Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (16 page)

The captain flushed and made a series of hysterical squeals.

Kusala slapped his face. “Be quiet! I have more questions. The value of your answers will determine whether I allow you to live.”

“I’ll do my best, I promise.”

“Shut up and pay attention. When will Invictus’ army march on Nissaya?”

The captain answered quickly, his voice quivering. “When I left Avici, the army was almost ready. But General Mala was gone in search of the king’s sister, and I don’t know what’s happened since.”

Kusala sighed. “What
do
you know?”

Sweat erupted on the captain’s brow, but he did not respond.

“Here’s another question,” Kusala said. “What can you tell me about supply wagons supposedly moving this way?”

The captain’s face brightened. “This I
do
know,” he said with hopeful eyes. “Yesterday eve, we anchored in a harbor to restock, and there I saw wagons moving along the northern shore—at least a hundred of the big eight-wheelers.”

The captain grinned as if he had just made a friend, but Kusala remained stern.

“How well were the wagons guarded?”

“Guarded? There were a few dozen armored horsemen sniffing about. And
 . . .
and
 . . .
come to think of it, a woman drove each of the wagons, or at least it looked that way to me from where I was standing.”

Then the captain scratched his head, as if trying to comprehend why the Asēkha chieftain would care about a few wagons. “If you’re thinking of a raid, there’s no reason. Those wagons were
empty
, except for some old wooden barrels. They’re not carrying anything of value, unless you’ve got an urge to raise oxen.” He laughed nervously.

Kusala’s eyes grew darker. “My reasons are my own. Do you presume to tell me what to do?”

“No
 . . .
no
!” the captain said, still trying to sound accommodating, though spittle oozed from the corners of his trembling lips. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

Kusala spat at the captain’s feet. “I’m through with you. Tell your men to sit still and behave themselves. Anyone who tries to flee will be slain.”

“Yes
 . . .
yes,
” the captain said, and then he stormed about and yelled at his men in a pathetic attempt to sound brave.

Meanwhile, Kusala pulled Tāseti aside. “What do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure what to think
 . . .
because I have no idea what
you’re
thinking. You’ve gone from being in a rush to reach Nissaya to wanting to trot all over Triken. I admit that gaining control of these ships was a bold move that will hasten our journey, but only if we leave now. The captain is a fool, but he’s right about one thing: The wagons are a waste of our time.”

“As my Vasi master used to say, I’ve had a gut feeling about those wagons from the beginning,” Kusala said. “If they are truly meant to bring supplies to Mala’s army, wouldn’t they need a sizeable force to secure and load the supplies? Something doesn’t feel right. Either Invictus wants to make it seem as if the wagons are worthless, or the women guarding them are more formidable than they appeared to our brave captain.”

Kusala then told Tāseti more details about his conversation with Torg on the ledge above the rock shelter, including the wizard’s description of the
undines
, creatures of the demon world who infect human bodies and turn them into zombies.

“And you think these barrels might contain these hideous things?” Tāseti asked.

“The captain said that women drove most of the wagons. Could they be witches and hags in disguise? Torg was worried that the
undines
would be released into the Ogha north of Senasana—but why not Ti-ratana, as well? Tens of thousands of innocents live along its western shores and drink from its cold waters. Invictus and the witches could be scheming to create an army of zombies that could march on the fortress, while infecting everyone in its path. We might be in a position to stop something before it starts.”

“All right, chieftain. I suppose we should investigate. But if you want me to stop whining, then you’ll have to do one more thing.”

“Yes, Tāseti?”

“Allow us
eleven
days to reach Nissaya.”

They both laughed.

THE BOAT PEOPLE made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with the war between the big peoples, but Moken agreed, out of respect for the Asēkhas, to take charge of the captain and his crew. The Asēkhas bound their wrists and ankles and crowded them into the dinghies, which were secured by long ropes to Moken’s fleet of kabangs.

“Take them to the middle of Ti-ratana and set them adrift,” Kusala said. “No matter how much they plead or beg, show them no mercy—for they would have shown none to you. If karma allows, they will be found before they starve or drown.”

