Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles

by Melvin, Jim

  He already missed Laylah, but he knew that their attraction had become too supercharged for them to be together without something happening. Their mutual lust would have to wait until later—perhaps at midnight, after the moon had risen. And Torg knew just the place where they could make a lot of noise without attracting attention.

  To calm himself, he relaxed in the bath. But even as his eyes grew heavy, he noticed that he wasn’t alone. Something slithered through his window and moved toward him along the floor. A normal person would have mistaken it for a wandering shadow cast by the windswept curtains. But Torg recognized the necromancer.

  Manta stood and scampered toward his door, barring it as quietly as possible. Then she came forward and stood over him, unabashed despite his nudity. Tugars held no shame with their bodies.

  “Lord Torgon,” she said softly, “it is a great honor to be in your presence again. I apologize for invading your privacy, but the queen is not easily fooled. After your meeting in the Throne Room, she rushed to her chambers, so I took this opportunity to visit you for a short time without notice.”

  “You’re as good at scaling walls as Indajaala,” Torg whispered.

  Manta chuckled. “Almost.”

  “What have you to report?”

  “The queen has been acting strangely,” Manta said, quickly adding, “more strangely than usual. She has always been petulant, but this is worse. I fear the pressures of an impending war are wearing on her more than she might admit.

  “She says the One God comes to her chambers and speaks to her in person about the glory of death in battle and how it will propel us all to the kingdom of heaven. It is as if she does not believe victory possible, not so much against the druids but against the army that is now said to march on Nissaya.”

  “Are there reasons for this, other than the obvious?”

  “None that I am aware, but she spends a great deal of time alone in her chambers. What goes on there is beyond my knowledge. I’m sorry, my lord. I have failed you as a spy.”

  “You have told me all that I need know,” Torg said. “I’ll begin my own investigation shortly. Thank you, dear friend.”

  Manta smiled, bowed again, and unbarred the door. Then she left the way she had come, slithering out the window like a demon incarnate.

  Afterward, Torg pondered her words, his powerful mind considering every aspect. After washing, he stepped out of the bath, dried himself, and lay on the bed, still naked. Though he was tired, he didn’t expect to be able to sleep. But when he closed his eyes, exhaustion overcame his thoughts, and he drifted off immediately.

  He later awoke to a tapping on his door.

  “Enter.”

  Several henchmen poured into the room, bearing a new outfit and boots. After setting these items on a dressing table, they waited for instructions.

  “When is dinner?” Torg said.

  “The queen requests your attendance in the banquet hall as soon as you are able,” the chamberlain said. “Your companions are already en route.”

  “How long did I slumber?”

  “It is past dusk, my lord.”

  “Leave me. I will dress myself.”

  “Very good, my lord. We shall wait outside your door and escort you to the banquet hall at your leisure.”

  “Fine.”

  After they departed the chamber, Torg put on the new outfit, a kind that Tugars wore during ceremonies and other special events. His underclothes were black and skin tight, stopping above the elbows and knees. His loose trousers also were black, matching a full-length robe of brocade that was closed at the side and belted. He also wore ox-leather slippers with blue stitches, and a silk cap with a blue streamer.

  Along with the outfit, the Silver Sword had been returned to him, sheathed in a new scabbard fashioned of Jivitan white steel ringed with gold and studded with diamonds and rubies. Usually Torg didn’t care much for such extravagance, but in this case he was pleased. The straight, double-edge blade slid in and out of the scabbard with a crisp ring.

  “You finally have a home worthy of your beauty,” Torg whispered. “I can only hope to prove worthy of you as your wielder.” Torg pressed the flat surface of the blade against his cheek. It was cold as ice, though his chamber was quite warm.

  A short time later, when Torg entered the banquet hall on the first floor of the palace, it was already crowded to capacity. More than one thousand filled the cavernous room, which was lined on three sides with huge arched windows framed by green-silk curtains. Torg saw white horsemen dressed in embroidered doublets with jade-colored hose, noblemen and women of high society displaying the finest fabrics and jewels, and clergymen wearing white albs beneath green chasubles. Fifty Tugars were among the guests, adorned all in black, and they moved toward Torg and threw themselves at his feet.

