Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (19 page)

As the full moon rose above the canopy of Java, they heard shouts from within the forest. A moment later, the Asēkha scouts scrambled out of the woods.

“
Paccosakkaahi
! (Retreat!)” the warriors shouted. “A Kojin comes!”

But it was too late to flee. There was nothing to do but turn and face the enemy.

To make matters worse, the Kojin was not alone.

WHEN YAMA-Utu fled the rock shelter, he had no idea where he was going. He only knew that he had to get as far away as possible. Though his thirst for murder and mayhem grew by the moment, he had no desire to harm his new companions. It was Mala he was after—or more accurately, the blasphemy that Yama-Deva had become.

The thought of his brother’s ruination filled Utu with a rage that roared through his mind like wildfire. When the fire grew too hot, it temporarily burned away his lunacy
 . . .
and his mind wandered in the bliss that had existed before his brother’s destruction. Eventually his exultation faded, giving way to a return of misery. His beloved brother, the pride of the snow giants, had been taken and tormented by Invictus.

However, this alone had not caused Utu to abandon the
Santapadam
(Path of Peace), which his kind had embraced for countless millennia. What finally had broken Utu was this simple fact: During the ten years that Invictus had tortured Yama-Deva, the snow giants had done nothing. Though they were too few to storm Avici and defeat Invictus’ army by force, the realization that they had made no attempt whatsoever to rescue Deva ate at Utu’s sanity like a cancer. They should have tried.

He
should have tried.

Of course, the other snow giants didn’t view this as cowardice. The only way to rescue Yama-Deva was through the use of violence, which was not in their nature.

“My dear husband,” Bhari had said over and over. “Nothing can result from violence but more violence. The day Yama-Deva was captured, he was lost to us forever. We spoke to the birds, remember? They told us that your brother did not even attempt to flee, much less put up a fight. How could we dishonor such greatness by leaving our home and attacking the aggressors?”

Now Yama-Utu wandered alone in the darkness of the Gray Plains, the unseasonable warmth feeling like flames on his flesh. Even during midsummer, it was below freezing in the peaks of Okkanti. The snow giant was not used to such oppressiveness, nor was he used to the madness of murder.

He thought back to the battle near Ti-ratana. For the first time in his existence, he had purposely killed. The first to die was a golden soldier who had stumbled while frantically attempting to get out of the snow giant’s way. Utu had stomped the soldier with the sole of his foot, squishing his body within the metal armor like a turtle inside its carapace.

Next to fall was a Mogol warrior who had somehow found the courage to charge Utu and heave a spear. One sweep of a massive arm broke the warrior into pieces. The first witch did not die so easily. Utu wrapped the creature in his arms and squeezed, but when her bones shattered, a foul crimson flame had burst from her eyes, burning like acid. Utu had howled, but blended with the pain was wicked pleasure. The intense physical anguish overrode the mental agony of Deva’s loss. The brief moment had felt like paradise.

After yelling at the Asēkha chieftain and then fleeing the rock shelter, Utu had alternated between running, walking, and crawling. Sometimes he was lucid, and during those moments he would consider returning to his companions, only to feel the rage rise up again. Other times he was utterly lost, like an infant who had fallen noiselessly off the back of a wagon and been unknowingly abandoned in the wilderness. When morning came, the daylight further disoriented him, blinding his eyes and searing his skin. Where was he? Why was he here? He couldn’t remember—or perhaps, didn’t dare.

Finally he lay down beneath the blessed shade of some strange-looking trees and sobbed. That is where the Pabbajja found him. The homeless people seemed to rise from the ground, as if hitherto they had been part of the gray grass. Soon hundreds of them surrounded Utu, staring with wriggly eyes that protruded half a finger-length from their sockets.

Utu leaped up and towered over the Pabbajja, but when he made a pair of fists and prepared to fight, their manner seduced him and caused his arms to fall limply to his sides. Then he sat down, drew his knees to his chest, and permitted the homeless people to press against him.

They touched him in groups of three with small, gnarled fingers that resembled the branches of trees. Each contact sent a dizzying jolt of energy into his sinews. Yama-Utu collapsed onto his back, spreading out his arms and legs in the shape of a giant X. This way many of them could touch him at once, but they always came in divisions of three: a dozen, eighteen, thirty.

