Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (14 page)

JORD WAS NOT helpless, but her powers to maim were limited. In an aerial battle pitting flame against flame, she was not Bhayatupa’s match. Her charred carcass had fallen from the sky, smiting the outside of one of the walls and tumbling downward before finally coming to rest on a patch of bare ground tucked within a jumble of boulders. There her remains sizzled like an old bonfire. Later that night, it rained hard for a brief time, extinguishing the cinders and leaving a scorched bundle of flesh, feathers, and hollow bones.

After the rainstorm, the night air became clear and warm. Invisible to the naked eye, millions of mushroom spores floated in the breeze. A few hundred came to rest in the damp dirt near the corpse, forming a circle around it as if planted by an unseen gardener.

On the same morning that the Daasa bowed to Lucius, the mushrooms began to sprout. At first their miniature caps and stalks were barely recognizable, appearing as tiny buttons on the surface of the soil. But they quickly grew to maturity, the stalks rising upward and the caps enlarging and then unfolding like a series of pale umbrellas, forming what the native people of Mahaggata would have called a
fairy circle.
According to legend, tiny winged sprites danced within these circles until exhaustion overtook their playfulness. The sprites then used the mushrooms as seats on which to rest.

As the thin gills beneath the caps spread wide, the mushrooms released more spores. But instead of floating off in search of new habitats, the spores were drawn within the circle, where they began to spin faster and faster, eventually forming a miniature whirlwind that glowed like green phosphorus and crackled like lightning. As the sun rose round and hot above the horizon, the whirlwind collapsed upon itself, consuming Sakuna’s remains as it imploded.

The giant eagle was gone, replaced by something else. A woman lay quivering on the ground. Not until noon did she manage to struggle to her knees.

Her skin was pale, her eyes green, her hair long and white.

Jord had returned to the Realm of Life.

IN THE BLACK, barren depths of the demon world, the baby had cried. Once again she had been abandoned in the darkness, hungry and afraid. Thousands of
efrits
gathered around her, her wails attracting them like moths lured to light. Demons wandered by and listened, but they knew better than to get too close. If the baby were harmed, the mother’s wrath would shower upon them. In the Realm of the Undead, Vedana reigned supreme.

The baby looked like nothing that existed in the Realm of Life. The closest comparison would be a black worm constantly changing size and shape, though at one end there was something that resembled a face with a mouth and tongue.

Within the wriggling worm, a consciousness had begun to emerge. Like that of any infant, it was buried deep in a foggy haze of hunger and desire. But it was there, gaining focus.

Every moment it grew stronger. Every moment its awareness increased.

At a crucial juncture of development, when Mother was away, the baby had reached out and spoken to Father as he wandered through the wilderness with his companions.

I’m alive,
she had told him.

“
Dhiite! Dhiitaake
!” he had cried in response. (Daughter! Little daughter!)

But the wizard had recognized her as more than just his offspring.

Though born of a demon, the karma now thriving within his first and only child had been familiar. After all, it had once been known as . . .

. . . Peta.

SINCE THE TUGARS’ encounter with Mala at Dibbu-Loka several months before, Chieftain-Kusala, leader of the Asēkhas, had learned once and for all that it was better to obey Torg without asking too many questions, even if his lord’s mood had seemed fey. Kusala understood—as did the Tugars—that the Death-Knower was their only real hope against Invictus.

Since that time, Kusala and the Asēkhas had been reunited with Torg at Kamupadana, the Whore City, and had escorted him and his companions into the wilderness, where they were pursued and finally chased down by Mala and his army. Rather than permitting Kusala to remain with Torg, Kusala’s king had issued yet another baffling command.

“Kusala, deter Mala for as long as you can. But
do not die
. When you are overmatched
 . . .
flee
!”

Kusala had been loathe to abandon his king. But from the sound of it, the enemy approached too quickly for further argument. Kusala had bowed and then raced up the path, followed by eighteen other Asēkha warriors. When they emerged from the thicket of vines, the leading edge of Mala’s army greeted them. More than one hundred black wolves surged toward them, each bearing a Porisāda warrior loosing arrows and launching poisoned darts from the wolves’ backs.

Podhana, Churikā, and seven others released a spray of missiles from their slings. The small iron beads pierced flesh and bone, and soon more than twenty Porisādas, and at least that many wolves, were slain. Meanwhile, Kusala, Rati, Tāseti, and the seven remaining warriors charged forward, wielding
uttaras
in one hand and Tugarian daggers in the other. Though the wolves stood as tall as horses and weighed close to half a ton apiece, the Asēkhas were not intimidated.