  The room grew quiet, save for Torg’s deep voice. “Kantaara Yodhas, titthatha. Tumhe na koci puujetha. (Desert Warriors, please rise. You bow to no one.)”

  The Tugars greeted him, one by one, each clasping his forearm.

  Afterward, Queen Rajinii came forward with Laylah and Elu at her side, each bearing pewter goblets filled with fine red wine. The queen wore a spectacular white gown embedded with diamond chips and a green veil beneath her white-crystal crown.

  “Our honored guest has finally arrived,” Rajinii said, with a mixture of enthusiasm and sarcasm. “Laylah and I were running out of good things to say about you. Our little friend Elu, however, has an endless supply of tales of your derring-do.”

  Elu hobbled over. “Did you have a nice rest, great one?” the Svakaran said. “Elu slept well. He’s feeling better already.”

  “Great one?” Rajinii quipped. “Is that your latest title?”

  Torg did not hear her words. His eyes had seized, along with the rest of his senses, on Laylah. She was dressed far simpler than the queen—a crimson cloak over a pale-green gown—but she far outshone Rajinii or any woman in attendance, including the female Tugars. Her gray-blue eyes sparkled like the chandeliers suspended high above.

  Torg walked over to her, leaned down slightly, and whispered in her ear. “You are perfect . . . your face, your hair, your body. I don’t deserve to be in the same room with you.”

  “I swear that I was about to say those exact words to you,” she whispered back.

  Torg laughed. “No matter what happens from here, this moment will have made my existence complete.”

  “You stole my words again.”

  “My, my . . . but aren’t we the sweetest couple,” Rajinii said in an exaggerated tone. “Someone bring The Torgon some wine before he drinks poor Laylah instead.”

  Torg turned to the queen. “Wine would be excellent.”

  Trumpeters announced the start of the meal.

  The queen and her guests sat at a table that was only two arm lengths wide but five hundred paces long. Rajinii was at its head, Torg and Elu on her left, Laylah across from the wizard on the queen’s right, Manta the necromancer to Laylah’s right. Five harpists provided soothing background music for the feast, which began with beef stew dusted with spices, onion soup with cubes of pork in a goat-milk broth, and grilled hare basted with lemon and garlic.

  After the first course, a dozen jugglers put on an entertaining show, tossing swords back and forth the length of the table and catching daggers with their teeth.

  The second course consisted of white fish caught on the shores of the Akasa Ocean, roasted venison, and stuffed pigs.

  The jugglers returned for an encore, but this time they dressed like druids skewered with flaming arrows, and they tossed and juggled branches and pine cones. This was greeted with outrageous laughter from the Jivitans.

  Butter cakes, glazed eggs, fritters, and spiced wine made up the final course. It was Torg’s best meal since leaving Anna the previous summer.

  “I don’t believe I have ever seen you eat so much,” the queen said. “Nonetheless, Elu surpasses you.”

  The Svakaran looked up and burped. B
ut this did not offend Rajinii. Whatever anger she felt over Laylah did not seem to extend to the Svakaran. The queen laughed sincerely. “I must say, Elu, that you lighten my heart.”

  Then she turned to Laylah, and her smile grew devious. “And you, as well. Seldom has such beauty graced my halls.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Laylah said. “From what I’ve seen, all Jivitans are lovely . . . and you the loveliest of all.”

  “Ahhhh, sweet words,” the queen said, her smile becoming a leer. “But old age has tempered my true beauty. When I was a child like you, I was more deserving of your compliments.”

  “I’m not as young as I appear,” Laylah said.

  “Elu has never seen two such pretty ladies in one place.”

  Torg watched all this with amusement, but eventually he grew impatient, standing and slamming his fist on the table. “A toast!” he shouted, startling the queen and Laylah. The entire room went silent, including the servitors. “I come to you from far away—with evil at my heels,” he said, raising his goblet.

