Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles

by Melvin, Jim

  Then he strode out of the pavilion with Indajaala attending him closely.

  When they were gone, Madiraa glanced at Kusala. “I’d better go after him and try to make peace. He despises it when I talk back to him, especially in front of men.”

  “Remember one thing,” Kusala said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You are the equal of any man I know.”

  “Flattery, Chieftain?”

  Kusala smiled. “And remember something else.”

  “What else could there be?”

  “Everything you said to your father was the truth.”

  “Sort of.” Then she laughed her lovely laugh.

  AFTER HIS confrontation with Henepola, Kusala spent the rest of the day mingling with the Tugars in an attempt to improve morale. The desert warriors did what they were told when they were told, but they were not particularly comfortable spending long stretches of time away from Tējo. They worried about their families and friends and missed the desert’s blazing sands. In comparison, Nissaya felt barren.

  The next morning, Kusala went in search of Tāseti to say his farewells, but found she had departed without seeking him out, another obvious sign that she was angry. Part of him regretted his decision to send her in his place. After all, Torg had ordered Kusala to return to Anna, not the second in command. But he knew that he was the best suited among them to deal with Henepola’s increasingly disturbing behavior. Tāseti was a powerful warrior and would make an excellent chieftain when he died or retired, but she tended to lead more by example than by words. Among her people, this was an effective tool, but it was not the best way to deal with the current king of Nissaya. Besides, Kusala had known Henepola since the king was a boy. In fact, Kusala had been a guest of Nissaya, along with The Torgon, at the royal birth. The baby’s father, Henepola IX, had been so proud.

  “His hair is white,” the king had said to both of them. “He will be the first Conjurer King of my family’s line. How strong he will become. God’s lifeblood surges through his veins.”

  Now it was noon, more than two hundred years later, and Kusala stood at the first gate, watching the black knights and an occasional Tugar bustling along Balak’s battlement far above. The Conjurer King had indeed grown strong, but the stability of his mind had never equaled his other faculties. This worried Kusala, to say the least. If Henepola X collapsed, the fortress would need a steady—and vocal—leader to replace him. Kusala was no Torg, but he was the next best thing.

  Madiraa startled him by touching his shoulder. He turned and smiled at the king’s daughter, and his mind drifted again, this time to the day Madiraa had been born thirty years ago. That day’s joy had been overshadowed by sadness. The queen had died while bringing Madiraa into the world.

  I remember it as if it were yesterday.

  The princess gave him a puzzled look. “No words for me, Chieftain?”

  Kusala chuckled. “As my Vasi master liked to say, ‘The Tyger got my tongue.’”

  “You looked almost pale. Are you a Jivitan in disguise?”

  “Neither Jivitan nor Nissayan, my lady. For better or worse, I am a Tugar.”

  “We both know it’s much for the better. At the least, your people are less judgmental than the rest of us. Will you join me for dinner in the great hall?”

  “It’s such a long walk to Nagara,” Kusala said. “Come instead to my pavilion. Churikā slew an elk early this morning. Our cooks are making a stew with strips of Cirāya added to enhance the flavor.”

  “I could think of nothing better,” she said.

  Then they walked together beneath a hot sun.

  “Today is warmer than yesterday, and yesterday was warmer than the day before,” Madiraa said. “If this continues, Nissaya will be an oven by the time the battle begins. Is Invictus somehow to blame for this?”

  “Nothing that the sorcerer accomplishes would surprise me. But right now, I’m more concerned about your father. You were going to try to make amends. How did it go?”

  The luscious corners of Madiraa’s mouth curved downward. “It was worse than I expected. Not so much because he shouted at me, but because he didn’t. When I caught up with him, it was as if he barely recognized me. Indajaala, of all people, treated me with more courtesy. The conjurer and I followed him all the way to his quarters in the keep, but Father slammed the door in our faces. His eyes looked strange, Kusala. He reminded me of a man addicted to the milk of poppies. That thing consumes him. He has not emerged since yesterday afternoon. What can I do? What should I do?”

  “How well do you trust me, my lady?” Kusala said.

  “You are like a second father to me. I trust you with my life.”

  “And you are wise to do so. I will say this: Your father has a strong will. He won’t change—for good or ill—just because we tell him to. But when Mala arrives, someone must lead Nissaya. Do not be surprised if the rule falls to you and me.”