Kusala somersaulted forward, hacking off the front legs of the wolf on his right with his
uttara
and simultaneously stabbing another between the ribs with his dagger, twisting the blade with deadly force. As the beasts tumbled to the ground, their riders were thrown. Rati decapitated both before they could stand.

Tāseti leapt high over the head of a wolf and landed on its back above the rear limbs, then drove a lightning-quick backstroke into the rider’s neck, killing him instantly. She severed the wolf’s spine with another stroke before pouncing onto a second wolf to record more kills.

In a short time, more than one hundred wolves and riders had fallen. Now the Asēkhas stood in a spread formation, awaiting the next wave of assailants. Not one of the desert warriors had suffered an injury. However, when the main strength of the enemy thundered into view, the Asēkhas found themselves outnumbered fifty to one. To make matters worse, several cave trolls and a dozen druids joined the melee. The trolls wielded iron hammers that weighed as much as small trees. A straight-on blow from one of these weapons could injure even an Asēkha. The druids also were terrifically strong, and they spat acidic liquid from their mouths.

Kusala and his warriors fought with increased intensity, hacking six of the druids to pieces and butchering two trolls. During this skirmish, Rati suffered a glancing blow to the back of the head from a Porisāda war club, which he most likely found more embarrassing than painful, knowing him.

Next to emerge from the woods was Mala. Because of the heavy chain he bore, the monster could no longer run as fast as an ordinary snow giant, though he still seemed able to move quickly when the mood struck him. But when Mala appeared, he was in no particular hurry, seeming content to allow his minions to do the brunt of the fighting. A Kojin shadowed Mala, and the arrival of these two giants inspired the rest of the army. Not even the Asēkhas were capable of withstanding that much might for any significant length of time.

Kusala shouted a Tugarian command.

“
Paharati ca Evati
!” In the ancient tongue, this meant
kill and flee
. Kusala knew all too well that his warriors despised retreat, so he was at least giving them permission to wreak as much havoc as possible during their flight. Then Kusala let out a high-pitched shriek that only Tugars were capable of hearing. The sound carried for more than a league. For better or worse, Torg now knew that Kusala and the rest of the Asēkhas were withdrawing.

“Take care, my lord,” Kusala whispered. “We hope to meet you again in better times, whether in this life or the next.”

Then he blended into the forest and was gone.

AT DAWN THE following morning—the same day that Torg and his companions, now separated from the Asēkhas, entered the valley of the Hornbeam—Kusala sat cross-legged on a gray sheet of shale that overhung a bubbling stream. The northern foothills of the Gap of Gamana were as quiet as a soft breath. A flock of birds flew playfully among the trees, unaware of Kusala’s presence. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful, his body motionless. A starling with a yellow beak flew down and perched on the thick muscles at the base of his neck, probably mistaking him for an odd-shaped boulder.

Soon Tāseti and the others joined Kusala. They sat together by the stream and watched their inhalations and exhalations with extreme concentration, emptying their minds of thought. It was possible to pass within a few paces of the warriors and not see a single one, so naturally did they merge with their surroundings. Tugars believed invisibility was a state of mind: Silence the mind, and the body became difficult to see.

Eventually Kusala spoke, his voice blending harmonically with the ripples of the stream. Only then did the starling take flight.

“We will cross the gap, skirt the eastern foothills, and proceed to Nissaya.”

Another period of silence greeted these words. As expected, Tāseti was the next to speak. “Chieftain, should we not circle around the
Badaalataa
and search for
Lord Torgon
?”

Kusala took a deep breath and released it slowly. “You saw what he did to me at Dibbu-Loka when I pressed him. I will not do so again. He wants me to return to Anna with the noble ones—and for the rest of you to join the defense of Nissaya. Torg will attempt to reach the White City without our help. Call it madness, if you like, but it is our duty to obey him. And it is not like he is defenseless.”

“
Lord Torgon
is
Maranavidu
(a Knower of Death). He is beyond us,” Churikā whispered. “Naught else need be said.”

Kusala’s eyes flared in response to the young Asēkha’s bold words. Churikā was Sōbhana’s replacement, the most recent of their order, and she was similar to her predecessor in manner and appearance, though a finger-length taller.

“Sometimes the young—even those who are brash—perceive things more clearly than their elders,” Kusala said. “Churikā speaks the truth. Torg
is
beyond us. We are merely his soldiers.”

“There is no shame in that,” Podhana said. “I would rather be Lord Torgon’s pawn than a king among kings.”

