Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (26 page)

I am getting old. It’s more than possible this war will mark the end of my reign. That is, if I—or any of us—survive it.

THE DAY AFTER the Tugar’s arrival, King Henepola X leaned motionless over his crystal basin, his hands resting on the transparent rim. His long white hair, normally silky and clean, was knotted and greasy, its ends dipping into the silvery liquid. His face looked ancient compared to the last time he had been seen, as if he had aged another half century. Strange-colored lights reflected off his vacant eyes, which were laced with spidery veins. What he witnessed during his long bouts of scrying would have broken almost anyone else. Few could have endured it for more than a few moments, much less day upon day.

Invictus screamed at him. Laughed. Sneered. Forced him to watch drawn-out scenes of sexual torment. Replayed the ruination of Yama-Deva, the torture of the Daasa, the taming of Bhayatupa. With the immense strength of his will, the sorcerer engulfed Henepola with every conceivable depravity. Finally Henepola found it impossible to turn away. And now, his will was nearly ruined. All he could do was watch.

For obscene stretches of time, he did not even blink.

When you stare into the sun, you go blind. When you stare into the mind of a god, you go mad.

AT MIDAFTERNOON of that same day, Kusala, Podhana, and Churikā entered the main entrance of Nagara and began the long walk up the winding stairs to the top of the keep. At first they were saluted amicably, but when they approached the royal quarters, the king’s squires became suspicious. By the time the Asēkhas entered the hall that led to the king’s bedroom, they were practically dragging a dozen guards with them. Indajaala stood by the door, alongside six heavily armed sentries. The white-haired conjurer made a big show of it, on their behalf.

“How dare you approach unannounced,” Indajaala said. “The king is working tirelessly in preparation for battle. He needs his rest and has ordered that no one come near.”

“If the king rests any more, he will never wake up,” Kusala said, shoving his way toward the door. “It is time he comes out and
prepares
in full view of his people.”

The sentries were confused. They, too, did not understand Henepola’s behavior, but they were trained, above all else, to do what they were told. With their king not present, they looked to Indajaala for orders. To their surprise, the conjurer stepped aside.

“Let him enter, then,” Indajaala sneered. “Henepola will deal with this mongrel himself.” When the conjurer spoke, milky vapor streamed from his mouth and filled the hall like smoke. The sentries and guards sagged, then collapsed. Kusala and the other Asēkhas were unaffected.

“You must hurry,” the conjurer said. “More guards may already have been alerted.”

“Come with me, Indajaala,” Kusala said. “Podhana and Churikā will hold the narrow way.”

Kusala tested the thick wooden door, which was made of a special black oak he knew was found only in Java. As expected, it was barred. He leaned against the far wall and flung himself forward, battering the door with his right shoulder. It blew apart as if a tumbling boulder had smitten it.

Kusala and the conjurer rushed through the royal quarters and down the hallway that led to the scrying chamber. If its obsidian door were barred, Kusala would be unable to break it. Torg himself might not have had the strength. But when Kusala came to the end of the hall, he saw with relief that it was ajar.

The peculiar mist oozed from the crack. Kusala grabbed the door, shoved it open, and entered the small room, which was dark except for bright yellow lights leaping from the crystal basin like flashes of lightning at midnight. Henepola had collapsed face-first in the basin, his face submerged in the strange liquid. Kusala grabbed him by the hair and yanked him away, then lifted the king in his arms as easily as an ordinary man would pick up a boy.

“Take him to the balcony,” Indajaala said. “He needs fresh air and sunlight. I will bring his staff.”

A large portal opened onto a ledge with a low wall. Kusala swept aside the thick curtains and carried the king into the light, laying him on his back on the stone. Henepola did not appear to be breathing.

“I have no magic to save him,” he said to Indajaala. “What can be done?”

“I, too, have no such strength,” the conjurer said. “Maōi has many uses, but it cannot heal such wretchedness. I fear the king is lost to us.”

Just then, there was commotion outside the bedroom door, followed by a clashing of swords. Madiraa’s pleading voice could be heard about the tumult.