  “During a long period of peace, Jivita has wisely chosen not to rest, growing stronger than ever,” he continued. “But the blessed times are past, and your strength will soon be tested.”

  Now there was complete silence—not a cough or a cleared throat. “There is no evil greater than hatred . . . and make no mistake, our enemies hate us. They will attempt to take from us all that is dear, and they will show no mercy in doing so. Against such might, we cannot avoid loss. There will be death and disaster, murder and mayhem. But we fight for a worthy cause.”

  The silence ended in an explosion of cheers, whistles, and applause. When it finally grew quiet, Torg turned to the queen. “Queen Rajinii is great and proud. We must all unite beneath her banner.” Then he drew the Silver Sword and whipped it through the air with speed so great it left a trail of sparks and crackles. “I offer my strength to you, Queen Rajinii of Jivita,” he shouted. “Do you accept?”

  Accept boomed like an explosion.

  The queen stood. There again was silence. “Yes,” she said softly.

  The room erupted again.

  The Tugar who had first greeted Torg when they arrived at the White City then stood. “The Kantaara Yodhas offer our strength to you, Queen Rajinii of Jivita. Do you accept?”

  “I accept.”

  Captain Julich followed suit. “The white horsemen offer our strength to you, Queen Rajinii of Jivita. Do you accept?”

  “I cannot accept what has already been so loyally given,” the queen said. “But I will be honored to ride with you into battle, Assarohaa.”

  Torg smiled at Julich, then turned back to the queen. “We stand united in the face of our enemy. Let no heart quail!”

  All in attendance stood and raised their goblets.

  “Let no heart quail!” they repeated.

  When they finally sat, more wine was poured, raising everyone’s spirits another notch.

  Rajinii leaned forward and whispered to Torg. “You have bested me again, Death-Knower.”

  “It was not my intention to best you—but to join you. Enough of bickering and jealousy. It is beneath you. If we are to prevail, you and I must stand as one—our combined strength against the strength of the enemy. Anything less would make us fools.”

  “You are wise in most ways, Torgon, but not in the ways of the heart,” Rajinii said. “Unrequited love is a painful burden.” Then she stood and fled the room.

  Manta glanced at Torg before following the queen.

  Afterward, Laylah leaned across the table and spoke to Torg. “Let no heart quail. I like that. Did you just now think that up?”

  “My father used to say that to the Tugars when he was chieftain of the Asēkhas,” Torg responded. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “When all this is over, you’ll have to tell me more about him,” Laylah said.

  “If only you could have met him.”

  The Svakaran tapped Torg on the shoulder. His eyes were weepy. “Elu wishes Rathburt and our other friends were here. Will we ever be reunited, great one?”

  “Whatever happens will happen,” Torg said. “But I believe we have not seen the last of our companions. Perhaps Captain Julich will be able to help us.”

  A tall figure loomed behind Torg. “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  Torg turned and greeted Julich. “You did, indeed. I will have need of you. Has there been word yet of a meeting of the Privy Council?”

  “The queen has made no order, but I believe a council headed by her highness will be arranged for tomorrow. However, our generals and bishops are anxious to speak with you informally this evening. Will you join them in the library?”

  “I will . . . but only briefly. In the meantime, I need a favor.”

  “Anything, my lord.”

  WHILE TORG spoke to Julich, Laylah found that the Tugars had begun to surround her. One handed her Obhasa. Each warrior was almost as tall as the Death-Knower, and even the females were a full span taller than she. The women among them were not as thickly muscled as the men, but they still appeared powerful and even more graceful, if that were possible. The Tugars treated her with a great deal of respect, asking polite questions about her comfort and needs. They also paid considerable attention to Elu, making sure not to exclude him from the conversation, though he barely came up to their knees.

  The Kantaara Yodhas enthralled Laylah. A chill ran up her spine when the thought entered her mind that she might one day be their queen, assuming they survived the war.

