Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles

by Melvin, Jim

  But in one of history’s great anti-climaxes, Ulaara refused to fight.

  Instead, he fled to Nirodha and was never seen again, revealing himself as craven. At first Bhayatupa was enraged at being robbed of his opportunity to reign supreme, but as it turned out, Ulaara’s cowardice worked to Bhayatupa’s advantage. The remaining dragons were awed that the mere rumor of Bhayatupa would cause Ulaara to flee, and most bowed to Bhayatupa. He destroyed those who didn’t. The few who remained realized that Bhayatupa would abide no others, and they began to disappear from the world. As Bhayatupa lay in his lair after his battle with the Faerie, only nine great dragons remained active in the world—though he could sense three times that many still survived, hidden here and there throughout Mahaggata, Kolankold, and even Okkanti. Perhaps one day, when Invictus was destroyed and the Death-Knower had taught him how to achieve eternal life, Bhayatupa would re-awaken the remainder of his kind and form a new ruling class, less mighty than before, but still far too powerful for the Adho Satta (Low Ones) to resist.

  How grand it all had been. So many wars. So many kingdoms. So much glory.

  But much to Bhayatupa’s chagrin, nothing seemed to last forever. Over the last twenty millennia, he had begun to experience the first hints of mortality. His magic remained as strong as ever, but there was a subtle change in his metabolism, a strange sort of hollowness, that terrified him. The specter of death, ever secretive and mysterious, had begun to pay him shadowy visits. When it did, Bhayatupa shivered like a coward. He had lived for eighty thousand years, but he had somehow expected to live far longer than that.

  I am Bhayatupa the Great. How does Death dare threaten me?

  After destroying the Faerie and paying the Death-Knower a quick visit, Bhayatupa had been pleased with his accomplishments. The annoying demon had promised him full access to the wizard after Invictus was destroyed. And once The Torgon helped Bhayatupa achieve immortality, no one would be able to stand against him, including the meddlesome she-devil. He put up with her for now because he needed her help, but he would deal with her later—and that would be oh-so-amusing.

  Bhayatupa’s brief good mood began to sour. The hollowness and weariness returned with a vengeance. The Faerie’s green energy was a substance he had never before encountered, and it made him feel strange and lonely, as if the bitter truth of all things had been revealed.

  There is no such thing as immortality, voices whispered in his mind. There is only impermanence.

  To Bhayatupa, the concept of impermanence was unacceptable.

  Eighty thousand years isn’t long enough. Not nearly long enough. I crave . . . eternity.

  “Death-Knower,” he said, his voice causing the very stone to tremble. “You must help me.”

  The frightened Mogols bowed again, though their terror paled in comparison to the fear that humbled Bhayatupa the Great.

  The Great Evil

  6

  NOT SINCE Sōbhana died in his arms had Torg felt such despair. The destruction of the mountain eagles left a wound that could not be healed. The others of their kind, of which there were only a few, would hear of this and most likely flee to the frozen heights. Even so, the loss of Jord hurt worse.

  Given Invictus’ ruined relationship with the dragon, Torg doubted that the sorcerer had ordered this abomination. But the killings served Invictus’ purposes, nonetheless. Without the assistance of the white-haired woman, the forces of good were considerably weakened.

  At first, Torg didn’t feel the tugging on his arm. Finally he turned and saw Laylah standing beside him. Not until she wiped tears from his cheeks did he realize he had been crying.

  I wander from one lament to the next, weak as a baby. Rathburt’s right. I’m nothing but a showoff.

  And then Laylah was saying, “Beloved, the innkeeper wants us to come back inside.” She pointed toward the dormer. The Jivitan spy was leaning out the window, gesturing for them to depart the roof.

  Torg looked eastward one last time. The gibbous moon lighted the sky, but other than the moon and stars, the firmament was empty. Even the charred remains of the slain eagles no longer glowed. A few wisps of smoke, that might have been clouds, drifted overhead. Otherwise, it was as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  When Torg climbed back inside, he discovered Ugga and Bard kneeling on the floor in a tearful embrace. Torg wasn’t sure how much of the aerial battle they had witnessed from the window, but it was clear that the crossbreed and his longtime companion knew what had happened to Jord. Elu was stroking Ugga’s back, while Rathburt and the spy stood off to the side, looking uncomfortable. Laylah knelt beside Bard and hugged him from behind. Torg walked over and attempted to console his two dear friends.

