Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (37 page)

And then he lowered his head and fell instantly asleep. Rathburt and Elu soon followed. For a short while, only Peta and Laylah remained awake.

“Father is right,” Peta said softly. “I am not your enemy. You know me naught, but I know you. And love you.”

The sorceress sighed. “I believe you. I’m not sure why, but I do. I will sleep now, if you don’t mind. I place our lives in your hands.”

“I will not forsake you,” the ghost-child whispered, “though even Father will come to distrust me before the end.”

But Laylah did not appear to hear those last words.

AT DAWN, TORG woke first, his muscled body unusually stiff and sore. Their canoe had ridden the currents well, but it didn’t make for much of a bed. The craft had been hollowed out from the trunk of a cypress and was just large enough for the five of them, though it contained only three seats: one in the bow, one midship, and one in the stern.

Peta sat stoically, facing the stern, her alabaster eyes aimed in the direction of Torg’s. A cool breeze blew through her hair. She was as beautiful as ever.

“There is much that needs be said that cannot be said,” Peta whispered. “But you must know that your strength will be tested to its limits
 . . .
and beyond.” Peta then grimaced. “I can say no more.”

“I love you
 . . .
and trust you,” Torg said. “Do not fear. When the time comes, I will not fail.”

“I know
 . . .
Father. But you will doubt even me.” Then she sighed. “Shall we wake the others? The river will soon become difficult. You should eat and perform your ablutions.”

Torg sat up and leaned over to wake Elu, but his daughter froze him with a wave of her hand. “There
is
one last thing I can say, but it is not pleasant. Before this day is done, one among you will be lost—for a time. But he will return.”

“He?”

“She will not permit me to say more.”

Torg grimaced. “When you are with Vedana, little daughter, are you in pain?”

Peta did not answer.

Soon after, the others woke in cheerful moods. It was a sunny morning and surprisingly warm. The rock walls that had encased Cariya farther north had sloped down to the river’s edge, giving way to tumbled banks. They paddled into the calm of an eddy and left the canoe to relieve themselves. When they returned, they sat on a dry slab of rock and ate most of what remained of the fish, cornbread, nuts, and berries. Then Laylah lay next to Torg and nestled in his arms.

Rathburt yawned and stretched, quite pleased with the situation. “I have never traveled this far south in Dhutanga, but this area is rather pleasant, don’t you think? Surely we’ve left the druids far behind. How far is it now to Jivita?”

“Just under twenty-two leagues to the White City,” Peta said. “But little more than ten leagues to the edge of the forest.”

Rathburt looked at her and arched an eyebrow. Then he turned back to Torg. “If we’re so close, why do you look so concerned, Torgon?”

“The last stretch of Cariya, before it finally emerges from the forest, is the most difficult,” Torg said. “Even the Mogols fear these rapids, and their boatmanship is superior to ours. In a little while, you will no longer believe that Dhutanga is pleasant.”

“Then why don’t we get out of the canoe and walk?” Laylah said, the side of her face still resting on Torg’s chest.

“It would take several days to walk out of Dhutanga from here. By boat, we might be able to escape the clutches of the forest before sunset tonight.”

“Elu likes that idea,” the Svakaran said, grimacing as he stretched. “He doesn’t like this forest—or this river.”

“There is a Jivitan saying that goes, ‘Nothing good ever comes from Dhutanga,’” Torg said.

At midmorning, they pushed away from the bank and re-entered the currents of Cariya. Soon the river dropped radically in elevation, churning, frothing, and roaring so loudly they could barely hear themselves speak. Torg steered from the stern while Laylah was responsible for quick turns of the bow. Peta shouted orders, warning them about submerged boulders, whirlpools, and holes.

“Maybe we
should
walk,” Rathburt squealed.

“Too late now,” Peta said.

After two leagues, they approached a stone island that rose from the middle of the river like a spire. The rapids roared past on each side.

“Steer to the right, close to shore,” Peta shouted.

With Laylah paddling hard on her left, Torg was able to steer the canoe along the right side of the island, though the craft scraped a boulder. They shot through the narrow opening and back into the middle of the river.

Rathburt’s eyes were clamped shut. “Is it over?”

“It’s only just begun,” Peta said.

As the channel narrowed, steep cliffs again rose on both sides. The river picked up speed, blasting around boulders, plunging over ledges, and surging through troughs. The canoe bounced and rocked like a bucking horse, and they were all forced to tuck their knees under the lip of the hull to avoid being cast overboard. Peta continued to shout orders. Several times her directions enabled them to avoid undercut rocks and twisted branches.

They approached another island, smaller than the first but no less dangerous. The massive trunk of one of Dhutanga’s mysterious trees had fallen into the river and become hung up on the rock, leaning like a splintered figurehead.

“To the left!” Peta shouted.

They turned hard and sliced through a channel less than five cubits wide. Rathburt and Torg had to duck to avoid smacking their heads on the overhanging tree. When they shot past the rock, the canoe started to spin and would have overturned had Laylah not straightened it with several huge strokes.

“That was close,” she shouted, glancing back at Torg. Even amid the tumult, Torg took a moment to admire the taut muscles of her arms. He was proud of her, especially considering she was performing so well in direct sunlight.

