressed his face close. Torg could see portions of his skull beneath his translucent flesh.

“Your daughter is lost in the blackness! Why won’t you help her?” he whispered urgently. But then his body slackened, collapsing onto Torg as if pierced through the heart.

Torg rolled him off and then placed his ear against the man’s chest. There was no heartbeat.

Torg carried him to the fire.

One more death.

One more mystery.

My daughter
?

Torg walked deeper into the darkness. Everywhere he went, he encountered suffering.

A gang of would-be rapists chased a woman. Torg struck one of the pursuers in the temple with the edge of his right hand, killing him instantly. The others ran, but the woman also fled, as if Torg were as much an enemy as the rapists.

Torg came upon a boy spitting blood on the gray grass. Torg held him in his arms and hugged him tightly. When he placed him back on the ground, the boy’s body was healed. But not his mind. Angry shadows swallowed him as he wandered away.

Next, Torg saw a fat bully threatening a skinny man, demanding the services of the smaller man’s wife in return for another day of life. Torg punched the bully in the back of his neck, ending his existence. But the skinny man offered no thanks.

Sister Tathagata would have lectured him.
Live in joy, not in anger. Forgiveness is more powerful than revenge. If you love yourself, your hatred will fade.

On this night Torg felt no love—for himself or any other. His hatred blazed like a pyre, fueled by suffering and death. Someone had to confront Invictus. It was his destiny to try.

When he returned to his friends, it was nearly dawn, and they already were stirring. An obviously annoyed Rathburt stomped over to give him a lecture.

“For Anna’s sake,
Torgon
, where have you been and what have you been doing? We were worried half to death and hardly slept.”

“Where I go and what I do are my affair,” Torg said dangerously. “
Don’t ask again
! I’m not in the mood for your whining.”

For a rare moment, Rathburt was speechless.