Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles

by Melvin, Jim

  The next morning, Chieftain would not allow them to strap what remained of the doe to his back. Neither of them wanted to carry it, so they abandoned the carcass by the water’s edge, where it would serve as a meal for a wandering bear or Lyon. By noon, they had come to the southernmost point of Lake Keo. Five leagues farther south lay the havens where the Asēkhas had sequestered the noble ones the previous summer.

  A small band of Tugars had remained with the noble ones as guardians. Tāseti looked forward to seeing these warriors. Along with Rati, their presence would make the long journey from the havens to Anna far more tolerable. But the noble ones tended to move slowly, seeming to have no concept of what it meant to hurry. They would stop to examine anything that caught their eye: wildflowers, butterflies, termite mounds, even Buffelo dung. Their behavior endlessly fascinated The Torgon, but Tāseti found it annoying. She did not share her lord’s wisdom or patience. He was beyond her. And so were the noble ones, apparently.

  After Tāseti filled her skin, they continued on. Less than a mile south of the lake, Rati cursed himself for forgetting to do the same. His skin was about a fourth full, but the water had become old and bitter. He hadn’t bothered to drink from it in quite a while, and there had been no need to refill it during their march along Keo.

  “Should we go back? There’s no more water between here and the havens.”

  “We’ll be there before sunset,” Tāseti said. “My skin has plenty for both of us. And Chieftain carries his own water. We’ll be fine.”

  And so they were. In the late afternoon, a Tugarian scout greeted the trio enthusiastically. Even as Tāseti was clasping forearms with the large male warrior, she felt a strange rumble, as if the land was announcing their arrival. By dusk, the havens were within sight. Soon Tāseti would be face to face with Sister Tathagata.

  “Kusala, I curse thee,” she said out loud. “It’s bad enough that I’m going to miss the battle at Nissaya. But making me put up with Tathagata all the way to Anna? I’ll never forgive for this.”

  THE TERRAIN SOUTH of Dibbu-Loka was craggy and awkward. Even the stunted grass of the Gray Plains, which dominated an area larger than the forests of Dhutanga, Kincara, and Java combined, surrendered to the somber crumble of dust and rock. Limestone cliffs sprang from the ground with stunning suddenness. There were nooks within nooks and crannies within crannies—most too miserable to explore. It was a terrible place to live, but a clever place to hide.

  Tāseti, Rati, and the Tugar scout marched southward along the ancient road that eventually plunged toward lands unknown even to the Kantaara Yodhas. They encountered little in the way of life, except for a pair of ostriches, a small herd of oryxes, and circling vultures, ever present. Otherwise silence surrounded them. They approached a towering escarpment, its sheer side speckled with scattered patches of vegetation. Slabs of rock lay about its base, long ago fallen and now dark with age.

  They came upon a secret place known only to the Tugars. A curled lip of rock concealed a narrow crevice. From the outside, the crevice appeared to end abruptly just a stone’s throw away. In reality, it angled sharply to the right and plunged into the thick wall before ascending to a rounded tunnel with a sand floor.

  Tāseti went first, then Rati. The scout did not follow. Instead, he climbed onto the gelding and rode farther south to a pen shaded by a rock overhang, but not before the second in command told him to take especially good care of Chieftain. The warrior laughed heartily at the name.

  Tāseti and Rati crawled through the tunnel for a distance of one hundred paces, eventually spilling into a torchlit chamber tall enough even for a Tugar to stand. Two more desert warriors greeted them, bowing low to their Asēkha superiors and then grasping forearms.

  Tāseti and Rati continued down a wide passageway, also lighted by torches, before finally arriving at a cavern as large as the inside of a castle.

  A dozen more Tugars trotted forward and bowed. The defenders of the haven had been hard at work, preparing another meal for their guests. Since Torg’s encounter with Mala at Dibbu-Loka the previous summer, the five hundred monks and nuns of the holy city had called this cavern their home, sharing it with their Tugarian guardians as well as a few rats, scorpions, and rattlesnakes. Almost anyone but the noble ones would have gone stir crazy, but they saw it as just another opportunity to learn the value of patience.

