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little else remained of his former glory. Torg pitied the monster. He had not known Yama-Deva before Invictus captured him, but he had visited with several of his kin high in the peaks of the Okkanti Mountains, including a snow giant named Yama-Utu, who was Yama-Deva’s brother.
    “I have heard of you, Torgon ,” Yama-Utu had said to him seven centuries ago. “Yama-Deva is the only one among us who dares to leave the peaks, and he has brought back word of the desert king who can cheat death. Please, young master, tell us more.”
    Torg had spoken long with the snow giant, his mate and three of his friends, who seemed to magically appear from behind boulders. Their company and conversation had been delightful. Many times they’d bragged of Yama-Deva, the snow giant who dared to wander.
    More than seven hundred years later, Torg felt the sting of tears as he studied the ruins of Yama-Deva. He remembered what the noble ones said about the impotence of hatred, but he felt hatred for Invictus growing inside him, nonetheless. Torg hoped beyond hope that there was some way he could help Mala revert to his former self. Nevertheless, he feared only the death of Invictus could undo this terrible wrong.
    Eventually even Torg slept, his dreams drenched in sorrow.
    Anyone watching from a distance might have mistaken them for friends—rather large friends—traveling together in the wilds. Torg woke and could have escaped, most of his strength returned. But he believed in the power of karma; if he broke his word, more harm than good would result. His vow at Bakheng would not be fully honored until he was presented to Invictus.
    Torg had once asked his Vasi master, “What is the meaning of karma?”
    The master had answered, “Karma means you get away with nothing.”
    Torg reflected on those words as he listened to Mala’s thunderous snores. When the Chain Man finally woke, the monster sat up so fast he banged his thick head on the ceiling of the shelter, the rock suffering more damage than his skull.
    “It’s a good thing you didn’t run off,” Mala said, rubbing the sore spot. “I would have returned to Dibbu-Loka and killed every one of the bald bastards myself.”
    “The noble ones shave their heads,” Torg said. “Even the women. They are not bald.”
    “Whatever.”
    Torg sighed. “I have told you before  . . . and I mean it. I will go with you, without resistance, and allow you to imprison me. After that, we shall see what we shall see. As for going back and killing the noble ones, that is no longer possible. The Asēkhas have long since removed them from harm. Now, my word is all that binds me to you.”
    “So full of pride you are. And so bold. It would bring me great pleasure to strip the flesh from your bones. But my master forbids it, and his threats are the only ones I fear. You will fear them too. If you are lucky, he will convince you—as he convinced me—to join him in his quest to rid the land of vermin. Otherwise, you will suffer as he sees fit. And die when he sees fit.”
    Before they set off, Mala allowed Torg to drink from the spring and eat more berries. Quick as a snake, the Chain Man snatched a large iguana off the side of a boulder and devoured it raw, bones and all. Although Torg often had eaten salted iguana flesh, he found this sight less than appetizing. However, the fresh meat seemed to improve Mala’s mood, and he again permitted Torg to lead.
    The unusual pair walked into the evening and all through the night, rarely resting. In the meantime the rocky land surrounding Dibbu-Loka succumbed to rolling plains. Eventually the remnants of a road appeared before them, and by morning’s first light they had traveled more than ten leagues and were almost halfway to Senasana. During all that time they had seen only lizards, snakes, birds and insects. Ravenous flies swarmed around them, but their bites had no effect on Torg’s flesh—and undoubtedly none on Mala’s as well. The Chain Man,