“But we surely will die,” the captain whined. “The lake is as vast as the Great Desert.”

“You know nothing,” Kusala said. “Tējo would swallow Ti-ratana in a single gulp.”

When the boat people departed with their captives in tow, it was nearly noon on a clear, warm day.

More than warm. Hot.

But to the desert warriors, the heat was blessed.

Afterward, Kusala met with the slaves. “You are free to go where you wish. But we will not be able to accompany you to your homes. If you proceed alone, the dangers will be great. If you stay with us and man the oars, you will remain under our protection. There are strong men and women among you. The boldest will be armed and invited to fight at our sides. I plan to strike the enemy where it least expects. After that, we will travel in haste to Nissaya—and I will see to it that you will be allowed to pass within the safety of the fortress’ walls. What say you?”

The Bhasuran woman was the first to step forward. “I will seek my own people,” she said in the common tongue. “There is no place for me in halls of stone. But I will return with warriors and aid you, if I can.”

Kusala bowed and bade her farewell. A dozen others also departed, but almost ninety remained. Within the ship’s hold, the Asēkhas found enough swords and daggers to arm twenty of the strongest, including three women, one of whom was a Senasanan countess well-trained in the art of swordsmanship.

“I prefer the rapier,” she said, gripping the hilt of a heavy longsword with disdain. “But this will do. I have long wanted to test myself against an Asēkha, but fighting next to one will be almost as fulfilling.”

“Fighting an Asēkha with a rapier would be like fighting a slab of stone with the stem of a water willow,” Churikā said in characteristic brashness. “You are welcome to fight alongside us, but do not insult us.”

The woman started to protest, but the look in Churikā’s eyes stopped her cold. Instead, she lowered her head and hurried away.

“Remind me never to assign you the role of diplomat,” Kusala said to the newest Asēkha.

“Do you wish me to apologize?”

Kusala chuckled. “Just go easy on the others. None of them are Tugars, Churikā. But for now they’ll have to do.”

It was late afternoon before they finally launched the galleys and proceeded northward along the coast of Ti-ratana. Kusala and eight Asēkhas rode in one of the long crafts, while Tāseti and eight others occupied the other. Earlier that day, Kusala had sent away Rati, the nineteenth warrior.

“I do not wish to split us apart, but the need is dire,” Kusala had said to Rati. “You must journey with great haste to Senasana. Once there, patrol the river north of the city and watch for anything suspicious. Torg feared the witches would try to release
undines
into the Ogha to infect the citizenry. Do whatever is necessary to prevent this from happening.”

Rati had nodded and then trotted off. Kusala hated to waste a fine warrior on such a vague assignment, but he believed Torg would have issued a similar command.

As fate would have it, the wind had grown annoyingly still. But the galleys—smaller and sleeker than their ocean-going cousins—were equipped with only a single square sail and depended more on oarsmen than on wind. All but half a dozen of the oars on each boat were manned, so the galleys soon glided along at almost ten knots.

Kusala purposely kept them about a mile offshore, just close enough for a decent view of the shoreline. Occasionally they witnessed activity near the water’s edge: a skirmish between villagers and several Mogols mounted on black wolves; a flock of vultures feasting on the remains of an unidentifiable carcass. But no wagons. As dusk approached, even Kusala began to lose enthusiasm for the mission.

“I had hoped karma would intervene and reveal the whereabouts of the enemy,” he said. “But it appears that fate is against us.”

“Our oarsmen appear able to row great distances without rest,” Tāseti said with admiration. “If we turn about now, we can still reach Ti-ratana’s southern shore in a day. From there, if we press hard, we can make it to Nissaya in nine days or less. What say you, chieftain?”

“We’ll continue north until dusk,” Kusala said. “If we’ve found nothing by then, I’ll be ready to give up.”

This seemed to satisfy the second in command. “Perhaps karma
will
intervene. For the two centuries you and I have been comrades, karma has always flowed smoothly alongside you.”

“Your words honor me,” Kusala said.

But as darkness crept across the lake, he finally raised his arms in defeat, ordering the ships to be brought about. Just then, however, Podhana let out a shout. “Chieftain, wagons approach!”

