by Jim Melvin
They continued on. The valley extended beyond the range of the Hornbeam, but it eventually gave way to a rapid series of dips and rises. Eventually, they found themselves marching up the side of yet another titanic mountain.
“We are northeast of Arupa-Loka,” Torg said, “but the Ghost City is still more than thirty leagues from where we stand.”
“Not that we’d want to go there,” Rathburt said. “You’re the only one who wanders into places like that just for the fun of it.”
“I wouldn’t call it fun, but it was interesting.”
“Show-off.”
“I’ve never been to Arupa-Loka, but I’ve been to Duccarita several times,” Lucius said. “The pirates are not overly fond of visitors, but Invictus intimidated them, and so they did not resist our presence. Besides, the sorcerer paid well for slaves: silver for young men and women; gold for children. He was popular among the riffraff.”
“In-vick-tuss is not a nicey guy,” Ugga said.
“No, he certainly is not,” Lucius agreed.
“Duccarita is about forty leagues due west,” Torg said. “North of the city, the terrain is treacherous but barren, while south it is easier to traverse but filled with ‘riffraff,’ as you say. We must choose north or south, but it will take us two weeks to reach the City of Thieves on foot, so we have some time before we’re forced to decide.”
“What is Duccarita?” Laylah said, relishing a chance to stop and catch her breath. “Invictus sometimes spoke of it, but I never paid him much attention.”
“Lucius can answer that question better than I,” Torg said.
The firstborn grimaced, as if painful memories had been revived. “My queen, Duccarita is not a pleasant place. All manner of vermin live there—slave traders, pirates, thieves, murderers, rapists . . . more than fifty thousand, all told. They raid and pillage along the borders of Dhutanga, the western foothills of Mahaggata and the coast of the Akasa Ocean. The pirates even bring slaves from across the sea, strange-looking creatures with pink skin, purple eyes and hairless bodies. The Porisādas covet these slaves, for they are pudgy and tender. Your brother also prizes them—for they make obscene noises when tortured. Their language was beyond my understanding. To me, it sounded like squawking and squeals. But Invictus knew it well. Few things surpass him.”
“The inhabitants of Duccarita are only part of the problem,” Torg said. “Riffraff are poorly organized and easily defeated. But Duccarita still stands, despite the many horrors it has inflicted on the free people of Triken. Why is that? One reason is that Duccarita is located far from the forces capable of opposing it. Jivita is almost two hundred leagues to the south. But there is another reason Duccarita has been allowed to flourish. A sinister power resides in the city. I’ve been within the walls—in disguise—several times, but I was unable to locate the source of the evil. Do you know anything about it, Lucius?”
“I didn’t sense any evil powers,” the firstborn said. “But it’s true something exists there that even Invictus respects. Mala always urged the king to demand the allegiance of Duccarita, giving Avici control of its wealth. But the sorcerer was hesitant—for reasons I never understood. Could it be that something stronger than Invictus resides in the City of Thieves?”
“Stronger than Invictus? No,” Torg said. “But stronger than I? That remains to be seen.”
45
For six more days, Torg and his companions journeyed westward through the mountains, never coming within ten leagues of the northern border of the Gap of Gamana. With Elu’s considerable help, Torg led them up, down and around a dozen mountains of varying heights and girths. They traveled mostly at night and were never seriously threatened. They saw no signs of pursuit from Mala or any of Invictus’ minions, though they occasionally hid from wandering tribesmen and twice snuck past small villages.
On the third day, they began killing game and daring to build fires. Their cooking implements consisted of one pan, a metal spoon and their daggers. Many of their meals were roasted meat sliced from the bone. But there was no shortage of apples, berries, roots and roughage. Fresh water was plentiful, per usual. They never went hungry or thirsty.
One night they came upon a small hunting party of Mogols camped within a cavernous rock shelter. The warriors had built a fire and were roasting a boar. They also were making a lot of noise and seemed to have no fear of intrusion.