  “Do not despair,” he said. “Jord is a spirit who exists beyond the bounds of physical incarnation. There is hope that her time among us has not yet ended.”

  Ugga looked up, his small eyes brimming with tears. “Jord isn’t dead? The dragon didn’t kill her?”

  “She has fallen,” Torg said. “But I believe she is capable of rising again.”

  This seemed to cheer up Ugga and Bard considerably.

  Rakkhati stepped forward. “I also feel grief over what has occurred,” the Jivitan spy said to Ugga and Bard in the common tongue. “I knew the white-haired woman well, though she was not known to me as Jord. Her name was Sakuna, and she could take the form of an eagle—or perhaps the other way around. Several days ago, she appeared at my window and told me to prepare for the arrival of the Death-Knower. But that is not the entire story. Sakuna said there would be two Death-Knowers.”

  “She lied to you,” Rathburt sneered.

  “Ignore him,” Torg said to Rakkhati. “The slumped one is indeed a Death-Knower, but he prefers to deny it wherever and whenever he can.”

  “I see,” said the innkeeper, who then bowed in Rathburt’s direction. “Forgive me, Lord. I did not intend to offend you.”

  “I’m no lord,” said Rathburt, crossing his arms and facing the other direction.

  “If I may be so bold, I would suggest that you return to the second floor,” Rakkhati said to Torg. “There is a parlor large enough for all of you to gather together and mend your grief. Please make yourselves comfortable in your rooms while your meal is prepared. Clean water and towels will be brought to you. I also have soap, though it is not of the quality deserved by this exquisite woman.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Laylah said. “But soap of any quality is more than I deserve.”

  Rakkhati chuckled. “Humble as well as beautiful,” the spy said to Torg. “You and she are well-matched, Desert King.”

  Rathburt turned around, his eyes bloodshot. “Your laughter is ill-timed, sir. Can’t you see that my friends are in pain?” Then in a tone of distrust, he added, “How do you know so much about the ‘Desert King’?”

  “I am a soldier of Jivita,” Rakkhati said. “Though I have lived apart from the White City for many years, I have not forgotten my upbringing. Children who are barely able to speak know of The Torgon and pretend to be him when they play. Is it not so everywhere?”

  Hearing that was too much for Rathburt to tolerate. He whipped around and pounded down the stairs.

  Torg sighed. “As my Vasi master used to say, ‘There is more to him than meets the eye.’ But he’s right. Our grief is far too fresh for mirth. Let us join him below.”

  “Very good,” Rakkhati said. “Once you have bathed in your rooms, I suggest you retire to the parlor, where I will bring you a hot meal and cold ale. In Duccarita, food tends to be an afterthought, but the ale will more than meet your approval.”

  Hearing the word ale caused Ugga and Bard to lift their heads.

  “The Bitch wouldn’t want us to be thirsty,” the crossbreed said.

  “Nor will you,” Rakkhati said.

  Ugga wiped the tears from his eyes and licked his lips. “Are there any Brounettos ’round here? A couple of them might help me feel better.”

  Bard chimed in. “O
r Blondies?”

  Despite the all-too-recent trauma, the others couldn’t help but grin.

  AS NATURALLY as brothers, Ugga and Bard entered the first of the four bedrooms. Rathburt and Elu, also longtime companions, chose the second. Now, two rooms remained to be divided among Lucius, Torg, and Laylah, who stood together in the narrow hallway, engulfed in awkward silence. To Laylah’s surprise, the firstborn was the first to speak.

  “You’re both adults,” he said, his expression bearing wounds of jealousy. Then Lucius opened the door to the third room and disappeared inside.

  Torg and Laylah remained outside in the hall.

  “I’ll go with him, if you prefer,” the wizard said.