The first of them rolled into view along the shoreline—and they kept coming, stretching for half a mile. As the cowardly captain had described, each wagon bore just one driver. In addition, fifty armored horsemen accompanied the caravan.

“What now, chieftain?” Tāseti said.

“I doubt they’ve seen us,” Kusala said. “Regardless, they would not recognize us as enemies. Once they pass, we will bring the ships in and attack from the rear.”

When the last of the wagons were out of sight, the Asēkhas and twenty of the freed slaves climbed off the galleys and waded the short distance to shore. Once there, Kusala gathered them together to discuss his plan.

Soon after, Tāseti, Churikā, and Kusala crept up on the rear-most wagons, while the rest of the Asēkhas and their armed companions crouched in the gloom. Churikā was the first to strike, hopping noiselessly onto the seat next to the driver, clamping one hand over mouth and nostrils and jamming her dagger between the upper ribs and into a lung. From his vantage point, Kusala saw a good deal of blood but heard little sound, though he noted that Churikā struggled mightily to keep the flailing body from making too much noise.

Only a hag would have that kind of strength,
he thought to himself, and then looked at Tāseti, who nodded in recognition. The second in command went next, performing basically the same set of moves, with similar success. But when Kusala took his turn and slashed with his dagger, crimson flames and putrid smoke burst from his victim’s throat. Howling freakishly, the Warlish witch grasped her neck and tumbled backward into the bed of the wagon, her legs and arms flailing.

The commotion alerted the other drivers, and they snapped their whips and drove their oxen forward, depending on the armored horsemen to confront the enemy. As planned, the remaining Asēkhas came out of hiding and met the charging cavalry head on. Without pikes or other protection, it appeared the desert warriors would be trampled. But Kusala knew better. He watched as the Asēkhas leapt high into the air and landed on the backs of the destriers, swinging their elbows and knocking more than a dozen riders to the ground. Then they leapt off the horses and slew the fallen.

The other horsemen regrouped, but during the second charge the mounted riders fared even worse. All but two were thrown to the ground and easily dispatched, and the remaining pair fled into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Kusala, Tāseti, and Churikā went about the business of destroying the barrels in each of their wagons. Clear water spilled into the beds, and small worm-like creatures flopped and wriggled on the gnarled wood. Kusala snarled in disgust. Then he leapt from his wagon and began to chase down the rear of the fleeing caravan. But he didn’t have to run far. Half the wagons already had halted, and their drivers—some astoundingly beautiful, others hideously ugly—were running
toward
him. The hags had been unleashed.

Their speed and numbers caught Kusala by surprise, and he was swept off his feet. Fangs clamped on his neck, and claws tore at his stomach, thighs and groin. Kusala’s flesh was impervious to their attacks, but their combined weight overwhelmed him. Unable to wield his weapons or regain his feet, he had no choice but to tuck into a ball and await rescue.

When his Asēkhas arrived, the rescue occurred quickly. Every hag was slain without a single desert warrior suffering a serious injury.

Kusala finally stood and dusted himself off. “What took you so long?” was all he could manage.

The Asēkhas burst into laughter.

A few moments later, the freed slaves joined them. Only fourteen remained of the twenty, but none of the armored horsemen—other than the two that had fled—still lived. The Senasanan woman was bleeding from a cut above her right ear, but her expression was fierce.

“I slew a rider,” she said proudly.

Churikā bowed. “I apologize for my harsh words earlier. Your courage is admirable.”

“Speaking of courage,” Kusala said, “we are about to need a good deal more of it. See for yourselves.”

From the direction of the wagons, more than forty witches approached, almost a fourth of all the known witches left in the world. Each bore a tall wooden staff, and they came forward almost casually—some beautiful, some ugly, some transforming between incarnations. Red fire spat from their eyes, and black smoke oozed from their ears. In eerie unison, they sang a horrid song, its lyrics unrecognizable, though a demon would have known them well, Kusala surmised. And that was not the worst of it. From the west, another threat arrived. Several hundred black wolves bearing Mogol riders as well as a battalion of golden soldiers—ten score at least—appeared at the crest of a hill. It appeared the cowardly soldier Fabius would have his revenge after all.