When Torg stepped into the firelight, the Mogols quailed like children. Wielding the Silver Sword, he slew five before they were able to stand. Bard, Ugga and Lucius dispatched the others and dragged the bodies deep into the woods, covering them with deadwood and leaves before returning to the fire for a tasty meal.
Inside the shelter, they garnered valuable supplies, including a pouch packed with a delicious paste of blackberries, crabapples, deer meat and bear fat. Ugga wouldn’t touch it, but the others loved it—and it never spoiled.
Elu uncovered another pouch stuffed with dried herbs, including bugloss, thyme, basil and rosemary.
Laylah found two mulberry shawls, one for her upper body and one to wrap around her waist, allowing her to discard the old brown dress that she had grown to despise.
Lucius picked up a war club carved from ironwood and decorated with potent symbols. Including the uttara, he now carried two dangerous weapons.
Bard discovered a quiver of arrows with sharp flint points.
And Rathburt found a stone pipe and a pouch of fresh tobacco.
When Torg and Ugga emerged with deerskin blankets and two kegs of apple wine, their haul was complete. That night, all of them were delighted.
But their concern over Laylah’s deteriorating physical condition more and more outweighed the pleasurable moments of their journey. She continued to be fine during the day, but when the moon glowed in the sky, her illness invariably returned—and each night, it worsened. Without Obhasa, she wouldn’t have been able to walk more than a few paces, much less march for leagues along rugged—and often treacherous—mountain trails. Torg wasn’t sure who worried about her more: he or Lucius.
On the morning of the sixth day since departing the valley of the Hornbeam, Lucius pulled Torg aside while Laylah slept.
“What’s happening to her? Why is she ill again? I thought you healed her. I saw you do it. Can you help her? Why won’t you try?”
“You didn’t like it much the first time.”
“Don’t mock me. Things have changed. I love Laylah, and you know it, but her life is more important than my feelings.”
“Is it? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But you still haven’t answered my questions. Why is she sick again? Can you heal her a second time?”
“I’m not sure why she’s ill,” Torg said. “It’s obvious it has something to do with the moon, which—as she says—is normally her source of power. I’m especially worried about what might happen tonight. The moon will be full in a clear sky. You and I will have to keep a close watch. As for your second question, Obhasa is doing as much for her now as I can. The staff sustains her. In her weakened state, I’m not sure how much more of my energy her body could ingest without causing more harm than good. In the long run, it’s up to her to recover from this malady.”
And so, they passed the rest of that day in a sheltered hollow. For the second time in a week the sky became overcast, and it rained, dropping the temperature to near freezing. They shivered beneath their blankets. Torg covered Laylah with his cloak, but she trembled in her sleep. He feared the worst. The full moon would rise at sunset. What would happen then?
In the late afternoon, the skies cleared. As darkness approached, the air grew slightly warmer. In a clay pot Elu had taken from the Mogol camp, the Svakaran prepared a possum stew with wild potatoes and greens, adding herbs and thickening the gravy with ground-up hickory nuts. They ate out of sassafras bowls and guzzled the remainder of the wine. Laylah devoured her meal, picking up the clay pot before it even cooled and licking it clean. Her hunger seemed to have
no end, which Lucius took as a good sign. But Torg became even more worried. Her mania was disconcerting.
When darkness descended on the forest, the night was as clear as any Torg had seen. The stars emerged, one at a time, and glittered in the sky. When the moon rose above the canopy of trees, it appeared twice as large as normal, as if a hole were opening in the firmament large enough to swallow them all.
At that moment, Laylah fainted.
Lucius caught her before she struck the ground and laid her on a blanket. The others rushed over and encircled her. Torg knelt and felt her forehead. Her fever was back. When he tried to place Obhasa in her hands, her body went into a spasm.
“What is it?” screamed Lucius, his eyes ablaze. “The moon is killing her! What are we going to do? Help her.”