  The floor, walls, and ceiling of the cavern were smooth and polished. In the center of the main chamber stood three long stone tables set low to the floor. Next to these tables lay an unquenchable spring that rose from the bedrock, only thirty paces in circumference but immeasurably deep. Rati knelt down, pursed his lips, and drank his fill. After that, he rinsed out the stale contents of his skin and refilled it with fresh water.

  Dozens of other chambers fed off the main one, some as large as houses, others as small as bedrooms. From many of the ceilings, natural shafts wound their way to the high plateau that formed the roof of the haven. In one large room, the shaft vented enough air to enable the Tugars to cook with fire.

  “Where are they now?” Tāseti said to a Tugar warrior known as Appam.

  “They are meditating in the darkest cave they can find. Other than eat, sleep, bathe, and relieve themselves, meditation is all they do. We even feed them and clean their robes. They’re not the greatest at pitching in with the chores, but otherwise they are easy to shepherd. I’ve heard not a single complaint, and I’ve been here since you and the Asēkhas first brought them in the wagons.”

  “And where is she?”

  “Sister Tathagata leads them in meditation,” Appam said. Then he chuckled. “I would rather be in Nissaya or Jivita, but I must admit that being here with her has not been as bad as I expected. My own meditation has never been as peaceful, and my thoughts never as clear. It’s enough to make you want to cast down your sword. The Perfect One, as they like to call her, has little use for violence. And she has ways of winning you over.”

  “I’ve listened to her lectures,” Tāseti said. “Lord Torgon adores them, but they always make me feel guilty. What’s the use of warrior training if the skills you acquire are considered harmful? It’s not as though Tugars seek violence for its own sake. But neither do we shy from it. She would have us lay down our arms and surrender to Invictus? Bow our heads and allow them to be separated from our bodies? No matter how hard I try, I cannot see the wisdom in that.”

  “She seeks Abhisambodhi in this lifetime,” the warrior said. “Nothing else, or I should say, anything less holds little interest for her. She says, ‘Jaati pariyaadinnaa. Me kato aakankhito. N’atthi punaagamano. (Birth is exhausted. I have done what was needed. There is nothing more).’”

  Tāseti started to respond, but Rati came forward and interrupted. “What’s for dinner?” he said, his hair dripping wet.

  Tāseti looked at Appam. “Does the Perfect One permit us to dine?”

  “The High Nun will not eat the flesh of animals,” Appam said. “She and her noble ones survive on cholla berries, ground mesquite, flower buds, seedpods, and cactus juice. That must be how they stay so slender.”

  Tāseti snorted. “As my Vasi master used to say, ‘Tugars cannot live on bread alone.’”

  “Shhhh!” Rati said harshly. “They come.” And then in a whisper, “She leads.”

  Tāseti cursed Kusala under her breath before turning and forcing a smile.

  WHILE RATI and the Tugar guardians sat at their own table and feasted on the carcass of a roasted pronghorn antelope, protocol of rank forced Tāseti to join Sister Tathagata at one of the long tables. The noble ones always ate in silence, paying mindful attention to every morsel of food, even counting how many times they chewed.

  Tāseti had a warrior’s habit of devouring all her meals in a hurry, as if the enemy might attack at any moment. But she had to admit that eating slowly did increase her pleasure. Mesquite bread had never tasted so good, and the tang of the cactus juice made her tongue tingle. Though she was uncomfortable i
n the sister’s presence, she enjoyed the meal, even without roasted meat as the main course.

  Afterward, the Tugars gave them herbal tea and biscuits made of ground wheat and honey. Tāseti allowed herself the luxury of service—a reward for being the only one sitting with Tathagata. When the meal was completed, the sister stood and grasped the Asēkha’s muscular bicep with her slender fingers. Then she dragged her toward the haven’s exit.

  “Dark caves are excellent for meditation,” she said to Tāseti, “but fresh air’s better for talking. Walk with me beneath the stars.”

  “Of course, High Nun,” Tāseti said uncomfortably.

  “No need to be so formal,” Tathagata said. “Call me Sister. In fact, just call me Sis.” Then she laughed. Lord Torgon often spoke about how much he loved the High Nun’s laugh, and it surprised Tāseti to find that she also found it pleasant.

