Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (34 page)

Elu took the lead, stepping cautiously onto the front portion of the bridge. “It’s very slippery. But if you watch where Elu steps, you won’t fall.”

“Don’t even say that word.”

Soon after they started across the bridge, Rathburt heard unusual noises coming from the woods in front of where they stood. At first he thought it was just a swirl of wind rustling the trees, but the sound grew louder. Halfway across, Elu froze.

“Something
big
is coming,” the Svakaran said, so softly Rathburt could barely hear him above the tumult. “Elu has never heard such a commotion. Could it be a druid?”

“I’m not sure what it is, but I’m not about to find out. Let’s retreat and hide till it passes.”

Even as Rathburt spoke, a dark beast burst from the trees, rumbling forward on its hind legs. His first thought was that the creature was every bit as large as the Kojin that had attacked them near the longhouse, but this beast seemed even quicker. Its short fur was dark brown and its head broad, with a flat nose and wide mouth. Compared to the length of its body, its legs were short and stocky. Its arms hung almost to the ground, and they were thicker than a man’s torso, especially between the wrist and elbow.

In his haste to scramble backward off the bridge, Rathburt slipped and would have fallen had a powerful hand not grasped his arm and hoisted him to his feet. Rathburt turned in a panic, expecting to see another great ape; instead, he looked into the deep-blue eyes of The Torgon. He had never been so happy to see him.

Then he caught a glimpse of the mare standing a few paces farther back.

“Bhojja!” he said out loud. “I’ve heard so much about you, but now I’ve finally met you. As Vasi masters like to say, ‘Will wonders never cease?’”

TORG STRODE forward, coming up behind Elu. The Svakaran had pulled out his dagger and was waving it at the ape, as if daring it to approach. The beast eyed Elu with a mixture of anger and perplexity.

“Your courage is beyond dispute,” Torg said to Elu, “but this beast is overly large, even for you. Please allow me to confront it in your stead.”

The Svakaran let Torg pass and then scrambled off the bridge. Torg crossed over to the far side. The ape raised its great arms and pounded its chest, making the same kind of drumming sound as a Kojin, only with four fewer arms. Torg left the Silver Sword in the scabbard on his back and instead held Obhasa aloft, carefully watching the beast’s every move.

“Mighty One, I have no wish to fight you,” said Torg, his voice steady and calm. “My quarrel is with the druids, whom you love less than I. Allow us to pass, and we will trouble you no more.”

Torg’s words seemed to soothe the ape, and it lowered its arms to its sides. Torg walked slowly forward, staring into its small but intelligent eyes. He approached within two paces and stood beneath the beast, dwarfed both in height and girth. Torg waved Obhasa hypnotically back and forth, and then he muttered words from the ancient tongue.

“
Niddaayahi, Balavant. Niddaayahi
! (Sleep, Mighty One. Sleep!)” A bluish smoke burst from his staff and swirled into the ape’s face and flared nostrils. In an instant it was lying on its side, and soon it began to snore.

As Torg gestured for the others to cross, Bhojja knelt before Rathburt and Elu, urging them to mount. Then the mare traversed the bridge with both on her back. At the other end, Torg leapt upon her, and she sprang forward. Now with three riders, she left behind the great ape, which Torg believed would not wake until the following morning, confused but refreshed.

ONE OF THE druids finally did carry Laylah. Jākita had grown restless over the sluggishness of their march, and she ordered herself and Urbana carried too. The creature cradled Laylah in its angular arms, jamming her face against its bark-like skin, which was warm to the touch and smelled like pine needles. The druids moved awkwardly, but far faster than she could have managed in such dense trees. For the rest of the night they ran without stopping, covering league upon league in the suffocating darkness of the forest. If anything witnessed their approach, it dared not show itself. The wood-eaters were too great.

Laylah was amazed to find that she was dozing. She took another bite of the root to rouse herself and awoke just in time to be greeted by blazing sunlight every bit as startling as when she had come upon the river the previous afternoon. They entered a wide clearing filled with druids, humming insanely. She had to clasp her hands over her ears to keep from going deaf.

