Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (38 page)

One final time Elu called Rathburt’s name. One final time there was no response.

After a period of silence, Torg said, “Jivita is not far.”

“What then?” Laylah said.

“We shall see what we shall see.”

ON THE SAME morning that the Daasa first bowed to Lucius in the City of Thieves, Asēkha-Tāseti began her journey from Nissaya to Anna on horseback. She was still enraged at Kusala for ordering her to corral the noble ones and escort them to Anna, but she was outranked and therefore helpless to protest any further. As her Vasi master used to say, infuriatingly at times, “It is what it is.”

Though Tāseti would have preferred to walk to the Tent City, it was almost two hundred leagues away from the black fortress. The Nissayans outfitted her with a desert gelding, shorter and thinner than their destriers, but much better suited for marathon distances, especially in warm weather. He also would need less food and water than the heavily muscled war horses demanded.

Tāseti set out from the fortress without fanfare, carrying little food or gear. Most of her sustenance would be found along the way. She knew how to live off the land as well as anyone, and the path she would follow was familiar—to the point of boredom. She could take it easy on the horse and still reach the sanctuary south of Dibbu-Loka in ten days, but from there to Anna would be a dreary march that could take weeks. By the time she and the noble ones arrived at the Tent City, the fate of Nissaya might already have been sealed. The thought made her angry. As she had told Kusala, she had trained for two centuries to fight the ultimate battle, only to be denied the opportunity.

“Damn you!” she screamed to no one.

The gelding looked back at her, his small ears swiveling.

She patted his long, arched neck. “Pay me no heed, handsome sir. I’m just a bitter old woman, alone in the world. Did I tell you that I’m two hundred years old? And another thing that’s bothering me, I’ve never felt comfortable around Sister Tathagata. It’s like she can look into your eyes and see your thoughts. And my thoughts aren’t always as pure as they should be.”

The gelding nickered, a gentle sound that prompted the warrior to smile.

“At least I’ve got one friend in the world. And I don’t even know your name. I’ll have to give you one. Let me see
 . . .
I’ll call you Chieftain. How’s that? Perhaps you’ll treat me better than your namesake.”

The gelding nickered again. To Tāseti, it sounded like the horse was giggling.

She didn’t expect to encounter enemies during her journey, at least not any she couldn’t easily handle. This portion of the Gray Plains wasn’t barren, but there still were vast stretches of uninhabited land, broken only by occasional farms, ranches, and homesteads, most of which would now be deserted.

The short gray grass, stunted by a consistent lack of rainfall on the eastern side of Kolankold, remained decent fodder for livestock, and occasional ponds and streams provided irrigation for modest plantings. But you could ride for leagues without seeing anything but birds, snakes, and rodents—though wild horses, antelopes, Buffelos, and tawny cats as big as Tygers weren’t entirely uncommon.

Whenever she found fresh water, Tāseti stopped and allowed the gelding to graze. She was in no particular hurry. What was the point? The noble ones were champions of moving slowly. And Anna wasn’t going anywhere that she couldn’t find.

After traveling just seven leagues, she camped the first night within a palisade of boulders that seemed to have sprung from the ground of their own accord. She knew the terrain would become much bonier once she was beyond Lake Keo, but it was unusual to find anything but grass, shrub, and an occasional copse of stunted trees this far west. She slept without worry. Most of the evil in the world was concentrated north of Java, marching down Iddhi-Pada on its way to Nissaya. It would have little concern with a single Asēkha on a mission that would play a minor role, at best, in the fate of Triken.

She slept later than she should have. At first she couldn’t find Chieftain, who had grown restless and wandered out of sight in search of better grazing. But when she called his name he rushed over, stomping playfully. He already seemed to like her, and she him.

She decided that morning to stop eating for several days—except for
Cirāya
, the green cactus prized by the Tugars. When a warrior relied exclusively on
Cirāya
, its therapeutic effects increased dramatically, cleansing the body and clearing the mind. While on long journeys, Tāseti and other Tugars often did this voluntarily, both for the physical enrichment and to eliminate the time and effort of meal preparation. Tāseti had once eaten nothing but the cactus for an entire month, and other than losing a little weight, she had suffered no negative side effects.

Chieftain was feisty for a gelding, several times breaking into a canter without prompting. In typical Tugarian fashion, Tāseti rode without the use of a bridle, preferring leg and hand pressure to direct the animal. She also disdained a saddle, yet she did not become sore or blistered even when riding long distances, the bodies of Tugars being immune to ordinary wear and tear. Still, for the horse’s sake, she sat upon a camel-hair blanket, which was tied around Chieftain’s barrel with cordage.

She and Chieftain covered six leagues before noon, finally resting by a small pond. While the gelding grazed, Tāseti meditated in an attempt to ease her frustrations, sitting cross-legged by the water, eyes closed and body motionless. There was little breeze, which was unusual in the open plains, and it was unseasonably hot. Tāseti noted this and then returned to the breath.

While she meditated, a pair of Buffelo, weighing perhaps three hundred stones apiece, lumbered within a few paces and lowered their boulder-sized heads to drink, appearing not to notice her presence. Tāseti opened her eyes and studied their immense bodies, admiring their muscular flanks and enjoying their pungent scent. The male of the pair had a long, black beard.

Suddenly Chieftain appeared and galloped over to protect her, stomping his hooves and snorting. The Buffelo paid the horse little heed, but in order to avoid a confrontation, Tāseti stood and went to the gelding. For the first time, the Buffelo noticed her—and they bolted, charging directly into the shallow pond and splashing away in a mad rush.