  The crescent moon had not yet risen, but the clear sky was ablaze with stars. The last time Tāseti remembered rain was the night she and the Asēkhas attacked the enemy camp in the Gap of Gamana.

  Just two weeks ago. It feels like two months.

  “Where are your thoughts?” the High Nun said, startling Tāseti, who wasn’t used to being startled.

  “I was thinking about rain. This time of year, we get so little east of the mountains . . . especially in the heart of Tējo, where it rarely rains except in early winter.”

  “A person of my attainment isn’t supposed to become attached to things. But in this instance, at least, I can’t seem to help it. I love rain. In a past life, I must have lived somewhere where it was always wet. Dibbu-Loka and this place”—she pointed in the direction of the haven—“are too parched for my tastes.”

  “I have journeyed through much of the world, but I was born in Tējo, and the desert is where my heart remains.”

  “The quiet of the desert is a good place to spend the present moment,” Tathagata agreed.

  “I’m glad you feel that way . . . because it is my assignment to take you there.”

  If this stunned the High Nun, she did not show it. “I had assumed we were to be returned to Dibbu-Loka,” she said calmly.

  “War is at hand, Sister. In a very short time, Anna will be the only safe place left.”

  “That depends on how you define the word safe. Surely, Invictus has lost his interest in Dibbu-Loka. It offers him nothing of value, other than a few sculptures and paintings.”

  “You and the noble ones have value,” Tāseti said. “The Tugars must not allow your welfare to be compromised again. It almost cost us our king.”

  “But it did not?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Little news comes this way. Yet I know The Torgon still lives. I would have sensed his passing.”

  “Then why play games with words?”

  “Games? You mistook my meaning. I wasn’t referring to his life or death.”

  Tāseti grunted. “We leave for Anna in the morning.”

  “And if I refuse to accompany you?”

  “You will be roped onto the back of a camel.”

  “You would do such a thing to a fragile old woman?”

  “You are old, but not fragile. Regardless, don’t blame me. This comes straight from Torg.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. The Death-Knower is the only one who would even care.”

  “You underestimate us, Sister. The Tugars care about a great many things.”

  “The Tugars feel it is their duty to protect the weak. But do you understand the true meaning of strength? If Invictus imprisoned us, tortured or killed us, we would view it as just one more learning experience. The cycle of birth, death, and rebirth ends only with the attainment of enlightenment.”

  “I do not doubt your ability to withstand torture. I witnessed your courage firsthand in Dibbu-Loka,” Tāseti said, with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Aaaaaaah, Asēkha . . . you have quick wit. You refer, of course, to my cowardly reaction to the appearance of Mala. I must admit that such a thing has never happened to me before. There was something in the monster’s eyes that unsettled me. I could see Yama-Deva trapped behind them, begging me to save him. But I knew then, as I do now, that I could not. Only Yama-Deva himself can perform this miracle.”

  “When I looked into Mala’s eyes, I saw only evil. He is a bane that must be eradicated, not coddled or cajoled.”

  “There is no mercy in your heart?”

  “For Mala? None.”

  43

  BENEATH A FIERY sun, they set out the next morning: two Asēkhas and fourteen Tugars adorned in black, five hundred monks and nuns wearing white robes with white head cloths, fifty camels, and one horse. Each camel carried almost twenty stones of baggage, including flour, rice, and dates. But most of the weight was in water—a dozen goatskins per beast filled that morning at the spring in the haven. Chieftain carried his own needs: ten skins of water and a bulging sack of grain.

  The Tugarian drums were too cumbersome to haul on such a journey, so their ability to communicate over far distances would be limited. Therefore, Appam was sent ahead on his own to spread the word of their coming among any allies he might encounter before arriving at Anna. This would increase the likelihood of their receiving aid before they reached the Tent City. Tāseti was counting on it.

  From here on, water would be a precious commodity. Tugars were excellent at finding it in the least likely of places, but they were even better at rationing what they already had. The noble ones, though much smaller in stature, still would require a good deal more than their warrior companions, especially once they passed through Barranca and entered the true desert.