Laylah was cast down and again forced to walk. She stumbled behind Jākita, enduring occasional shoves in the back from Urbana. They approached the center of the clearing, where an enormous tree towered like a sentinel of despair. Druids several spans taller than the others guarded a large opening in its trunk. Laylah had no desire to enter that opening. But the choice wasn’t hers.

She took out the root and chewed what remained of it, needing whatever strength she could find to face something enormously powerful, which she sensed waited for her inside the tree.

Urbana gave Laylah another hard shove, causing her to stumble through the breach. The immensity of the chamber inside the hollow tree stunned her. The circular room was as wide as a banquet hall, and if there was a ceiling, darkness obscured it. A foul-smelling mist swirled in the air, reminding her of rotten fruit. As she gagged, the vampire kicked her in the rump. She started to fall, but Jākita grabbed her arm. Something awaited them in the semi-darkness, and it was growing impatient. When Laylah finally came close enough to see it, she suppressed a scream.

“Princess Laylah, ssssister of the king, allow me to introduce you to
Kattham Bhunjaka,
queen of the druids,” Jākita said.

Laylah recoiled.

But the queen’s psychic power swept over her, blasting through her resistance with the power of an avalanche.

BHOJJA CARRIED Torg, Elu, and Rathburt through the forest for the rest of the night with amazing speed, but even she often had to slow to a canter to avoid crashing into the trees. The mare traveled south along the bank of the river, then abruptly turned west, ducking under branches and leaping over roots. Torg held Obhasa tucked under his right arm and pointed the staff forward like a lance, its glowing head lighting the way.

Although he lost track of time and distance, he guessed they had traveled at least twenty leagues since crossing the river. Rathburt and Elu had long since fallen asleep, and Torg dozed on and off before succumbing completely. Magic prevented them from falling off Bhojja’s back.

Some time later, a gentle but persistent touch awakened him. He found that he was lying on a soft bed of needles. Jord knelt beside him, stroking his forehead. She was naked and pale, but her long white hair covered her breasts and genitals. Torg sat up. He saw Rathburt and Elu close by, still sleeping soundly.

Torg looked at Jord, puzzled. “Why have we stopped?”

“I’ve carried you as far as I dare,” Jord said. “Just beyond is the clearing you and I observed from the sky. Laylah is held prisoner inside the great tree. It’s up to you and your companions to rescue her. I am called elsewhere.”

Jord stood and began to walk back toward the east, but just before vanishing, she turned and said one last thing. “Do not linger. Laylah is in danger. And so are the three of you. The trees bend their will upon you, which causes your sleepiness. They
wish
you to be helpless. Even you, Torgon, cannot withstand them forever. And beyond the trees, a trap has been prepared. Beware.”

Then she turned and disappeared.

Torg leaned against Obhasa and used it to stand. Then he nudged Rathburt and Elu with the staff several times before they opened their eyes.

Elu stretched his arms and yawned.

Rathburt sat up, his voice raspy. “Why are you disturbing me, Torgon? I was having the most unusual dream, and now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

“Get up, both of you,” Torg demanded. Then he handed each of them a piece of jerky, the last of the food he had carried in a pack taken from Jivita. “There is much to be done. Laylah’s freedom is at stake.”

“Where are we?” Elu mumbled as he chewed. “Is it time for Rathburt to try his plan?”

“Hush, Elu. The Torgon doesn’t have time to listen to your foolishness.”

“What’s he saying, Rathburt? What plan? Speak quickly. Is there some way you can help?”

“It was just an idea I had earlier. Now that we’re here, it seems rather foolish.”

“
Tell
me!”

“For Anna’s sake, Torgon, you don’t have to shout. I just thought that, well, my magic doesn’t work very well on people, animals, and monsters, but it seems to have an effect on plants. And I was thinking
 . . .
hoping
 . . .
that the druids have enough ‘plant’ in them to make them susceptible to me. I know I’m being silly, but
 . . .
”

Torg seized Rathburt’s shoulders. “It might work.” Then he started for the trees.

“Wait, Torgon! What if my magic fails?”