“We must find a cave,” Torg said. “The deeper and darker, the better. Search in all directions.”
The others raced into the woods, leaving Torg and the sorceress alone. Torg sat on the blanket and lifted her into his arms, kissing her cheeks and then her lips. “Laylah, my love . . . how can I help you? What am I missing?”
She opened her eyes briefly. They glowed like cinders, projecting a hot white light that burned Torg’s face, forcing him to look away. When he turned back, her eyes were closed, and she trembled and moaned, sweat beading on her face, neck and upper chest. Then her legs went into a series of quivers, and her flesh began to shimmer.
Torg racked his brain. Something nagged at him. He replayed every thought and conversation he had ever had regarding eclipses, including his conversation with his companions before they left Elu and Rathburt’s longhouse.
“I am a Death-Knower. I know many things others do not. Besides, I’ve witnessed this event before, and I remember how it felt just before it began. All of us who live long lives will see the moon become enshrouded in shadow many times. But when it happens to the sun, it is a far rarer and more powerful occurrence. The noble ones call it a solar eclipse. They say that the sun and the moon circle the skies like birds, and sometimes the moon passes in front of the sun and blocks its light.”
Torg thought back to the other times he had witnessed a full solar eclipse. The first was at Mount Catu, after he had hidden the mysterious amulet that preserved the flesh of the ghost child. The second was in the skies of Anna, casting the Tent City into darkness. The third was from the banks of Lake Keo. All three occurred long before Invictus was born, and centuries separated them. Torg’s memories were hazy, but he sat—with Laylah in his arms—and watched his breath, clearing the silt from the waters of his mind.
Ugga and Elu returned first. The giant crossbreed had come across a rock shelter, but it was too small and open. The Svakaran, however, had found just what Torg wanted—a narrow but deep cave that extended more than thirty paces into the side of a rocky slope. Torg told Ugga to wait in the hollow for the others, then he wrapped Laylah in the blanket, picked her up, and followed Elu into the darkness.
The cave was less than half a mile away. Its opening was so small he had to back in and drag Laylah behind him along the smooth stone floor. At the end of the passageway, he found a chamber just large enough for Torg, Laylah and one other person to fit comfortably. Torg placed the sorceress on the blanket, laid Obhasa next to her, and told Elu to bring the rest of their companions back to the mouth of the cave.
“When you return, send Lucius in first,” Torg ordered.
After Elu sprinted away, Laylah’s condition deteriorated. Seizures wracked her body, froth oozed from the corners of her mouth, and mucus drained from her nostrils. Her flesh was so hot Torg could barely touch it. Before long, she began to emit wretched bursts of white energy.
Torg feared she might incinerate their only clothing, so he removed his tunic and breeches and Laylah’s shawls and crawled to the opening of the cave, tossing them into the clearing outside. Then he returned to the sorceress and lay down beside her, pressing their naked bodies together. In any other circumstance he would have been consumed with passion. Her body was beautiful, even more so than Sōbhana’s. But though he craved her beyond reckoning, his growing fear that she might die extinguished his sexual urges.
As he held her—their bodies slick with sweat—he recalled the first time he had witnessed a solar eclipse, at Catu. The bizarre darkness had stunned him, as if it were a sign that even the sun mourned the ghost child’s passing. Afterward, another unexpected event had interrupted his lonely trek back to Anna. Two weeks after the solar eclipse, a full eclipse of the moon had occurred. This second episode lasted far longer than the first, almost a third of the night. Torg had sat in a meditative pose and observed the phenomenon in silence.
Torg’s mind returned to the present moment. Finally he realized what was wrong. He left Laylah on the blanket, crawled through the passageway, and peered out at the full moon. As he expected, a shadow consumed its bottom left portion.
In Torg’s recollection, the eclipse would last halfway till dawn. He sighed. Would his love survive? He crawled back to her side, his heart full of trepidation.
It was going to be a long night.