  A short time before noon, they reached the trail that angled up to the vast mesa. Even for Tugars, it was a difficult ascent. Loose rocks and crumbly soil made it even more hazardous. The camels snarled and roared as they climbed—a hot, sweaty business that took half the afternoon. The Tugar warriors saved more than one life by grabbing a handful of white robe just as a monk or nun was about to stumble off the side of the trail. Tāseti was relieved when everyone was safely on the mesa.

  The afternoon grew torridly hot. Tāseti ordered a halt, and they rested on sheepskin rugs within an abundant stand of mesquite, the only significant shade for several leagues. They would journey on the mesa for two more days—during daylight, regrettably. Along this stretch, there were too many dangers to risk stumbling along in darkness. Once they descended to more easily traversable terrain, they would reverse their habits and travel mostly between dusk and dawn.

  The mesa extended halfway to Barranca, and though Tāseti had traveled it frequently on her way to and from the rest of the world, it was one of her least favorite places. Giant sagebrush choked most of it, concealing thousands of depressions in the limestone perfectly sized and shaped to trap a foot and sprain an ankle. Few animals lived on this area of the plateau, but most that did were dangerous to the unwary: scorpions, rattlesnakes, Gila monsters, and fist-sized bats that fed on blood. Several varieties of poisonous plants were capable of causing anything from a small rash to a painful death. The Tugars knew all these things and walked freely among them without concern, but the noble ones had far less knowledge and physical immunity. Tāseti had chosen this route only because there was no better one.

  After a brief rest, they marched until dusk, moving at an agonizingly slow pace and covering less than a league before stopping to camp. The Tugars led them to a bare area of stone covered with brown sand. The bald would not be a comfortable place to sleep, but at least it provided protection, giving the poisonous creatures fewer places from which to stage an ambush. Anyone stupid enough to sleep within the sagebrush would wake up “worse for wear,” as Vasi masters liked to say.

  While the Tugars built several fires, the noble ones pitched a slew of camel-skin tents, each large enough to sleep six. The sand was just deep and dense enough to hold the stakes in place.

  The Tugars dropped cakes of kneaded dough on the fires, quickly se
aring the outsides and then burying the dough in the sand beneath the embers. It was no easy task to feed so many, especially when they refused meat. To Tāseti’s dismay, the noble ones drank far too much water before and after the meal. When they camped the next evening, she would have to lecture them. But it had been a rough first day, so this time she permitted it.

  Though the heat of the day had been uncomfortable, the chill night air was worse. The dramatic contrast in temperature caused the noble ones to shiver. After their meal, most of them either huddled by fires or went directly to their tents. In contrast, neither the heat nor cold affected the Tugars, and they needed little sleep, standing silently beneath the clear sky and watching the crescent moon rise at midnight.

  Before first light, the Tugars roused the noble ones and gave them rice for breakfast before breaking camp. In the coolness of early morning, the band made better progress, covering almost two leagues by noon. As feared, one of the monks hurt an ankle and could no longer walk. Tāseti spread some of Chieftain’s load among the camels and put the monk on the gelding’s back.

  In the early afternoon, they ate lightly again and then marched until dusk, covering two more leagues despite the afternoon heat. They found another bald, its location well-known to the Tugars, and camped at dusk. Before sleep, they ate buttered bread and a thin vegetable stew flavored with salted sardines. The noble ones would not eat the fish, but they tolerated the broth only because it provided them with much-needed nourishment.

  The next morning, they came upon a dry bed gouged out of the limestone by a long-dead river. The arroyo was shallow at first, but it deepened to fifty cubits or more below the surface of the plateau. Huge slabs of rock had broken off its sides and tumbled into its bed. Tea plants, thickets, and prickly cactus clung to the remnants of the ancient landslides, which swarmed with spiders and scorpions feeding on mice and other insects. The arroyo, which was about thirty paces wide in most places, would have been impossible to traverse except for a natural path down its middle, as if an ambitious giant had cleared away the rocks. Though they were forced to proceed in single file, they made the best progress of the journey thus far, despite the dreadful heat.