Tāseti laughed. “You scared them off, Chieftain,” she said, patting his shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pleased that the danger had passed, the clever gelding nickered.

“Time to get going,” Tāseti said, “though I don’t know why. I feel like a deserter. I shouldn’t, I know, but that’s the way it is. As my Vasi master used to say, ‘You have to take what life gives you.’ I have to admit that what it’s giving me right now doesn’t suit me well. That’s another Vasi saying, by the way.”

She rode until midafternoon before taking another brief rest, then on until dusk. Though her stomach was growling from hunger, she was already feeling the cumulative effects of the
Cirāya
. She began to notice an increased vibrancy of colors: the velvety glow of violet petals, the bright-yellow under-parts of a meadowlark, the deepening blue of the sky, even Chieftain’s chestnut coat—all so beautiful and mournful.

To her surprise she saw a lone human figure, large and dark, staggering toward her on foot. She urged Chieftain forward and rode to investigate. Though he obviously was injured in some way, he still looked dangerous. She drew her dagger and moved closer.

Then she gasped, leaped off Chieftain’s back, and raced toward the stranger, though he was a stranger no longer. It doesn’t take long for one Asēkha to recognize another. Rati collapsed just before she reached him. When Tāseti took him in her arms, she saw that his neck and chest bore bloodied scorch marks, as if he had been tortured with fire.

Rati’s clothes were in tatters, but Tāseti was more concerned that his longsword, short sword, dagger, and sling appeared to be missing. Of all the Asēkhas, Rati was the most fastidious. He would never abandon his weapons—or allow them to be taken—unless under the most extreme duress. All he carried was a skin of water. But for now, at least, he seemed unable to awaken and tell her what had transpired.

Tāseti carried him to a nearby copse, laid him down beneath the stunted trees, and covered him with her blanket. She poured wine over his lips, forced him to swallow, and then pushed a square of
Cirāya
into his mouth. Though barely conscious, he began to chew. After a while, his facial muscles relaxed, and he fell into a restful sleep.

While he slumbered, Tāseti rubbed his wounds with salve pre-made from the crushed roots of a creosote bush. Then she let him rest through the night, occasionally placing fresh squares of cactus in his mouth.

Soon after sunrise, he opened his eyes for the first time since she had discovered him. “Tāseti, how came you here?” he said weakly.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“My answer is long.”

“Tell me all of it. But first, are you hungry?”

“
Cirāya
is all I require—and more water, if you please,” he said. “But why are you here? And where are you headed? Surely you were not sent to search for me.”

“I’ll hear your story first,” Tāseti said. “My guess is it will be far more interesting than mine.”

“BEFORE THE witches struck me with their flame, I destroyed twelve barrels,” Rati said while sitting upright against the base of a tree. “But three wagons remained—each containing six more. The fire hit my chest and also burned my neck. I have never felt such pain. Not even a cadre of witches should have wielded that much power. I fear the sorcerer has gifted them with magic that has strengthened them even further.”

The force of the magical bolt knocked Rati’s
uttara
from his grasp. The hags fell upon him like a pack of wolves, snarling, clawing, and biting. Though still dazed, he relied on his finely honed instincts, drawing his short sword while still beneath the pile. He stabbed one hag in the stomach, cut another’s throat, and crushed the bones between the eyebrows of a third with a swift kick. Three blows, three soon to die. Rati grinned crookedly.

The final two hags backed away, gesturing for the Mogols to take over. The savages were better-disciplined fighters than some gave them credit for and were especially proficient at ganging up on outnumbered opponents. They swarmed him all at once. Rati dropped to the ground and rolled on his side, stabbing two Mogols in the groin and knocking several others off their feet. Then he sprang up and attacked, not giving the savages a chance to regroup. Five strokes later, three more were dead or disabled, but two suffered relatively minor wounds.

Rati cursed himself. He hated wasted motion.

Another tendril of crackling fire struck him, this time in the ribs beneath his heart. He was thrown backward again, crashing against a boulder and banging his head. More flame leapt at him. He spun to the side, barely avoiding it. Where the fire struck the boulder, the stone exploded, casting razor-sharp splinters. One stuck in Rati’s earlobe, an extraordinary occurrence. He threw his dagger, stabbing a witch—in her hideous state—between her sagging breasts. Her chest flared red and blew outward, casting burning gore.

In a fit of snarling rage, the final two hags leapt at him again. With his short sword, he killed them both with crunching plunges to the heart.

Rati’s odds were slowly improving, but four witches and more than a dozen savages still lived. The largest Mogol—the lone Porisāda among them—approached next, bearing a glowing war club in his left hand and Rati’s
uttara
in his right. The other Mogols backed away, as did the witches. Apparently this savage was their champion. But all it really did was make Rati angry. His
uttara
, the one hundredth of a special line, had been presented to him on the one hundredth day after he had turned one hundred years old. All in attendance at the special ceremony had laughed, knowing Rati’s obsession with numbers. But he had been deeply honored. From then on, he adored this sword like no other. That a Porisāda dared foul it with his touch was the ultimate insult.

“My anger got the best of me,” Rati told Tāseti, who couldn’t help but smile. She had been in attendance when Torg presented the
uttara
and had laughed as hard as the rest. “I broke his left wrist with a straight kick and hacked off his right hand with a single stroke. When I picked up my
uttara
, I had to pry his fingers off the handle.”