“Allow her to enter!” Kusala said. A moment later, the king’s daughter burst through the curtains onto the ledge.

“Father?” Then she stared at Kusala. “In the name of God, what has he done?” She knelt and took Henepola in her arms, tears bursting from her eyes. “Is he dead?”

Indajaala tenderly placed his hand on her shoulder. “Child
 . . .
” the conjurer whispered.

That is when Kusala felt a thud that caused the balcony to quiver.

YAMA-UTU RAN. He was not afraid of Kusala. Or the princess. Or the king and his knights. He feared only his own tattered mind. His desire to destroy Mala and end his brother’s torment raged as strongly as ever, but he did not want to harm innocents in the process. A few days before, the Pabbajja had given him temporary relief from his torment, but the strange black stone of the fortress—so unlike the pale bones of Okkanti—had unnerved him again. Making matters worse, the heat had intensified his pain. Even in the middle of the night, it was hot.

Faster than any land animal save Bhojja, he ran toward Mahaggata. These mountains were unlike Okkanti in age and appearance, but their grandeur impressed Utu nonetheless. He climbed ten thousand cubits to where the air was thin and blessedly cold. Then he stood on the mountaintop, his feet buried in snow. A brisk wind blew against his brow, causing his eyes to water. It felt like paradise.

From the peak he could see Nissaya, a black stain in a sea of gray. He stood in silence for several days, taking no sustenance, his mind fighting an internal battle. Part of him wanted to return to Okkanti, where his own kind would succor him. But his own healing would not end his brother’s suffering. Once again, his desire for vengeance took precedence.

Finally he broke his silence, laughing, crying, and stomping about like a lunatic, then casting boulders the size of houses down the mountainside. With frozen tears on his cheeks, he curled up in a ball and slept. When he woke, it was morning.

He started back toward Nissaya.

Something drew him to the keep. He managed to scale the black walls on thick rope ladders that hung from their sides, evading the eyes of the busy soldiers. Then he climbed up the side of Nagara and scrambled onto the huge keep’s flat roof.

Soon after, he heard the princess screaming below him.

Utu leapt onto the balcony. The woman sat there, embracing the king. Utu could sense that the white-haired man still lived, but an ill magic had stolen his consciousness. Still, it could be cured if the healing began soon. He pushed past Kusala and knelt beside the woman.

“Will you allow me to lay my hands upon him?” Utu said.

“Yes” was her response, without hesitation.

ON THE SAME night that Kusala, the Asēkhas, and Yama-Utu did battle with the Kojin and her monsters, Asēkha-Rati sat cross-legged on a boulder and stared at the full moon, watching the slow development of the eclipse with single-minded attention. He had managed to travel more than one hundred leagues in an astonishing four and a half days, though large portions of that distance had been spent on the backs of several different horses.

With rumors of war reaching a fever pitch, most of the villages that lined both sides of the Ogha were deserted, the frightened fishermen and farmers fleeing west to Nissaya or east into the vastness of the Gray Plains. A few brave souls remained in their homes, most of those more than willing to aid an Asēkha, either out of respect, fright, or hope of protection.

Only once since leaving Kusala and his fellow Asēkhas had Rati been forced to fight. By accident, he had encountered a rogue band of Mogols—eleven in all—terrorizing the remaining inhabitants of a once-thriving fish camp.

When Rati came upon them, the men and boys had already been cruelly bound, and their wives and daughters stripped of their clothing. It seemed the Mogols were in the mood for entertainment, but they would not find it on this day. Eleven strokes, one apiece, killed them all.

Rati had always taken pride in his ability to use a minimum of movement to slay his enemies. Kusala often teased him about this, calling it “Rati’s Obsession,” but he had ignored the frequent chides. Besides, he was still humiliated that a Mogol had managed to hit him with a war club during the skirmish with Mala’s army. He actually bore a tiny welt on the back of his head. It was the first time in more than a century that an enemy had struck him solidly.

The villagers thanked him profusely, offering food, shelter, and even the use of some of their women if he would remain with them. Rati politely declined, but he did trade the horse he was on for their finest stallion, along with a sack of dried sardines and a round loaf of bread. As he was leaving, many cast themselves on the ground and wept.