Torg shook his fist. “Then we won’t be any worse off than we already are. Come with me or go your own way. But choose.”

“Elu is coming! Wait for me, great one.”

Rathburt sighed. “Very well, I’m coming. Someone among us has to have a little sense.”

TO LAYLAH, THE druid queen’s psychic force felt like a wave of heat beating upon her brow. While a portion of her mind cried out in disgust, Laylah found herself clambering onto the pale queen’s rubbery back. Once there, folds of fetid flesh closed around her, leaving only her head and neck exposed. Jākita and Urbana cackled with delight.

“Are you nice and warm?” the vampire said from far below. “You look so comfy, Princess Laylah. Or I suppose, I should again call you
Queen
Laylah.”

“Be careful how much you taaaaunt her,” the witch said. “There’ll come a time when she
will
be your queen again—and mother of the prince. When she finally surrenders and makes niiiice with Invictus, you could be in peril.”

Urbana hissed, but then grew quiet. Despite her bizarre predicament, Laylah took pleasure in the vampire’s discomfort. It would almost be worth “making nice” with her brother, if it put her in a position to be able to destroy Urbana.

Jākita spread her arms and spoke in a voice that echoed throughout the chamber.

“Prepare yourselves, everyone, for a magnificent spectacle,” the witch proclaimed. “The Torgon will soon arrive, and what he finds here will not pleasssse him. All the better. I want him to ssssuffer as much as possible before I
 . . .
we
 . . .
kill him. And I want the ssssister of the king to view his demise, so that it will be burned into her memory for the rest of her life.”

As she spoke, the humming of the druids intensified. The small portion of Laylah’s mind that remained lucid could sense someone coming. She heard a commotion near the opening of the chamber. And then the inside of the tree filled with fire.

WHEN TORG, Rathburt, and Elu walked into the clearing, it appeared at first as if the druids could not see them. Rathburt clasped his hand to his mouth and gasped. Elu’s eyes sprang wide open. Even Torg was dismayed. There were more druids here than he could have believed possible, jammed together like termites gathered around the base of a mound. Their humming caused the ground to tremble.

“Does Jivita realize the true extent of its peril?” Torg said.

“Jivita?” Rathburt said. “What about us?”

“Good point. We still have only two choices. Proceed or flee. I will go forward, but I’ll force neither of you to join me.”

“Elu will go where the great one goes.”

“Good job, Elu. Show me up, why don’t you? Oh, what’s the use? A man’s got to die some time, right Torgon? Who knows that better than you and I?”

When the trio stepped forward, the druids surged toward them like a rising tide.

Torg held Obhasa in his left hand and the Silver Sword in his right. Elu brandished the Tugarian dagger. When the first druids were just a few paces away, Rathburt lifted his own staff and waved it above his head. Blue fire crept along the shaft and then showered up and out like a fountain. When the magical fire struck the first of the druids, they burst into flames, running crazily about.

“Forward,” Torg shouted. “They will shy before us.”

As they proceeded, the druids gave them a wide berth, but it was a long walk to the tree, and the humming grew maddening. When Rathburt began to weaken, Torg touched his ivory staff to the wooden one, and the blue shower doubled in intensity, scorching hundreds of the creatures. Even so, their numbers were too immense to be depleted. They continued to swarm around the two wizards and the Svakaran, looking for any opening in their defense.

“Stay strong, Rathburt. We’re almost there,” Torg said.

“There? You mean that gigantic tree? And once we get there, what then? What hope have we against so many?”

“As you said before, a man’s got to die some time. Once inside the tree, we shall see what we shall see.”

“Don’t worry, Rathburt,” Elu said. “The great one will think of something.”

“That is
so
comforting.”

When they reached the opening, several large druids attempted to block their way, but Torg and Rathburt chased them off with the power of their staffs. The trio entered the tree and strode through foul-smelling mist. Elu seemed to be the first to see the druid queen, revealed in all her hideousness by the illumination of the wizards’ fire. Jākita stood beside the queen, along with a powerful vampire. The Warlish witch’s skin glowed eerily in a way Torg had never before seen, reminding him of the aura of Mala’s chain.

