Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (17 page)

“Our champion against yourssss,” the witch said. “Winner takes all.”

“Contesting this devilry is beneath you, Kusala,” Tāseti shouted. “Let us attack now and be done with this.”

But Kusala did not seem to hear. His blazing blue eyes met the witch’s challenge. “Winner takes all,” he growled, and then he strode to confront his magically enhanced foe.

WIELDING HIS
uttara
, Chieftain-Kusala closed on the Mogol. The savage’s face, chest, and arms were slathered with grotesque tattoos depicting various forms of sadistic violence, and he wore only a loincloth stained the color of blood.

Under ordinary circumstances, a dozen Mogols would have been no match for Kusala. But the power of the witches had changed this one into something superhuman, every shred of his flesh shimmering like phosphorescence. Even his war club glowed. It too had absorbed the evil magic.

In Tugarian fashion, Kusala faced his opponent and bowed. The Mogol sneered and then lunged, swinging his club at Kusala’s head. Kusala ducked out of the way and stabbed his
uttara
at his enemy’s heart with enough force to punch through bone. But where the point of the blade met flesh, a crackling burst of crimson energy erupted, blasting Kusala backward onto the hard ground. The Mogol howled with delight, and the witches joined in, shouting the foulest imaginable obscenities.

The savage leapt forward and swung the club at Kusala again. He rolled away, avoiding the blow with little effort, but this time he stood more warily. The Mogol’s powers were similar to a Kojin’s. The witches had given him a magical shield that not even a
uttara
seemed able to penetrate.

Too quick for the eye to follow, Kusala lunged at the Mogol, spun on his right foot, and whipped the
uttara
at his opponent’s throat, a blow powerful enough to behead a cave troll with a single swipe. But where the blade met flesh another explosion occurred, once again knocking Kusala to the ground and momentarily stunning him. The Mogol might have had him then, but the force of his blow also sent the savage tumbling, and he fell into the arms of a soldier. When the Mogol’s shimmering flesh pressed against the soldier’s armor, the golden metal glowed red-hot. In response, the body within the armor swelled to an immense size, and for a moment it appeared that the golden soldier had become some kind of horrid monster. But then he burst asunder.

The Mogol wiped gore from his face and managed to stand. By this time, Kusala also had regained his feet.

“The chieftain of the Asēkhas has met his match, it would sssseem,” the leader of the witches snarled, still choosing to appear in her hideous state. “If you surrender now, Kusala, I will let you live. You can return to Kamupadana as my personal slave, a position you would not find unpleassssant.”

“Whatever else happens here tonight,
you
will perish,” Kusala repeated.

His brashness enraged the witch further, intensifying her repulsiveness. “End his life
 . . .
now,” she shouted at the Mogol.

When the mountain warrior charged at the desert warrior, Kusala surprised everyone by sheathing his sword. The Mogol swung a deathblow, the club rushing at Kusala’s head in a shimmering blur. But with strength second only to
The Torgon
, Kusala caught his enemy’s wrist in mid-swing and wrenched the club from his hand. The witches gasped, and the rest of the gathering fell into silence.

Now wielding the war club, Kusala reared back and struck his enemy with the force of a trebuchet heaving a boulder. The magic in the Mogol’s flesh yielded to the magic of the weapon, and he was slain.

Before anyone could react, Kusala picked up the still-glowing war club, took three long strides, and thudded the leader of the coven on her hideous head. The fulmination of flesh and bone was followed by a gruesome eruption of red fire and rancid smoke. For a moment, everyone froze in place.

But Warlish witches are not cowards, and they love each other like sisters. After recovering from the initial shock, the rest of them charged at the Asēkhas in a snarling fit of fury. The Mogols, wolves, and golden soldiers also attacked. Without Torg to offset the coven’s powerful magic, the desert warriors were outmatched. Despite their prowess, it was only a matter of time before they succumbed.

UNNOTICED IN the melee, the naked Senasanan woman crept away on hands and knees, barely avoiding being trampled. Once she was free of the fighting, she stood and scrambled toward the galleys, which remained poised just offshore. Then she unexpectedly came to a standstill, sensing the approach of a mysterious power. Off to her left was a small hill, barely taller than a berm. A horse appeared upon its summit—but surely no horse could be so large. And then something even more amazing rose into view: a giant, twice as tall as the horse, with a fell look in his eyes.

FOR THE FIRST time in his long life, Yama-Utu—brother of Yama-Deva, now known as Mala—shed the blood of another
 . . .
and another and another
 . . .
using his enormous fists to bludgeon everything he confronted. Though the witches and their minions had been filled with the desire to kill, their rage was minuscule in comparison to his. None could withstand his madness. He made sure of it.

First the soldiers fled.

Then the Mogols and wolves.

The witches stood their ground, but even they were no match. Utu crushed them as easily as the rest, their strength pale in comparison to his. All but a few perished, and those few fled to places beyond Utu’s range of vision.

In the end, he had followed Jord to this place and then destroyed these followers of Invictus and Mala.

But at what cost?

In Utu’s scattered mind, that was yet to be determined.

