Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles

by Melvin, Jim

  Torg tilted his head down and sniffed Laylah’s hair. There was a foul smell to it, faint but detectable. Though their impromptu swim in Cariya had washed most of the dried goo away, shreds of the druid queen’s mucous fluids still clung to Laylah’s scalp. He lovingly combed her blond strands with glowing fingers, vaporizing the residues from the druid queen, along with naturally accumulated dirt and oils. When he finished, her hair was luxuriously clean. He then swept over the rest of her body and clothes with the palm of his hand while she slept. Afterward, he slipped out from under her and did the same for Elu—and then himself.

  At least we’ll be presentable when the white horsemen find us, though it will still be nice to take a hot bath once we reach Jivita. I won’t turn down a little luxury.

  Torg pondered what might happen next. Since leaving Anna, his goals had been twofold, save the noble ones and reach Jivita. He had achieved the first at great sacrifice, and now the second appeared close at hand. He knew that within a month, Mala’s army would besiege Nissaya while the druids were attacking Jivita. If the fortress fell, the Chain Man would march west and assail the White City.

  With a sudden shiver, Torg realized that no matter the final outcome at Jivita, the Sun God would still be in command. He had tasted Invictus’ power, if only briefly, and it had dismayed him. What good did it do any of them to defeat Mala, when the specter of Invictus remained? Torg had no answer, other than his trust in fate. Something would intervene, a solution would arise, help would come from an unexpected source. His selflessness at Dibbu-Loka demanded it; his suffering in the pit and beyond could not have been in vain. There were forces at work greater than he. Would they eventually prove more powerful than Invictus? That was yet to be seen.

  As the canoe drifted steadily southward, Torg again took Laylah in his arms, slipping so delicately beneath her that she did not awaken. Then he began to cry. If her brother came for her, as he surely would, how could Torg stop him? If she were again enslaved, how could Torg rescue her? He considered sending her with a Tugarian escort to the Jivitan havens by the sea, but what good would that do? Invictus would find her, sooner or later. Even if Torg and Laylah sailed across the ocean, the sorcerer would follow. They could outrun him for a year, or a decade, or a century, but not forever. Flight was not an option. Torg had to draw the line at Jivita—and hope that karma provided him with the means to defeat the Sun God. It was either that or suicide . . . and not the temporary kind. Torg did not discount that option for both him and Laylah, especially if it meant saving her from a semi-eternity of suffering at the hands of a lunatic.

  Torg must have been crying harder than he thought. Laylah’s eyes opened, and she looked up at him. “What is it, beloved?”

  Torg lifted her and kissed her full lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. When they finished, she asked him again. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I’m sworn to protect you, but I’m not sure I can. What if I fail?”

  Now tears sprang from Laylah’s eyes. She hugged him so hard it rocked the canoe. “We can’t think that way. We have to enjoy every moment we have together. No matter what happens, he can’t steal our love from us. It’s too strong. If he does take me again, our love is what will keep me sane. In some ways, it’s what kept me sane before you and I ever met. Somehow, I knew you were out there . . . and one day would find me.”

  “That will be true even beyond this lifetime.”

  Then they both cried, until sleep took them in its dark embrace. The canoe stayed its course for a remarkably long time, but eventually it wandered off the river into a creek and gently came to rest nose-first upon a sandy bank.

  Soon after, night completed its final bow and then stepped aside, surrendering the stage to the rising sun.

  BEFORE DAWN, a Jivitan squadron rode through the north gates of the city and halted outside the walls. Three hundred white horsemen dismounted, laid their weapons at their own feet, and knelt in a thick circle around their captain as he led the morning communion.

  “There is but One God, all powerful and all merciful,” the captain said. “In the name of Ekadeva, we pray. Dear God, please grant us the strength to prevail in arms against our foes, as well as the good fortune to return to our loved ones when the battle is done. We are forever your loyal servants. May any who die in your service this day ascend to your magnificent heaven and reside with you in eternal bliss. So shall it be.”