As if Torg’s presence tantalized her, the druid queen’s pale flesh throbbed and rippled. He could sense the extent of her malice.

“Where is Laylah?” Torg asked the witch. “Deliver her to me, and I will spare your life.”

Jākita cackled. “Such bold words from such a small man. Why don’t you assssk Urbana?” She gestured toward the vampire, who had grabbed a torch and was clambering onto the druid queen’s back. Then she lowered the fiery tip and illuminated a portion of the queen’s oily hide. Laylah’s head and neck protruded from a fold of the creature’s flesh. The rest of her body was obscured.

“If Laylah is harmed, I will kill
all
of you,” Torg said. “Do not doubt it!”

“You will do no such thing,” said a raspy voice that came eerily from Laylah’s mouth. “If you attempt to harm me or any of my children, I will squeeze the life out of this tiny body and drink its blood.”

The queen’s body convulsed, causing Laylah to cry out—in her own voice.

“Youuuu are in a bit of a mess, Torgon,” Jākita purred. “I don’t believe you are in a position to make threats. In fact, if you want your precious Laylah to live, then you will do as I ssssay.”

As if in resignation, Torg handed Obhasa to Elu. As he did, he whispered two words that the Svakaran could barely hear. “To Laylah.”

Then he turned back to the witch. “What is it you would have me do, Jākita?”

“Queen Jākita.”

Sigh. “
Queen
Jākita.”

“Hmmmmmmm. What issss it I would have you do? Let me see. For a sssstart, you shall bring back to life all those you killed at Kamupadana.”

“Such an act is beyond me.”

The witch became enraged, transforming from beautiful to ugly. Even in her hideous state, her mottled flesh continued to glow. From far above, the vampire screeched, prompting Laylah’s head to speak again.

“Nor can you bring back my mother,” it said. “Did you think I would not seek revenge?”

Then the druid queen directed all her psychic power at Torg’s mind. His knees buckled, and he started to collapse, but before he lost control, he whispered one last word to Elu. “Now.”

TO LAYLAH’S mind, existence was a nightmare. She floated in a soupy darkness frequently interrupted by dazzling but painful bursts of energy, as if a lightning storm blasted all around her. She could not move her arms or legs, and her head flopped about like a baby’s. At one point the darkness closed around her so intensely she screamed. But just when she was about to give up hope, a veil was removed from her eyes, and she could see more clearly.

Kneeling next to her and shouting frantically was the cute little Svakaran.

“Elu. What brings you here?”

He still shouted, his face flushed, eyes bulging. And then he held up Obhasa. “The great one told Elu to give this to you. Torg needs your help. And so does Rathburt. The witch is going to kill them.”

Laylah had no idea what Elu was talking about, but she heard a curious moaning. With great effort, she turned her head in the direction of the sound. Lying near her face on an odd-looking carpet was Urbana, with a Tugarian dagger driven into her belly. Black blood gushed from her stomach, staining the carpet.

“Elu?” Laylah said slowly. “Would you please tell me what’s happening?”

But the Svakaran wasn’t listening. Instead he yanked on her head, which hurt her neck. She lowered her eyes and saw in amazement that she had somehow fallen through the carpet and was stuck inside it.

“Huh?”

“Help them,” Elu continued to shout. “Laylah, take the staff and help them!”

Then the Svakaran pressed the rounded head of Obhasa against the side of her face.

LOST AMID THE madness was Rathburt. He felt the druid queen’s will sweep past him and crash down upon Torg. Then Elu ran off, but not before grabbing Obhasa. The Svakaran’s disappearance had amazed Rathburt, but things were happening too quickly for him to react.

Torg collapsed to his knees and lowered his head, as if preparing for an executioner’s strike. He even dropped his precious sword. And then the witch was coming toward Torg with murder in her eyes, her body aglow.

This terrified Rathburt, but not even a coward of his proportions could stand by and watch as a helpless friend was butchered. Rathburt dropped his staff and picked up the sword. It was heavier than he expected and cold to the touch. He grasped the hilt in both hands and directed the point of the blade at Jākita.

