Free Healed by Hope by Jim Melvin

giants, Torg felt his heart implode.
    “I will not leave!” the chieftain was saying.
    Torg strode forward. “Step aside, chieftain. I love you much, but this is beyond you.”
    Podhana turned slowly, and there was joy in his eyes. “Lord,” he said, and then he bowed and backed away.
    Slowly Torg came nearer. The three snow giants sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning their torsos forward so that the tops of their heads almost touched. Deva looked at Torg and winced.
    “It pleases me that you still live,” the snow giant whispered. “But you must leave . . . all of you. Bhari’s loss weighs heavily on us. When Gambhira and Sampakk came after her, they stopped here first—and became so . . . enraged . . . that . . .”
    “We did not believe evil such as this”—the female gestured about the room—“was possible.”
    “Violence begets violence,” the male said. “The Himamahaakaayos have been revealed as imperfect beings.”
    “None among us—not even the snow giants—are perfect . . . unless they achieve enlightenment,” Torg said. “Do not be so harsh on yourselves. The evil brought into this world by Invictus was especially vile. You were forced to step out of Santapadam (the Path of Peace) and become warriors. The snow giants might never again be what they once were. But it remains possible for you to go on with your lives in honorable fashion. Time heals all wounds.”
    “Perhaps we do not deserve to be healed,” Sampakk said, her voice low but dangerous.
    Gambhira began to whimper. “We deserve only despair.”
    To Torg’s surprise, Laylah strode within an arm’s length of the snow giants.
    “Don’t be fools!” she said venomously. “Try to imagine what I’ve gone through. Or worse yet, what Deva has endured. Yes . . . killing’s no fun. Yes . . . you’re not perfect. But Torg’s right: Time does heal all wounds. All wounds!”
    The snow giants leapt to their feet. Deva attempted to step between them and the sorceress, but Gambhira shoved him aside and towered over Laylah. Torg drew the Silver Sword, and the Asēkhas closed around her, their uttaras gleaming in the artificial light. But Laylah was not intimidated. The snow giants were great, but so was she.
    “Strike me, if you dare,” she challenged. “But I am not your enemy.”
    Gambhira raised his hand and made a fist, but then his face twisted, and he collapsed to his knees. Instead of hitting her, the snow giant wrapped Laylah in his arms, not to crush her, but to take solace in her embrace. In response, Obhasa glowed blue-white, enveloping the sorceress and snow giant in a magical light. Sampakk placed her hand on Gambhira’s shoulder, and her body also shimmered.
    “You are a healer,” Torg said to Laylah, causing her to smile.
    Deva smiled too, but there was little joy in it. “Death-Knower, it is time I . . . we . . . returned to Okkanti. It will be long before any of us will again dare to wander from the heights.”
    WHEN TORG TOLD Laylah that she too was a healer, she felt a swell of pride. Indeed, the snow giants had reacted well to her embrace, rising out of their sublimity as if her touch enamored them. But she was disturbed as well as pleased. Some of her magic had been white and some blue—but another part had been golden. Even from her womb, her baby wielded power. And though his birth was distant, the boy already seemed to have a mind of his own.
    Laylah, Torg, and the others emerged from the catacombs, left the crowded streets of Kilesa, and entered a barren field north of the Sister City. There they ascended stairwells that led to the battlement of the Golden Wall and watched as the three snow giants sprinted into the darkness. The southwestern ridge of Okkanti, barely visible in the starlight, loomed in the far distance.
    Jord glowed, as if on fire. The Tugars sang sad songs. And the Pabbajja launched bolts of magic into the sky from their tridents. Laylah had never seen anything