Epilogue
When Lucius and the others arrived, they weren’t able to enter the cave. A conflagration of white light—mingled with blue and green—flared from the narrow opening, followed by crackling explosions. Lucius tried as best he could to crawl inside, but the heat seared his swollen face and crisped his yellow hair. The powers within were beyond him—and at that moment he realized Laylah would never be his, could never be his.
It was not meant to be.
He collapsed on the ground outside the cave and wept. How cruel life could be, he had learned, in just one oh-so-short lifetime. He pitied those who had endured thousands upon thousands.
So much pain.
So much suffering.
And all of it . . . inevitable.
The others wept too.
For Laylah. Torg. Lucius.
And themselves.
We have all wept this way—at one time or another.
Have we not?
The moon continued to darken.
So ends Book Two.
Shadowed By Demons (Book Three: The Death Wizard Chronicles)
(Excerpt)
Prologue
In her long life Laylah had known a lot of pain. But nothing compared to this.
With methodical precision, a million tiny mouths devoured her body with thorny teeth. She felt as if she were being skinned alive, but it was her essence being peeled away, not her flesh.
The only thing that kept her sane was the man who held her close. Where his body touched hers, she experienced a semblance of relief. Through the hysteria of her agony, she could sense his strength providing just enough succor for her to survive one more moment.
And another . . . another . . . another . . .
Laylah’s back arched. White flames sprang from every pore, flaring inside the cramped chamber. She cried out. He screamed in response. She was hurting him, and she cursed herself. In such a short time she had grown to love him more than anyone else in the world. She wanted to give him pleasure, not pain. She tried to push him away, but her arms lacked the strength. He was strapped to her like a chain. For better or worse, they would endure this nightmare together.
In some ways her senses were blunted. When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but white. When she tried to listen, she heard nothing but dissonance. She could barely feel the sweat on her skin. Or the blanket on which she lay.
In other ways her senses were heightened. She could smell Torg’s sweet breath and feel the beating of his heart. And somehow, when her eyes were closed, she could see through the stone to where Lucius and the others lay sobbing outside the cave. She wanted to tell them that the pain belonged to her alone. But she didn’t know how.
Laylah’s body went into a spasm, her legs kicking like a pair of insane scissors, her arms flailing against the stone floor with wicked thuds, her eyes opening and closing frenetically, castin
g beams of molten light that smote the walls and ceiling. In the midst of this chaos, the efrit slept peacefully within her abdomen, perceiving no threat.
She felt Torg hold her even tighter, attempting to corral her white rages with his blue-green might. Part of her wanted to embrace his magic, part of her expel it. But he did not ask for permission. Instead he rode her waves of agony like a leaf on the surface of a raging river. The worst of her pain went on for almost half the night. Without him, she would have perished.
Just before dawn the pain finally lessened, allowing her to regain full consciousness and to realize where she lay. Now she could feel the sweat on her body and the chill of the stone. When she opened her eyes, she was relieved to see darkness; the all-consuming white had fled. Even better, the voracious mouths that had tormented her seemed to have lost their hunger and blessedly departed. She shivered in her nakedness. In response, large arms held her. It had not been just a dream amid nightmare. Torg was truly here.
“The tide has turned,” she heard him whisper.
She tried to respond but could manage nothing intelligible.
“Shhhhh . . . quiet now,” he soothed. “Try to sleep. You need to rebuild your strength. And when you wake, we’ll try a sip of water.”
In the silence of the cave, they lay entwined.
And for a time she knew no more.
Glossary
Aarakaa Himsaa (ah-RUH-kah HIM-sah): Defensive strategy used by Tugars that involves always staying at least a hair’s width away from your opponent’s longest strike.
Abhisambodhi (ab-HEE-sahm-BOH-dee): Highest enlightenment.
Adho Satta (AH-dho SAH tah): Anything or anyone who is neither a dragon nor a powerful supernatural being. Means low one in ancient tongue.