  “So shall it be,” the horsemen responded.

  They mounted their destriers and followed their captain along the west bank of Cariya, one of fifteen squadrons assigned to patrol the Green Plains. Their orders were to follow the river for ten leagues to the southern border of Dhutanga and explore the outskirts of the forest. If they encountered the enemy, they were to return to the city in haste. Therefore, they were lightly attired by their standards, wearing only knee-length hauberks over their quilted undergarments, as well as mail leggings and sollerets, all made of a special white iron smelted by the skilled metallurgists of Jivita. They displayed no armorial bearings and wore no helm, allowing their long white hair to flow freely about their shoulders. Their only weapons were two-edged swords and crossbows, discarding the long bows and lances they used more frequently in the open field. Their horses bore no armor, but beneath the high saddles they wore white silks that matched their alabaster coats. The squadron was built for speed, though even then it was formidable by ordinary standards.

  Captain Worrins-Julich rode in front with several sergeants. Even before the sun rose over the plain, Julich and his men surveyed the terrain, searching for anything unusual. War was at hand, but the enemy had yet to show itself. Though reports indicated that Mala’s army was on the march, the more immediate threat to Jivita was the druids, the White City’s longtime nemesis. How many were they and when would they attack? No one knew for sure, not even the necromancers in the employ of Queen Rajinii. More disturbingly, the usually reliable mountain eagles, which often were used to spy on the druids, had left the White City several weeks ago and not returned. But despite a lack of information, it was widely believed that the druids were stronger—and angrier—than ever.

  Between Jivita and Dhutanga, the river was wide and powerful, though not nearly as tumultuous as it was farther north. Numerous creeks, streams, and fingers wandered beyond its banks, some too deep to cross on horse. Captain Julich and his men encountered one of these and rode westward in search of shallows. But before they reached the ford, they found something else: a canoe, with passengers.

  A quarter-mile away, Julich and a dozen of his sergeants dismounted and crept as quietly as they could toward the craft, but their hauberks and leggings scraped and clinked, making enough noise to wake the dead. Even then, the occupants did not stir.

  “Perhaps they are dead,” Julich said. “Who are these people, and what brought them here? They appear to be dressed in the raiment of Duccarita, but they do not have the feel of pirates. This is indeed a puzzle.”

  Then all three sat up at once.

  Julich’s sergeants readied their crossbows, but when the largest of the strangers leapt from the craft, the horsemen lowered their weapons and bowed.

  Though he was oddly attired, there was no doubt: Lord Torgon, leader of the Tugars, had found his way to Jivita. The long hoped-for miracle had occurred. The great wizard was among them. Blessed be Ekadeva, in all his glory.

  THOUGH SHE had been in a deep sleep born of exhaustion, Laylah sensed the approach of the white horsemen long before they drew near. She slit her eyelids against the painful rays of the sun and looked at Torg’s face. Elu also stirred.

  “Stay still and allow me to greet them,” Torg whispered to both his companions. “These men know me.”

  Laylah did as the wizard asked, resting the side of her face against his thick chest. Elu huddled on the bottom of the canoe.

  Suddenly Torg sat up, moved her aside and leapt out of the canoe, splashing through
knee-deep water to the sandy bank. Laylah watched him approach the white horsemen. To her amazement, they lowered their weapons and knelt before him. Soon after, several hundred others rode up, dismounted and also bowed, placing their weapons at his feet.

  “Maranavidu! (Death-Knower!)” said one who appeared to be their leader. “Though I am but a child to you, we have met before, several times. I am Worrins-Julich, senior captain of the Assarohaa (white horsemen). I rejoice in honoring you. How came you here?”

  Torg bowed. “Well met, Captain Julich. Of course I remember you and am pleased to once again be in your presence. My companions and I have journeyed far, and we are weary. But we must ride with you in haste to the White City. I have urgent news for the queen.”