From there, the river picked up even more steam. Twice they barely skirted small waterfalls, and once they struck a submerged rock that lifted the front half of the canoe several cubits into the air. Soon after, they dropped over a ledge and immediately were forced into another trough.

“Left, right, left
 . . .
like an S,” Peta commanded as they wove between a nasty series of boulders before squirting through the trough into a violent whirlpool. It took all of Laylah’s and Torg’s strength to free them from the vortex.

“We’re not going to make it,” Rathburt said.

The water roared like an avalanche. At the worst possible time, the canoe started to spin again. Peta was shouting something, but Torg couldn’t hear. They approached a narrow trough that curved to the right and dropped fifteen cubits into a thundering tumult of potholes and undercuts. Laylah paddled hard, attempting to position them for the steep descent. But they entered the sluice at the wrong angle, too far to the left, and the bow slammed into an outcrop and locked into place. The stern leapt upward, as if a dragon had reached down and plucked it from the river, and the canoe somersaulted. All five were cast into the chaos.

Torg was sucked under and pressed against the bottom, where he could feel the scabbard of the Silver Sword jamming hard against his back. For a panicked moment he was convinced he would drown. But then the currents spewed him forward, and he was able to struggle to the surface, gasping for air and looking about. At first he could see no one. Then he recognized Elu, face-down just an arm’s-length away. He grabbed the Svakaran’s hair and yanked his head above the water. He was unconscious.

“Laylah!” he screamed. “Peta! Rathburt!”

To his relief, Laylah shouted back, “Over here. I’m all right.” And then he saw her a little ways ahead, swimming strongly.

“The others?” he called to her.

“I don’t see them!”

“The canoe?”

“It’s gone past us. I’m not sure how far.”

And then, as if the river had decided it had done enough damage, they were flushed into a peaceful pool, enabling them to swim to the far bank and haul themselves onto a rock protruding from the cliff wall. Torg laid Elu on his back, forced open his mouth, and breathed essence into his lungs. The Svakaran’s eyes opened wide, and then he coughed and heaved. Torg and Laylah stood and scanned the river in all directions, but they could see no one.

“Rathburt, my friend, where have you gone?” Torg shouted. “She warned me, Laylah. She warned me.”

“Rathburt,” Laylah screamed. “Rathburt!”

But he and his staff had vanished, along with Peta.

“Torgon,” Laylah said. “We’ve lost them. And Obhasa, too. Only the sword was saved. It’s still in your scabbard.”

Elu, who had struggled to his knees, reached down and plucked something from from the surface of the river. He held up the ivory staff, whose length was more than twice his height. “Obhasa is right here,” the Svakaran said weakly. “Like it was waiting for us.”

Laylah sighed. “But the others are gone.”

“Peta was never in danger, at least not from the river,” Torg said. “Perhaps she has returned to her Mother. But Rathburt? He is lost to us
 . . .
for now.”

Elu burst into tears.

NOW IT WAS LATE afternoon, and the sun was setting beyond the gorge. Laylah and her companions clambered along the eastern bank, calling Rathburt’s name. But they got no response.

About a quarter-mile down the river, they found the canoe snagged on a fallen tree on the western bank. She watched Torg swim across. The paddles were lost, so the wizard broke a thick branch off the tree and used it to angle the canoe to the other side. Beyond the eddy, the current again was swift, but now it was more manageable. Laylah and Elu climbed inside the canoe. The Svakaran would not speak, other than to call Rathburt’s name. But at one point, he painfully leaned over the side and plucked one of the paddles from the river, handing it to Laylah.

“You’re finding everything,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. But his face remained grim.

Torg reached over and grasped Elu’s shoulder. “Allow me to lighten your heart. This morning, before any of you woke, Peta spoke to me, saying that one of us would be lost on this journey, but not forever. It’s obvious now that she was speaking of Rathburt.”

“How could he have lived through that?” Elu said, pointing behind them.

“Peta
knows
,” Torg said.

When the sun disappeared, it grew darker. Except for its swift current, the river became as smooth as a lake. Strange trees, different than the behemoths of the inner forest but still unrecognizable, hung over the water, trailing long streams of moss. A peaceful dusk ensued. They floated along steadily, and for a long time no one spoke.

Finally Elu broke the silence. “What’s that smell?”

Laylah curled her nose. “It’s terrible
 . . .
like rotten flesh.”

Torg pointed toward the branches of the overhanging trees. “Vultures.”

Their eyes widened. Huge carrion eaters were perched upon every branch: thousands of them, black as night and reeking of death and decay. But they seemed to have no interest in the intruders.

“Are they dangerous?” Laylah said.

“Not to the living,” Torg said.

“Will they eat Rathburt?” Elu said with alarm.

“Peta is rarely wrong,” the wizard repeated.

In the early evening, the trees around them began to thin—and become ordinary. Cypress, oaks, and pines dominated both banks of the river, as if old friends had come to greet them. Then with shocking suddenness, Torg and the others emerged from the forest. In the moonlit darkness, a wide plain devoid of trees extended as far as the eye could see—east, west, and south.