“Come no closer, or I will skewer you,” Rathburt warned, trying to act brave. Instead, his voice sounded shrill.

The witch laughed, but her eyes were full of menace.

“Step aside, ssssilly man,” she hissed, boils erupting on her hideous forehead. “You are no match for me. Put down the sword and ssssit down. When all of thissss is over, I will come for you. Perhaps Invictus will have use in Uccheda for someone with your skills.”

“I would prefer to stand aside. In fact, nothing would please me more. But, alas, I cannot. The Torgon is my friend. And I will not forsake him—now or later, no matter how painful it is for me.”

Incensed, Jākita raised her arms and cast them forward. Blobs of golden light, laced with threads of crimson, leapt from the palms of her hands. Without thinking, Rathburt held up the sword in hopes of deflecting just a portion of the onslaught. To his amazement, the sword absorbed all of the wicked energy, and still its blade was cold.

Jākita howled and rushed forward, her gnarled fingers spread wide to throttle him with her bare hands. Rathburt stepped back and almost tripped over Torg, who remained kneeling with his head down.

Now that Rathburt had dropped his staff in favor of the sword, the druids also converged on him, no longer fearing his blue fire. Rathburt looked down at the staff and concentrated, willing it like a puppeteer to stand on its own and shower the enemy. The druids retreated. Emboldened by his newfound ability, Rathburt turned back to Jākita, who now was just a few paces away.

This time his voice was steady. “If you come any closer, I will pierce your foul heart.”

Despite his new-found confidence, the witch was undeterred. She approached within a span of the point of the blade and stood there, unwavering. Rathburt’s skinny arms trembled from the weight of the sword. Jākita laughed again, then slowly transformed back to her beautiful incarnation. Intoxicating perfumes swirled into Rathburt’s nostrils. She smiled at him with the innocence of a virgin, but her skin, still glowing gold, betrayed her true intentions.

“You would stab me, ssssilly man
 . . .
with that mean old sword? A sweet little thing like me?”

Then she glided even closer to the point, smiling all the while. “Do it, ssssilly man. Give it a try.”

Rathburt’s cowardice finally raised its ugly head. He could barely hold the sword aloft, much less stab the creature. Her radiance caused sweat to burst from his brow and stream down his face, burning his eyes.

“Ssssilly man. No sword can harm me.”

Rathburt looked down at Torg, who remained on his knees, head bowed, as if ashamed. “Torgon, help me
 . . .
tell me what to do.”

But Torg remained silent. Instead, it was a cry from above that shattered Rathburt’s paralysis. Soaked with goo, Laylah stood on top of the druid queen, waving Obhasa over her head like a lasso. Blue energy laced with white strands spat from its rounded head, illuminating the entire chamber. Rathburt could see the bloated body pulsate in response, its folds and curves heaving.

Without further thought, Rathburt took a single step forward and punched the point of the blade between the witch’s breasts.

WHEN OBHASA touched Laylah’s cheek, an explosion of blue and white lifted Elu off his feet and tossed him backward, causing him to roll off the druid queen like a boy tumbling out of control down a steep hill. Urbana also was thrown to the ground, the dagger still jammed in her belly. The searing energy caused the druid queen to spasm, spreading open the folds that had held Laylah in place.

Covered with foul-smelling goo, Laylah struggled to her feet and looked down to see Torg kneeling on the ground beneath her, while Rathburt attempted to fend off the advance of the Warlish witch. The sight filled her with rage, and she waved Obhasa above her head and screamed with all her might. Then she swung the fiery staff down, smiting the bulbous flesh.
Kattham
let out an inhuman screech. In response, every druid in the chamber swarmed over the queen, forming a protective barrier. Undeterred, Laylah wielded Obhasa like a stave, knocking dozens of druids aside with each swipe. But there were too many. She was overwhelmed and sent tumbling herself. She fell off the queen and hit the ground with a thump, momentarily losing her breath. Suddenly a strong hand lifted her above the tumult. She started to fight, then saw that it was Torg.

“Beloved
 . . .
” she said in the sweet tone reserved only for him.

“My love
 . . .
”