The intense flow of psychic energy drew his awareness back to a time long past, when Java was many times its current size, and hundreds of Kojins roamed the Dark Forest. The hideous female ogresses and their smaller male companions were not Java’s only inhabitants. A race of humanlike creatures—each less than three cubits tall—also roamed the dense woods, foraging for nuts, roots, and berries in the dreary darkness of the inner forest. They were highly intelligent, relying on wiliness, rather than strength, to outwit a myriad of predators, including vampires, ghouls, and wolves. They communicated with each other telepathically, sometimes over distances of a league or more. Despite a daily dose of danger, their community thrived. At their height, they had numbered more than one hundred thousand.

But then the
Supanna-Sangaamaani
(Dragon Wars) began, and the land surrounding Java was turned into a fiery battleground, pitting all manner of man and monster against one another, while the ruling dragons roamed the skies, enjoying the destruction from above.

Though the ogresses and ogres fought hard to protect their precious homeland from the devastating effects of battle, the Dragon Wars took their toll. Trees fell. Fires raged. Java was reduced in size and scope. For the Pabbajja, this was particularly troublesome. With their territory diminished, fewer places remained for them to scavenge and to hide. Their numbers decreased.

In order to survive, the Pabbajja were forced to flee the inner forest and live on its borders. But they paid one final price. Their bodies, unable to tolerate direct sunlight, transformed in terrible ways. Their heads bloated, their eyes protruded from their skulls, and their fingers and toes became bent and twisted. In a genetic attempt to ward off the sun’s damaging rays, they grew thick mats of hair over most of their bodies. The Pabbajja were changed.

However, their minds were unaltered. No madness came upon them, other than an all-encompassing desire to return to the inner forest and resume their previous lives. Over the millennia they waited, biding their time.

That time was now. Invictus had changed the course of the world. The homeless people could not stand against the Sun God, but perhaps they could aid those who might. They even sent thousands of their kind to join the sorcerer’s army, feigning allegiance. But when the opportunity arose to strike a blow against him, they would be ready.

The Pabbajja did not have the strength to fully heal Yama-Utu’s troubled mind, but he now knew that they were not without considerable power. When they revealed to him their plight, Utu regained a portion of his sanity. His desire to destroy Mala—and anyone who stood in his path—remained intact. But his lack of control over the emotions that raged within his mind was temporarily remedied. He sat upright and smiled, exposing long, white fangs.

In response, the Pabbajja sang
 . . .
within his mind. The song was sweet.

THE SUDDEN appearance of the Kojin and the ogres filled Kusala with despair. The gigantic ogress alone was a nearly impossible test for the Asēkhas. As far as he knew, desert warriors had never managed to kill a Kojin in battle. Only a Death-Knower of Torg’s caliber had that kind of strength.

To make matters worse, there were at least ten score ogres, many armed with axes. By themselves, the ogres were no match for the Asēkhas, but while the desert warriors were fending off the Kojin, her smaller male counterparts would be in position to slaughter the freed slaves. It was a difficult situation, to say the least. But Kusala steadied himself and prepared to fight. There was no other choice.

The Kojin signaled the attack with a high-pitched screech and then thundered forward, along with her snarling brood. Several freed slaves panicked and broke from the ranks. They quickly were chased down and hacked to pieces. Kusala, Tāseti, and Churikā encircled the ogress and slashed at her from all sides, their
uttaras
blazing and sparking with blurring rapidity but causing no noticeable injuries. Each of her six muscled arms was as thick as a tree, yet she somehow was fast and limber.

Churikā was knocked off her feet and momentarily stunned. Podhana took her place, but it was clear they were in trouble. Few creatures that walked the land could kill a Kojin.

Meanwhile, the other Asēkhas met the ogres’ assault. Each desert warrior slew at least five of the enemy within the first moments of their clash, but even that was not enough. The monsters broke past them and attacked the huddled slaves, killing at will. The Asēkhas went into
frenzy
and drove them back, but by then the Kojin had forced its way past Kusala and was closing in on the others. Soon it would be a slaughter. The Asēkhas would have to flee or perish. And it was not in them to flee, unless their king ordered them to do so.