From his perch on the boulder, Rati now was little more than a league north of Senasana. Without regard for the eclipse, the Ogha River roared beneath him, its frothy rapids more powerful than an avalanche. Rati, however, did not share the river’s disdain, staring with fascination as a shadow consumed the moon.

He had arrived in late afternoon, set the stallion free, and then scouted the riverbanks as far as the northern outskirts of the city before turning back and returning to this spot. He had seen nothing unusual, and he could not deny that he was annoyed. Rati, above all others save Tāseti, loved to fight, and yet it appeared he had been sent to a place where fighting was unlikely.

Podhana should have gone in his place; he was more of a loner and would have enjoyed wandering about in such peaceful darkness. Besides, it wasn’t as if Rati or any single person could patrol enough of the river to prevent someone from dumping something into it. All twenty Asēkhas combined could easily fail in such a task.

This part of the river narrowed considerably, forcing its angry waters past a slew of gray-green rocks, some stabbing above the water’s surface like accusing fingers, others partially obscured by the froth. Directly beneath Rati was a chute that flowed between two immense boulders. Just beyond the chute was a whirlpool. And several hundred paces beyond the whirlpool was an eddy, one of the few places of safety in the broiling uproar.

Even while in a state of contemplation, the senses of an Asēkha were unrivaled. Above the droning of the rapids, few would have heard the subtle creak of the wagon wheel. But Rati instantly fell into a crouch and slid off the boulder, working his way up the western bank like a shadow cast from a gliding bird. About a quarter-mile north, he came upon the wagons, five in all, stopped a dozen paces from the opposite bank. The wagons had been driven to the water’s edge through a small gap between rocks and trees: a perfect place to dump something into the river, if that was your goal.

Rati scolded himself for not discovering it before.

At this point, the river was wider—perhaps fifty cubits—and slightly calmer than some of the more dangerous areas, but it still would be difficult, even for him, to traverse the wicked currents. He needed to find an easier place to cross, but first he crouched in a pool of shadows and observed the enemy. Though the wagons were shrouded in darkness, he identified at least twenty Mogol warriors and five Warlish witches, each flanked by a hag servant. And to make matters worse, objects in the beds of the wagons resembled barrels.

Rati knew five witches could outmatch even an Asēkha, but it was his assignment to try—and try he would. He scampered a hundred paces farther upriver until he came upon another chute about thirty cubits broad. In the center of the chute, a single spear-shaped stone, just a span in diameter, protruded above the surface. Without hesitation, he scrambled onto the top of a boulder and flung himself over the river. He landed on the stone with one foot and propelled himself to the far bank. Just as quickly, he raced back to the wagons, hoping he wasn’t too late.

When he arrived, a pair of Mogols already was lugging a barrel toward the water’s edge. The witches stood ankle deep in the tumult, holding tall staffs and singing in their eerie fashion. Almost too quick for the eye to follow, Rati cracked the barrel into pieces with a single stroke of his
uttara
. With two more strokes, he beheaded both of the Mogols.

His sudden intrusion stunned the witches, whose slow reaction bought Rati enough time to wreak more havoc. He raced past the Mogols, pounced into the bed of the nearest wagon, and destroyed five barrels with two strokes. Inwardly, this efficiency pleased him, but he allowed himself only a fraction of a second to enjoy it. There was more work to be done.

An arrow struck him between his shoulder blades and bounced off his dense flesh, the shaft snapping and falling away. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, Rati leapt into the second wagon, this time using three strokes to destroy six barrels.

Though only a few moments had passed since his arrival, the Mogols were now gathering around the remaining three wagons, their war clubs ready. Rati was not overly concerned about the savages’ ability to thwart him. The witches, however, were another matter. They faced him, full of fiery rage, and concentrated their energies. Tendrils of crimson flame danced on the head of each staff, rising into the air and coalescing into a single beam as powerful as a bolt of lightning and pounding Rati squarely in the chest, throwing him a dozen paces backward.

The hag servants fell upon him.