  “If he heard you say these words, he would imprison you in the caverns beneath Nagara. Indajaala would chuckle all the while.”

  “Indajaala is not as he appears,” Kusala said, causing Madiraa to cock an eyebrow. “Do not be overly quick to discount him. As for your father, we shall see what we shall see.”

  While they ate, Madiraa pleased Kusala by telling him that the freed slaves who had accompanied the Asēkhas to the fortress had been provided food, clothing, and accommodations inside one of the lesser keeps within the third wall.

  She also said that there still had been no sign of the snow giant. None knew where he had gone.

  Messenger pigeons—the few that still dared to fly—had returned with reports from Nissayan scouts that Mala’s army had moved fewer than fifteen leagues in three days. At this rate, it indeed would take three weeks before the entire army reached the fortress, especially considering the difficulties it would encounter on the sabotaged road west of the forest. By then it would be the middle of spring.

  “The only good news is that Nissaya has never been stronger,” Madiraa said, reiterating words oft-spoken by many. “Of knights, bowmen, sergeants, and squires, we number more than fifty thousand. And we have one hundred conjurers, which is unprecedented. Never in our proud history have we been so well-armed. Entire storage chambers are stacked with armor and weapons, all excellent in make and condition. Even our stable of horses—though no rival to Jivita’s—has never been so well-stocked, being five thousand strong.

  “Indeed, if the Chain Man’s army were made of ordinary men and women, it would stand no chance of breaching our walls were it ten times our number.”

  “The sorcerer would not unleash this army if he did not believe it would succeed . . . and not just in defeating Nissaya, but Jivita, as well.”

  “Believe me, I am anything but overconfident,” Madiraa said. “But if I were Mala, I would not attack immediately. A prolonged siege would make more sense. By the end of the summer, the refugees alone would deplete our provisions. More than one hundred thousand swarm within our walls.”

  “I agree that a prolonged siege would be the wisest course for the enemy, but Mala’s pride will not permit it. He will give his army time to arrive and dig in, but once that occurs, it will be all or nothing. Starvation is not our concern. Victory or defeat will come before that.”

  When they finished eating the stew, Madiraa took her leave, telling Kusala that she again would attempt to meet with her father.

  “If he doesn’t come out of his room soon,” she said, “I might have to order the guards to bash down the door.”

  “If it comes to that,” Kusala said, “leave it to me. I might have more success with your father, if you are not there to watch. And here is something else that I should have already told you. The Pabbajja are not your enemies. Inform the black knights that Kusala knows this as fact. It appears there are traitors within Mala’s army. This could work to our advantage in the coming days.”

  “If anyone else uttered such words, I would only laugh,” Madi
raa said. “The Pabbajja have always been a nuisance. I will tell as many as I can, though not all will believe it. Such are the times.”

  And then she strode away, her long black hair flowing freely down her back. Unlike her father, she was no conjurer. But she was strong, nonetheless. If she outlived Henepola and became queen, Nissaya would be better off.

  FOUR DAYS AFTER Kusala’s angry encounter with Henepola in the pavilion, five thousand Tugars arrived from Lake Hadaya. Kusala, the Asēkhas, and the desert warriors already at Nissaya greeted their comrades in the open field west of the fortress. Madiraa was also there with a vanguard of black knights also numbering five thousand, including five hundred mounted, each carrying a Nissayan banner. Trumpeters filled the air with sweet music, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of a Bheri, a Tugarian drum as thick as a snow giant. Shouting and clamor arose from the walls a mile distant. The coming of the Tugars was a major event. An army ten times their size would not have been more welcomed. Despite all this, King Henepola X was not in attendance.

  The arrival of the Tugars provided a lift for the entire fortress. Given the multitude now residing within the walls, it wasn’t practical for everyone to make merry, but the Tugars arranged a feast outside the walls for themselves that lasted long into the night. They built a mammoth bonfire and consumed great quantities of beer and wine. Afterward there was lovemaking in almost every tent, but between Tugars only. A few Nissayans and refugees attempted to join in but were summarily escorted from the camp.

  Even Kusala became caught up in the revelry, and he ended up making love to Churikā. The next morning he awoke sore and exhausted, though she seemed as sprightly as ever.

  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.

  Warrior, Army, and Witch

  22

  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.