More ogres sprang from the trees. Gray forest wolves and ghouls also joined the fray. In desperation, Kusala fought past a sea of monsters and leapt onto the Kojin’s shoulders, reaching around and running his dagger along its bulbous neck beneath the jaw line. Where the dagger met flesh, there was a purple explosion that splintered the blade. Though the Kojin was not seriously harmed, Kusala was cast to the ground with such force that he lost his grip on both the ruined dagger and his uttara.

An ogre picked up the precious sword and howled, waving it skyward as if claiming the ultimate booty. Kusala lifted his head and saw the Kojin scoop up Tāseti and hurl her a dozen paces into a mob of ghouls. Then the ogress pounded her fists against her chest and stomped toward the huddled slaves.

Kusala started toward the Kojin again, but a pair of incredibly strong hands held him back. He turned and looked up at Yama-Utu’s face.

“Leave her to me,” the snow giant said. “It will be good practice
 . . .
for later.”

Utu stomped forward, growling menacingly. The Kojin obviously sensed his approach and screeched again. In response, the other fighting halted, all eyes turning to witness the clash of titans. The Kojin was big, but the snow giant was even taller and broader. He struck her with a huge fist. She staggered and fell, smiting the ground.

Quick as a Tyger, Utu pounced upon her and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Purple energy raced up Utu’s arms and exploded in his face, hurling him backward. Temporarily released from his grip, the Kojin tried to stand. But the snow giant was faster than the ogress. He rolled to the side, slipped behind her, and wrapped his arms around her neck in a stranglehold powerful enough to pulverize granite. Her protective purple energy enveloped Utu’s entire body, but despite the obvious agony, he squeezed ever tighter.

While the others watched in stunned silence, the Kojin struggled, quivered, and then breathed her last.

Emboldened by the demise of the ogress, the Asēkhas and freed slaves charged at their assailants, killing recklessly. But they still were many times outnumbered. The death of the Kojin had bought them time, but not victory.

The enemy regrouped and went after them again, snarling and slavering. The Asēkhas did everything possible to protect the freed slaves, but it was difficult against so many. Kusala had broken the back of the ogre who had dared to desecrate his
uttara
, regaining his sword and then killing fifty of the monsters. But for every one slain, two more seemed to emerge from the forest. Utu ran here and there, butchering dozens at a time, but they fled from his wrath and were difficult for him to corral. It was only a matter of time before the freed slaves were overwhelmed.

Kusala felt further despair when several thousand Pabbajja emerged from the darkness, their three-tined spears aglow. But to his amazement, the homeless people joined the fray as allies, not enemies. With their magical tridents enhanced by psychic power, the Pabbajja were a formidable force. Finally, the enemy was outmatched. When the Asēkhas re-joined the fray, the monsters were routed, fleeing back into the forest with the homeless people in pursuit.

For the first time since the battle had begun, Kusala was able to stop and catch his breath.

Tāseti, a little sore but otherwise uninjured, came up to him and patted him on the back. “We have new friends?” she said.

“It appears that way
 . . .
though I am yet to comprehend their motives.”

Churikā joined them. “Chieftain, the heavens have noted our victory. Do you see the moon?”

Kusala looked up—and gasped. The golden orb was partially shrouded in darkness. A full eclipse of the moon was underway. Kusala found himself wondering about Torg and his companions. Where were they, and how did they fare? Then Kusala heard a thump and turned to see Utu beside him.

“I rather like Sister Tathagata, to be honest,” the snow giant said. “But after what I’ve done the past few days, she and her kind seem beyond my comprehension.”

Kusala had to chuckle. “I have been known to utter similar words.” Then he reached up and placed the palm of his hand on Utu’s massive abdomen.

“Twice now you have saved us.”

The snow giant nodded.

“But I have a question for you,” Kusala said.

“Yes?”

“Next time, can you come to our aid a little sooner?”

THOUGH NONE of the Asēkhas were seriously harmed, fewer than thirty freed slaves survived the attack—and many of those were injured, including the countess, who bore a deep gash on her right forearm. If not for the arrival of the Pabbajja, all the slaves would have been slain. The Asēkhas carried the human corpses, some butchered almost beyond recognition, a few hundred paces from where the worst of the battle had occurred. They then built a pyre to burn the dead.