WHEN THE BATTLE was over, Kusala found the snow giant sitting cross-legged by the edge of the lake, his face buried in hands still stained with blood. The beast wept, a pathetic sound coming from something so huge and powerful.

Kusala approached cautiously, though not necessarily out of fear. During the deadly rampage, the creature clearly had avoided harming the Asēkhas, and at times he and the desert warriors had fought side by side like allies. Kusala had never been to Okkanti, but he had listened many times to Torg’s recountal. It was obvious this creature was a snow giant, and since there were so few—less than a dozen in the world—it was likely the Death-Knower had once been in his presence.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a female voice startled Kusala. He drew his
uttara
and crouched in a defensive position, turning to his left to confront the surprise intruder. A woman with long white hair stood before him, her white robes aglow. Once again, Kusala recognized a stranger. Torg had described her briefly during their talk on the ledge above the rock shelter.

“His name is Yama-Utu,” the woman said to Kusala, gesturing to the giant, who continued to weep.

“And you are Jord,” Kusala said. “The Torgon
has spoken of you.”

“Kind words, I hope?”

“Nothing you would not have been pleased to hear.”

Jord smiled.

“Did Torg send you to help us?” Kusala said.

“I haven’t seen your king for several months. The last time was early winter. But our paths will cross again. After I leave here, I will go in search of him. I have things to show him.”

“How did you come to be here?”

“I’ve been many places—mostly to observe, but sometimes to extend aid, if I am told to do so. The times are dire, as you well know. You needed me. And so I came.”

“If that is so, why did you bring the giant? Could you not have defeated the witches yourself?”

“My powers are limited
 . . .
”

Seemingly oblivious to their conversation, the giant suddenly stood and strode into the lake. Then he sat down, splashed his face, and cried some more.

“Yama-Utu has never killed before,” the Faerie said. “His kind claim to be incapable of violence, but apparently that is not the case. Since the rise of Invictus, this snow giant’s pacifism has been sorely tested. His beloved brother was once known as Yama-Deva. But he is now known as Mala.”

Kusala could not tell if Utu had heard Jord’s words, but the giant seemed to react, standing up and stomping through the water toward the chieftain. Tāseti and several other Asēkhas came forward to protect their leader, but Kusala waved them off. Cleansed of his victims’ blood, Utu stood a few paces away in knee-deep water, and though the giant had the wizened face of an ancient being, he now bore an almost childish expression.

“Have you seen Yama-Deva?” Utu said to Kusala. “My brother went away and never came back.”

“Does he not know?” Kusala said to Jord, amazement in his voice.

“His awareness comes and goes,” Jord said. “I journeyed with him from Okkanti all the way here, and though we traveled many leagues in not much more than a day, we still managed to have several conversations, some more wearisome than others. At times, he knows what we know and is thoroughly preoccupied with killing Mala, thereby ending his brother’s suffering. Other times, he seems to have has no knowledge of Mala or Invictus. Either way, I believe he is an ally.”

“I
miss
him,” the giant said. “Have you seen my brother?”

Kusala was impressed. Without further comment, he laid his sword and dagger in the dirt and then stepped, fully clothed, into Ti-ratana. There was a commotion behind him, but he paid no heed. As he approached the giant, the water came up to his waist. He looked up at Utu and smiled.

“I owe you my life, dear sir,” Kusala said, bowing until his nose almost touched the lake’s black surface. “Will you journey southward with me and my friends? Perhaps we will encounter your brother somewhere along the way.”

“I would be honored to join you,” Utu said.

Kusala believed that he meant it.

When Kusala emerged from the water, the Faerie was gone.

“Where did Jord go?” he said to Tāseti.

“Jord? I do not know that name.”

“She was standing right beside you—the woman with long, white hair. I was just speaking to her. Surely you heard our words.”

“We heard
you
, chieftain, but it was as if you were talking to air,” Churikā said. “There was no white-haired woman. But until just a moment ago, a jade mare stood among us, her mane as white as the great giant’s. When you entered the water to speak to him, the horse galloped off toward the mountains. Did you not hear the thunder of her hooves?”

“I heard something,” Kusala admitted. “What it was, I cannot say.”

Kusala sighed. The giant came beside him and sighed too. Then without warning, his childish expression changed, replaced by a snarl.

“My name is Yama-Utu,” he said to the Asēkhas in a rumbling voice, “and I have chosen to join you. Take me where you will
 . . .
but when we encounter Mala, leave him to me. Such evil cannot be permitted to thrive inside my brother’s doomed body.”

By now, all the Asēkhas had gathered around, and they bowed in unison.

“We will not thwart you, Yama-Utu,” Kusala said. “In fact, we will gladly risk our lives for you and your quest. Consider us your friends.”

“My
friends
cower in Okkanti, obsessed with chants, prayers, and words of wisdom,” Utu said. “But I no longer care what they think of me or my desires. Mala will die
 . . .
at my hands. Do not doubt it.”

Before continuing their journey southward, the Asēkhas went to each wagon and destroyed all the barrels. Utu joined in, smashing them as easily as watermelons. Kusala warned the giant to not let any of the infected water splash into his mouth.