Kusala turned to the former slaves. “Flee to the galleys!”

“We will not abandon you,” the Senasanan woman shouted.

“We all must flee,” Tāseti said. “Even the Asēkhas are outmatched.”

“But the barrels,” Kusala said. “We have destroyed so few.”

As they argued, the witches came nearer. The stink of their malice caused the freed slaves to panic, and they scrambled toward the lake—all except the Senasanan countess, who held her ground despite her terror. The wolves and Mogol riders came forward in a slow jog to join the fray. But just when it appeared the Asēkhas would be overrun, a hundred shadowy figures on horseback emerged on the crest of the hill behind the advancing enemy. At first Kusala could not identify them, but upon their charge he recognized their battle cry. They were Bhasuran warriors, fewer in number than their foes but a welcome sight, nonetheless.

The Bhasurans loosed flint-tipped arrows into the wolves’ hindquarters and pounded stone war clubs onto the golden soldiers’ helms. But when the main strength of the enemy turned to face them, they were forced to retreat, only to regroup and attack from another direction. In a short time, more than a third of the Bhasurans had fallen; the wolves were faster than horses, and the Mogol warriors were stronger than their Bhasuran counterparts.

Still, the unexpected assistance inspired the Asēkhas, who let out their own high-pitched battle cry and sprinted toward the hill, slaying anyone or anything that dared come near. The desert warriors punched into a thick formation of armored soldiers, cutting through them like a dagger through flesh. Some of the soldiers panicked, threw down their weapons, and fled. For a moment Kusala thought that the bulk of them might scatter. But then the Warlish witches joined the battle, and the courageous Bhasurans were routed. Eventually only the Asēkhas remained, and they were surrounded by golden soldiers, wolves, Mogols, and the coven of witches.

The desert warriors formed a defensive circle. The night had deepened, and it was difficult to see more than a dozen paces, accentuating the fiery glow of the witches’ eyes. Their leader came forward, approaching within five paces of Kusala. She held a wooden staff almost twice her height, and when she pounded its heel against the ground, the head spewed crimson flames. The other witches did the same, illuminating a wide area. In response, the Asēkhas’ blades glowed blue.

A sudden silence ensued. All eyes focused on the witch and the chieftain.

“Have you come to plaaaay?” the witch said. She was as beautiful as any woman Kusala had ever seen. “Did you really think you could succeed in destroying our little babiessss?”

Kusala’s face was grim. “Whatever else happens here tonight,
you
will perish.”

This enraged the witch. Her long auburn hair danced, and her nostrils gushed putrid smoke. Kusala watched as she transformed into a creature of obscene ugliness. But this did not dismay him.

“If you flee from us and leave the wagons behind, we will not pursue,” Kusala continued. “But if you stay, we will kill all of you. What do you choose? Answer quickly! My patience withers, much like your face.”

Kusala knew his threats carried little weight. The Asēkhas were outnumbered fifteen to one. But he didn’t care. He and his desert warriors might die this night, but they would not be the only ones.

Suddenly, a commotion in the nearby darkness distracted Kusala. A pair of Mogols entered the firelight, dragging a struggling woman. The Senasanan countess fought against her captors, but they were too strong. Kusala saw that she had been stripped of her clothing and whipped. The Mogols heaved her roughly to the ground within a few paces of Kusala.

“Put down your weaponssss,” the witch said, “and we will let her live.”

“Don’t listen to her!” the woman screamed, rising to her knees.

A Mogol warrior clubbed her between the shoulder blades, knocking her face-down in the dirt.

Kusala looked at the Mogol and repeated his earlier statement. “Whatever else happens here tonight,
you
will perish.”

“We shall ssssee!” the witch said, pressing the fiery head of her staff against the Mogol’s chest. The other witches joined their leader, launching crimson flame from their own staffs. The torrents blended together to envelope the Mogol warrior, swirling around his muscled torso. The Mogol cried out and collapsed to his knees, but a moment later he was able to stand, his body now engorged with supernatural might. He glowed like a ghost.