  “My stallion shall bear you,” Julich said. “He is ill-tempered with anyone other than me, but I can see in his eyes that he loves you already.”

  Torg laughed. “Any mount will do, as long as he or she is large enough to carry both myself and my lady,” the wizard said, gesturing toward Laylah and causing her heart to flutter. “As for my third companion, I ask that he ride with you—for though he is small, he is as stout as any man and is well-deserving of the highest honors the White City can accord. Plus, he is recovering from injuries and is in need of gentle treatment.”

  From his knees in the canoe, Elu bowed.

  Julich returned it. “It will be as you say, Lord Torgon. Come. Let us make haste.”

  They presented Laylah and Torg with Julich’s white destrier, which was as large as any horse Laylah had ever seen. She had heard much about the ways of Jivita, but her first meeting with the white horsemen left her thoroughly impressed. Each man had pale skin, gray eyes, and long white hair that matched the color of his armor. Only their belts, scabbards, and crossbows were other than white. There also were at least twenty women among them, smaller in build but otherwise similar in appearance and attire. Laylah felt as if she had encountered an army of snowmen.

  Captain Julich, who now rode with Elu, seemed to read her thoughts. “Believe it or not, we do not melt,” he said with a grin, “even in the middle of summer.”

  She smiled. “Your soldiers look as strong as iron. It is an honor to be in your presence. I thank you for treating me so kindly.”

  Julich’s face grew serious. “Kindness is the least you deserve, my lady. I would give my life for you, if Lord Torgon but commanded it.”

  “There will be enough lives lost in the coming days,” Laylah said. “Please save yours for the battles to come.”

  “Wise words,” Julich said. “Lord Torgon, you have chosen well.”

  “Without doubt,” Torg said, causing Laylah to blush.

  I grow faint if he but looks at me.

  As if in response, the wizard spun in the saddle and smiled at her. “I hear your thoughts, my love, and they fill me with bliss.”

  Laylah hugged him from behind. Captain Julich and Elu were grinning at them mischievously.

  “What are you looking at?” Torg said.

  All four of them laughed.

  JIVITA HAD LONG been the most heavily populated city in the known world, housing more than a quarter million people, including its ceaseless and magnificent military, which was as well-maintained in peacetime as in war. Now, only Avici had more inhabitants. Jivita also was the wealthiest city in the world, surpassing even the current version of Avici. In the ancient tongue it was called Jutimantataa (City of Splendor), and for good reason. Its beauty and extravagance astounded all who experienced it.

  Unlike Nissaya, Jivita was not a fortress. The concentric bulwarks of Nissaya were huge and impenetrable, while only a single low wall less than ten cubits tall protected the White City, forming an almost perfect circle around it. The wall was for show more than defense. The city was huge—almost ten leagues in diameter—and the wall was more than thirty leagues in circumference, making it almost impossible to defend properly in many places at once. But the Jivitans weren’t concerned. If the main pitch of the battle were ever to reach the wall, it was likely they were already defeated.

  The white horsemen were masters of the open field, which is exactly what surrounded Jivita. The Green Plains, a level expanse of lush grass, wildflowers, and fertile farmland, extended for at least thirty leagues in all directions except the north, where Dhutanga loomed, and even the forest was a full ten leagues distant.

  When the city was under attack, the white horsemen didn’t cower within its walls. Instead, they rode out to greet their enemies, and for as long as history had recorded their deeds, they had always prevailed. The horsemen—and their destriers—wore heavy armor, as close to impenetrable as any that existed. They carried lance, axe, and sword, and their archers were proficient either mounted or on foot. In addition, the Jivitans were highly disciplined fighters, attacking from a variety of intricate formations. None could withstand them, not even the black-hearted druids, though they often were greater in number.

  But the Jivitans’ military brilliance was not the main reason they were superior to their enemies. The One God was their true general, providing them with the strength and courage to succeed against any foe. Without Ekadeva, their exploits would be meaningless. All victories were due to God, he who did not sleep.

