a vessel that weighed five hundred tons, the galleon seemed to fly. He found himself singing with delight. Life—even his life—could be sweet, after all.
Yet beneath all his glee, something disturbed him. Something he could not yet define. The sharp edges of existence were becoming blurred.
19
THE TRAGEDIES OF the past few months weighed heavily on Torg’s heart, but there was much for which to be thankful. His enemies were routed, and the woman of his dreams was safely by his side. If Sister Tathagata were with him, she would have chided him. Desire, she would have said, was for the weak-minded. But right now, the wizard didn’t care. To live and breathe without fear felt like paradise compared to what he had been through.
Rati had told him everything he knew about what had occurred in Tējo during Torg’s absence, including the High Nun’s gruesome death. Yet it appeared that in the end, Tathagata finally had achieved her millennia-long quest for enlightenment. This was another reason for joy.
Torg, Laylah, and the Tugars marched fearlessly down the Ogha’s eastern bank. At first, tens of thousands of broken bodies lined the river, and the stench was horrendous. Eventually, there was less evidence of the carnage that had so recently occurred at the gates of Avici. By the sixth day, they saw only an occasional body—or head. The Tugars and Pabbajja had destroyed the fiends. Nature would eventually take care of the rest.
They marched for six days, encountering no resistance. Most of the numerous villages that lined the greatest river in the world had been abandoned. Stragglers had begun to return, but they were few. Many thousands had fled to Nissaya, only to perish there in the worst slaughter in Triken’s known history.
Their company moved slowly, averaging little more than ten leagues per day. To a man and woman, they were exhausted—and there was no longer any need for haste. Torg sent scouts eastward to scour the Gray Plains for villagers who might have chosen not to flee to Nissaya. When they came upon bridges spanning the river, Torg also sent scouts to the west. But the reports always were the same: a family here, a few frightened groups there, but never concentrated or organized numbers. Even the Buffeloes were scattered, and they saw nary a Lyon nor Tyger. Either most everything was dead, or most everything had fled far away. Torg guessed it was a sorrowful combination of the two.
The moon was waxing gibbous when they came upon the first fiends: about two hundred shambling northward along the riverbank, their faces strangely sad. But when they saw Torg, Laylah, and the Tugars, they snarled savagely and rushed forward, eager for a meal of flesh and blood. Podhana and the others dispatched them in a matter of moments, leaving their heads and bodies to rot. Nature had more work to do.
“It appears that not every fiend from Senasana found its way to Tējo,” Rati said to Torg.
“If so,” Torg said, “then let us seek them out and destroy them.”
Through the night, they slew several hundred more fiends, and scouts reported encountering at least that many more wandering in the Gray Plains east of the Ogha. By dawn they were only five leagues from Senasana’s northern outskirts. Now there were fiends everywhere, roaming in groups of three, six, or twelve. Among them were the elderly and children. The Tugars had no choice but to slay them all.
They entered the city around noon, and Torg ordered the Tugars to spread out. Senasana was large, but five thousand-plus desert warriors could cover a lot of ground in a hurry. Though it had been more than a month since the undines had infected the citizens of Senasana, there still were active signs of destruction in many areas. Small fires burned in homes and buildings, and smoke danced in the air. Fiends of all shapes and sizes wandered the cobbled streets in search of living flesh. Whenever they saw the Tugars, they attacked. Torg was glad of this. It
Yet beneath all his glee, something disturbed him. Something he could not yet define. The sharp edges of existence were becoming blurred.
19
THE TRAGEDIES OF the past few months weighed heavily on Torg’s heart, but there was much for which to be thankful. His enemies were routed, and the woman of his dreams was safely by his side. If Sister Tathagata were with him, she would have chided him. Desire, she would have said, was for the weak-minded. But right now, the wizard didn’t care. To live and breathe without fear felt like paradise compared to what he had been through.
Rati had told him everything he knew about what had occurred in Tējo during Torg’s absence, including the High Nun’s gruesome death. Yet it appeared that in the end, Tathagata finally had achieved her millennia-long quest for enlightenment. This was another reason for joy.
Torg, Laylah, and the Tugars marched fearlessly down the Ogha’s eastern bank. At first, tens of thousands of broken bodies lined the river, and the stench was horrendous. Eventually, there was less evidence of the carnage that had so recently occurred at the gates of Avici. By the sixth day, they saw only an occasional body—or head. The Tugars and Pabbajja had destroyed the fiends. Nature would eventually take care of the rest.
They marched for six days, encountering no resistance. Most of the numerous villages that lined the greatest river in the world had been abandoned. Stragglers had begun to return, but they were few. Many thousands had fled to Nissaya, only to perish there in the worst slaughter in Triken’s known history.
Their company moved slowly, averaging little more than ten leagues per day. To a man and woman, they were exhausted—and there was no longer any need for haste. Torg sent scouts eastward to scour the Gray Plains for villagers who might have chosen not to flee to Nissaya. When they came upon bridges spanning the river, Torg also sent scouts to the west. But the reports always were the same: a family here, a few frightened groups there, but never concentrated or organized numbers. Even the Buffeloes were scattered, and they saw nary a Lyon nor Tyger. Either most everything was dead, or most everything had fled far away. Torg guessed it was a sorrowful combination of the two.
The moon was waxing gibbous when they came upon the first fiends: about two hundred shambling northward along the riverbank, their faces strangely sad. But when they saw Torg, Laylah, and the Tugars, they snarled savagely and rushed forward, eager for a meal of flesh and blood. Podhana and the others dispatched them in a matter of moments, leaving their heads and bodies to rot. Nature had more work to do.
“It appears that not every fiend from Senasana found its way to Tējo,” Rati said to Torg.
“If so,” Torg said, “then let us seek them out and destroy them.”
Through the night, they slew several hundred more fiends, and scouts reported encountering at least that many more wandering in the Gray Plains east of the Ogha. By dawn they were only five leagues from Senasana’s northern outskirts. Now there were fiends everywhere, roaming in groups of three, six, or twelve. Among them were the elderly and children. The Tugars had no choice but to slay them all.
They entered the city around noon, and Torg ordered the Tugars to spread out. Senasana was large, but five thousand-plus desert warriors could cover a lot of ground in a hurry. Though it had been more than a month since the undines had infected the citizens of Senasana, there still were active signs of destruction in many areas. Small fires burned in homes and buildings, and smoke danced in the air. Fiends of all shapes and sizes wandered the cobbled streets in search of living flesh. Whenever they saw the Tugars, they attacked. Torg was glad of this. It
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