  “No,” she said, a little too sharply. Then, softly: “No.”

  Still holding Obhasa in her left hand, Laylah opened the door with her right. Then she led the wizard into the room and closed the door.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to upset him,” Torg said.

  “Quiet,” she whispered, and then pressed her mouth against his, feeling his body tense and the muscles of his chest swell. The strength of his arms as they wrapped around her torso amazed her. Her tongue fought its way past his lips and into his mouth. He gasped and almost pulled away, then met her persistence with pressure of his own. Instantly their bodies began to glow, white energy mingling with blue and green. Finally the wizard did push her away . . . but gently.

  Laylah stepped back, breathless.

  A knock on the door interrupted the intensity of the moment. The wizard reluctantly answered. A woman entered bearing a heavy basin of steaming water. She was dressed similarly to Rakkhati, wearing a long waistcoat over knee breeches and stockings. A scarlet scarf was tied around her neck, matching the color of her hair, which was cut just below her ears.

  “Bonny is my name,” she said in the common tongue. “I am here to bring you niceties, courtesy of the inn. I hope you are all right after the terrible thing that happened.”

  She sat the basin down, raced out of the room, and came back with towels and a cake of gray soap. Then she disappeared before returning again with an armful of clothing.

  “You need some new outfits,” Bonny said, with a wild look in her dark eyes. “These will make you look real pretty.”

  She took her time leaving, staring at Torg with a mischievous smile. Finally Laylah scowled at her.

  “All right, all right, I understand.” Bonny rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Laylah turned to Torg. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  His response caused the large muscles of her thighs to quiver. “For as long as I live, you are the only one for me.”

  Without taking her eyes from Torg’s face, Laylah backed toward the door and slid down the latch. She leaned Obhasa against the wall and then slowly undid the shawl that covered her upper torso, exposing her breasts. The wizard’s eyes widened, and the hair on his head began to dance. Blue and green motes appeared in the air, sparkling around his ears and eyes.

  “Laylah . . .” he murmured.

  She dropped the second shawl from around her waist and stood naked before him. The sparkles intensified, drifting about the room.

  She sauntered over to the basin and held up the soap. “Will you bathe me, my love?”

  At first Torg continued to stare, unable to move. But then he walked over and picked up Obhasa. Rather than wash her with soap and water, he used his ivory staff to bathe her with fire, as he had done in the cave. But that first time, she had been too ill to appreciate it. Now she arched her back and moaned. The silky energy was warm and sensual, causing her skin to tingle. And it cleansed her better than the purest water and finest soap.

  “Torgon,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “Torgon . . . Torgon . . .”

  He sighed deeply. “If I were able to choose from all the women who have ever been or ever will be, you would still be the one. I have never seen anyone—or anything—so beautiful. Every part of me desires you. Every shred of me loves you.”

  Laylah slowly opened her eyes. “May I bathe you?”

  “Do you know how?”

  Laylah giggled. “I meant in the traditional fashion.”

  “Ohhhhh.”

  Laylah unbelted his tunic and lifted it over his head. Upon seeing his chest, she gasped the way Torg had when he first saw her breasts. The wizard’s body was muscled like none she had ever seen. In some ways it was almost inhuman, with as many bulges and ripples as the torso of a dracool. Though more than a thousand years old, his dark skin bore no blemishes or scars, which was even more amazing considering the horrors he had endured while trapped in the pit on Mount Asubha.

  Laylah was tall for a woman, but Torg’s nipples were even with her eyes. She touched the taut muscles of his chest with her fingertips, then reached for his breeches and began to slide them off his hips.

  “Careful . . .” he said.

  “I’m being very careful.”

  The breeches dropped to the floor. Torg’s exposed member responded, almost embarrassingly. Laylah gasped again.

  “Torgon . . .” she said.

  Then she reached for it with her hand.

  The wizard took a step back. “There are things about me you still don’t know,” he said nervously. “With all this running and hiding, we’ve never had the chance to talk about personal matters. Long ago, I accidentally killed a woman . . . an innocent Tugarian woman. When I have sex, I lose control of my powers and . . .”