  So shall it be.

  LAYLAH CARED little about Ekadeva.

  The bulk of her religious indoctrination had been formed during her brief time with the Ropakans and had clung to her for the rest of her life. The Great Spirit, the ruler of nature who reigned from the sky, was supreme in her world, but there were other gods representing animals, plants, rocks, and soil that also played important roles in the affairs of mortals.

  As she and Torg approached Jivita, she pondered these thoughts and realized that she didn’t yet know much about Torg’s beliefs. But she didn’t care. It had to be something good, or he couldn’t have become who he was.

  By the time they reached the wall encircling the city, tens of thousands greeted their squadron of three hundred. Some were mounted horsemen, some infantry, and some civilians who had chosen not to evacuate to the havens by the sea. But all were cheering as if the One God had come down from the sky for a personal visit. For the first time, Laylah gained a full appreciation of Torg’s stature among the free peoples of the world. She looked at Elu and saw that the Svakaran was also impressed.

  “I guess it’s a good thing Rathburt isn’t here,” she yelled at Elu, trying to make a joke. “You know how angry this would make him.” She regretted the words even as she spoke them.

  “Elu still wishes Rathburt was here. He misses him.”

  “We have not seen the last of Rathburt,” Torg said. “Do not doubt it.”

  Elu did not respond, as if he somehow knew differently.

  The company rode in pairs through an open set of wide wooden gates, entering a grassy field much like the one they had left behind. Though the field was hundreds of hectares broad and long, Laylah could easily see the great expanse of the city spread out before her in the distance. Castles, cathedrals, and manses dotted the horizon as far as the eye could see, while immense clusters of buildings dominated the interior. In terms of area and opulence, it dwarfed even Avici, though no single structure rivaled Uccheda, her brother’s wretched tower.

  As impressed as Laylah was with Jivita, the field directly in front of her was even more captivating. Spring wildflowers bloomed all around her, and a thousand horses—white as the clouds above—pranced delicately among the flowers, their alabaster coats every bit as beautiful as the petals. Some of the horses approached near enough for Laylah to see their eyes, which were as multicolored as the blooms. Laylah gasped with pleasure. Other than Torg’s face, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “We love our horses more than ourselves,” Julich said to her. “We believe they hold a more sacred position in heaven than we.”

  “Seeing how graceful and beautiful they are, I can understand why.”

  The captain seemed pleased. “
There are many fields like this inside the wall. For every horseman, there are at least three steeds. Jivita has never been so strong. Every soldier, including infantry, has exquisite armor and weaponry. How can the druids—or even Mala himself—expect to defeat such might?”

  “You have done well, as has Nissaya,” she heard Torg say. “Nonetheless, whatever victories you attain will be hard fought.”

  “Only the One God can determine victory or defeat. Our strength is due to his grace. Even Invictus must bow to his will.”

  “As you say,” Torg responded.

  A wide gravel road meandered through the fields toward buildings beyond. They passed several manses with lawns as broad as pastures. Soldiers and civilians continued to greet them. Laylah noticed a group adorned in black, perhaps three dozen all told, sprinting toward them on foot with astounding speed and grace.

  “Tugars come,” Julich said.

  Beneath the palms of her hands, Laylah could feel Torg’s back muscles tense. The wizard urged their stallion into a canter. As they grew near, the Tugars began to shout.

  “Maranavidu! Maranavidu! (Death-Knower! Death-Knower!),” they cried in unison, each drawing a curved sword that glittered in the bright sunlight. “Nandaama te garukaatum! (We rejoice in honoring you!)”

  “Well met, Kantaara Yodhas! (Desert Warriors!)” Torg said. “Nandaami te garukaatum!”

  Laylah watched with fascination as Torg dismounted and hurried to greet them. The Tugarian males were mirror images of Torg and the Asēkhas. But despite being tall and heavily muscled, they moved with stunning fluidity. Even the females among them were taller than any of the white horsemen.