  Suddenly, the Tugars parted, allowing Captain Julich to approach her. She had no doubt that any one of them—male or female—easily could have stopped the Jivitan had they considered him a threat, though the captain was no weakling himself.

  Julich faced her and bowed. “Lord Torgon asks that you walk with me in the gardens. A Tugar of your choosing may come with us as an escort, if you so desire. The Torgon has been called away to the library for an informal meeting, but he promises to join you shortly.”

  “No escort, other than you, will be necessary, Captain.”

  She feared the Tugars might protest or take offense, but instead they respectfully backed away.

  Elu looked up at her and yawned. “Elu drank too much wine, and his body is still sore. Would you mind if he went to bed, pretty lady?”

  “Not at all,” Laylah said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  Elu smiled and bowed so low his forehead almost brushed against the marble floor. Then he yawned again and limped off.

  “My lady?” Julich said, offering Laylah his arm.

  “Lead the way, Captain.”

  They left the banquet room and strolled down a hallway that led to the west wing, its walls lined with white-marble busts depicting Jivitan war heroes. The wing was adjoined to the Gallery of Mirrors, a magnificent chamber with seventeen arched windows—each several times as tall as a man—looking over the gardens. Opposite each window was a matching mirror framed with gilded bronze.

  A pair of grand doors opened into the gardens, which were laced with torchlit walkways weaving through green lawns decorated with evergreens, spring wildflowers, and sophisticated arrangements of rock, stone, and sand.

  Laylah was entranced. “Invictus believed that his gardens were the most beautiful in the world,” she found herself saying. “But these are far grander.”

  “Your time spent in Avici must have been terrible,” Julich said, quickly adding, “Forgive me if I say too much, but word travels fast in the White City.”

  Laylah sighed. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  Julich nodded. “I would ask you much about the sorcerer and his ways, but now is not the right moment. I believe, however, that you will be requested to speak tomorrow at the Privy Council.”

  “I have nothing to hide. If I can add anything of value, I will do so.”

  “That is all any of us can ask in these difficult times.”

  They walked a w
hile longer in silence. The quarter moon began its late-evening rise. Laylah felt an immediate surge of strength flow through her sinews.

  “My lady,” Julich said, amazed. “Do my eyes betray me? You are aglow.”

  “I take pleasure in moonlight.”

  In the rear of the palace, the gardens opened onto a sloping green lawn many hectares in size and dotted with spectacular groves of wildflowers. White horses wandered freely, grazing beneath the starlight.

  Julich let out a shrill whistle, and a heavily muscled stallion thundered playfully toward them, neighing as it approached. It came to Laylah and nuzzled her, then also nuzzled the head of Obhasa, its ears relaxed and eyes calm.

  “He likes you . . . and the ivory staff,” Julich said.

  “It matches his coat,” Laylah said. “Does he have a name?”

  “He needs a new one,” came a voice from behind, startling Laylah and Julich but not the stallion. “This horse you shall name, for you shall ride him into battle at my side.”

  Laylah’s heart pounded.

  Torg’s presence always made her dizzy, especially when she had been separated from him for even a short time. “I shall name him Izumo, in honor of the dracool that gave his life to save mine.”

  “An excellent choice,” Julich said softly. Then he leaned forward and whispered in the stallion’s ear. “He knows now, my lady, and will come when called. Izumo will not betray you. He ranks among the greatest in our stables. The queen’s mare is his only superior.”

  “I am honored beyond words,” Laylah said.

  Torg carried a folded white blanket, and he cast it over Izumo’s back. “Leave us, Captain.”

  Julich bowed again. “As you command, Lord Torgon. Until tomorrow.”

  Sorcerer and Wizard

  50

  AT THE APPROACH of midnight, Invictus continued to lean over his magical basin. He had remained in his upper chambers long past the usual time when he descended into the bowels of Uccheda to avoid the darkness. Earlier that day, he had done his best to ruin Henepola’s mind. That had been so much fun. Scrying had an addictive effect, even on a god. He couldn’t seem to pull himself away.