  As if she already knew the story, Laylah was undeterred. “Like you said, it was accidental,” she purred, reaching for him again. “I don’t believe I’ll be harmed.”

  Torg took another step back. “You won’t be harmed, perhaps, but half of Duccarita will end up in flames.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve waited my entire life for this. How much longer must I be denied?”

  The wizard smiled, but it was bittersweet. “When the time and place are right, we both will know it. Do not despair, my love. Our moment will come. And as my Vasi master used to say, ‘It will be well worth the wait.’”

  FOR THE FIRST time since he could remember, Lucius was entirely alone. He scanned the room distrustfully. There was one window with a wooden shutter, closed and tightly latched. Two small beds with straw-stuffed mattresses were pressed against the side walls. In the middle of the room stood a wobbly wooden table with a pair of crooked chairs. Another of the foul-smelling oil lamps provided the only light.

  Lucius removed the Mogol war club from the belt at his waist and laid it and the uttara on one of the beds. He sat down on the other and buried his face in his hands. Though the sight of Jord being blown from the sky still tormented him, the thought of Torg and Laylah alone in the room next door tortured him even more. How could he stand it? How could he not?

  Lucius sat there for what felt like a very long time. He was startled when his door swung open without a knock. He looked up, hoping beyond hope it was Laylah come to tell him that it was all a big mistake, and that he was the one she truly loved. But instead of his queen, a feisty woman with short red hair stomped into the room bearing a basin of steaming water that looked far too heavy to carry so easily.

  “Don’t look so disappointed. I’m not that ugly.”

  “Huh?” was all Lucius could manage.

  “Ha! A man of few words. I love it. You and I might have a future together! Why waste time talking?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you have all your wits? Ah, never mind.” She sprinted merrily out of the room and returned with towels, soap, and a change of clothing.

  “These ought to fit you real good,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling. “You are a fine figure of a man. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “Thank you,” Lucius muttered.

  She exploded with laughter. Then she leaned down, kissed him on the cheek, and sprang from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Lucius sat in stunned silence, trying to digest what
had so frenetically occurred.

  You are a fine figure of a man . . .

  Lucius felt a tingling in his groin. The strange woman had somehow changed his mood from sour to sweet. He stood and removed his grimy clothes, then took a long time scrubbing himself with soap and drying himself with a towel. He put on black trousers and boots, a white shirt, and a red waistcoat. Everything fit surprisingly well.

  You are a fine figure of a man . . .

  Now it was almost midnight, but Lucius didn’t feel like sleeping. He was starving and “thirsty,” as dear ol’ Ugga would put it. Lucius opened the door and peeked out. A ways down the hall, he could see a wavering light from a blazing hearth. Some of his companions already had found their way to the parlor, it appeared.

  The door to Torg and Laylah’s room remained closed. Lucius felt another stab of jealousy, but just then the woman reappeared and grabbed his hand.

  “Come on, slow-poke! What are you waiting for?”

  With a surprising display of strength, she dragged him down the hall toward the parlor. Ugga, Bard, Rathburt, and Elu were already there, each drinking from pewter mugs. Though all four had eyes that were red and swollen from their recent upset, they still managed to smile when he joined them, and it warmed his heart. Suddenly he realized that he loved them like brothers.

  “Come sit by the fire, Master Loo-Shus, and have something to drink,” Ugga said. “It will help ya to forget your trub-bulls. It’s helping me, at least.”

  “Me too,” Bard said.

  To Lucius, that sounded like a good idea. He plopped down in one of the cushioned chairs near the hearth and stretched out his legs. Soon after, the flirty woman handed him a mug of ale, which he gulped enthusiastically. Then he studied the others, who were dressed in garb similar to his own. Ugga and Bard wore full-length velvet coats with gold tabs and brass buttons, though the crossbreed’s coat was too small to close around his stomach. Rathburt looked thin and dashing in a waistcoat of green suede. Little Elu had been outfitted in a special suit probably designed for a boy: a blue jacket over a checkered shirt with canvas trousers. Lucius felt as if they were ready for a costume ball.