“
Satthar
 . . .
Satthar
 . . .
Satthar
 . . .
(Master
 . . .
Master
 . . .
Master . . .)” several others chanted in response.

“It is well we are reminded of whom we serve and why,” Kusala added. “In the words of the great and wise Churikā, ‘naught else need be said.’ So let us begin our journey southward. Nissaya is more than one hundred and twenty leagues from this place. I intend to reach the fortress in fewer than ten days.”

“The land is rugged, and it is likely we will encounter resistance,” Tāseti said. “If we have to stop and fight, ten days will be unattainable.”

“
Fewer
than ten days,” Kusala reminded.

WHEN THE NEED is dire, Asēkhas can journey amazing distances in relatively short periods of time. On the blazing sands of Tējo, Kusala once traveled more than thirty leagues in a single day on the back of a camel, and it was not unheard of to walk a hundred leagues in five days. But despite their adaptability, Asēkhas still were creatures of the desert. The mountains and foothills of Mahaggata were not their preferred terrain.

The most difficult part of their journey would be near its beginning, when they would be forced to cross the Gap of Gamana. Kusala had no idea how they would accomplish this without skirmishes, but he hoped he and his warriors would clash with relatively small groups, dispatching and moving on. If they could reach the foothills south of the gap, there would be plenty of cover and less enemy activity. From there, he believed they could proceed to Nissaya with relative ease.

After their meeting at the stream, it took the Asēkhas a full day and night to march between a pair of mountains and reach the northern border of the gap. At dawn, they crouched beneath a rock shelter and chewed on Cirāya, the green cactus that provided liquid and nutrition. If rationed carefully, the cactus fiber would last the entire journey, but Kusala didn’t believe they would have to go to that extreme. South of the gap, game and wild vegetables would be plentiful, and there were villages and farms near the western shore of Lake Ti-ratana. The enemy might occupy some of these, but the Tugars had friends in many places.

This forest lined the northern border of the gap, followed by a league or so of tall grasses that also provided concealment. But after that came at least five leagues of open plain. The Asēkhas would have to wait until dark before attempting to cross.

“Let’s eat, then get some sleep,” Kusala said. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a good rest. At night, our chances of proceeding unseen will be improved, though the black wolves can see better in the dark than day.”

“We could split apart and regroup,” Podhana suggested.

“I prefer we remain together,” Kusala said. “If
 . . .
when
we have to fight, we’ll be more effective as a single unit. Besides, I’m in the mood for killing. Let them come.”

They broke camp at dusk and moved through the forest into the tall grass. A broad layer of clouds swept across the sky, glowing in the moonlight. Even ordinary eyes could see for hundreds of paces.

“Karma is not on our side,” Kusala said. “But I will wait no longer to cross. Too much is at stake to linger.”

They left the security of the tall grass and entered the plain. Their black outfits and hair provided camouflage in the darkness, but they still felt exposed. The Asēkhas moved silently at a steady jog in a single line, soon encountering their first signs of trouble, a large enemy camp stretching for more than a league in both directions. At least five thousand soldiers, Mogols and wolves were strewn across the field, gathering around at least a hundred bonfires. Kusala marveled at the effort it had taken just to drag this much deadwood into the plain.

“We might as well have crossed this morning,” he whispered to Tāseti. “Do you have suggestions?”

“We have no choice but to take the long way around,” the second in command said. “Not even the Asēkhas can fight this many. We must withdraw now. But do we flee to the east or west?”

“If we go east, we’ll eventually reach the shores of Ti-ratana,” Kusala said. “Forest borders most of the lake, so we would again have cover. But the farther east we travel, the closer we’ll come to the specter of Avici.”

A scuffling sound interrupted their debate. Churikā came forward bearing a struggling captive, her hand clasped over his mouth. The golden soldier, minus his armor, had a terrified look in his eyes. His padded breeches were down at his knees.

“I found this one relieving himself away from the others,” the warrior said. “Perhaps he can enlighten us.”

Kusala glared at the captive. “When she removes her hand, make no sound,” he said. “If you do as you’re told, I will allow you to live.”

The wild-eyed soldier nodded, his face so red it appeared swollen. Churikā slowly released her grip.

“Whisper
 . . .
remember to whisper,” Kusala warned. “Now, tell me: Is there any place we can cross where the land is free of eyes?”

“The gap is full,” the soldier said in a voice so low even Kusala strained to hear. “The bosses are claiming that a wizard is about, and the King wants him dead. But I don’t care about no wizards, and I don’t want no troubles with you. I just had to pee, is all. I was about to go to bed!”