Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles Page 9

  Laylah began to feel increasingly anxious. Each step became more difficult, and it seemed as if they were being watched. Assailants could be lurking within ten paces, and she wouldn’t have known it. Paranoia gripped her. In response, she squeezed the staff harder, causing blinding light to leap outward in all directions.

  Suddenly, a bony but powerful hand grasped her shoulder from behind. She spun around and found herself face to face with several ghouls. Dozens of cold fingers reached for her, snatching at her hair and pawing at her breasts. She screamed and lashed out with Obhasa, pounding it downward like a stave. The ghouls were jammed so tightly together, several were struck by the same blow. When the staff touched their flesh, they burst asunder.

  The survivors turned and fled, disappearing into the distant darkness. Laylah felt a sense of elation, but it was short-lived. She noticed too late that the walls were closing around her. Suddenly the noxious substance fell upon her, sticking to her face like glue and squirting into her nostrils and ears. She tried to scream but her mouth was flooded, causing her to choke. At that moment, she believed she would die. But then a warm pair of hands clasped hers where they held the staff, and there was a concussive blast. Her mouth, nostrils, and ears were miraculously cleared.

  Torg stood beside her, still gripping her hands. He had somehow managed to reach her through the congestion, and their combined power—funneled through Obhasa—had incinerated the loathsome goo.

  When Torg released her, she let go of the staff and hugged him, tears filling her eyes. She felt an odd combination of relief and shame—relief that they both lived, shame that she had failed him. The wizard snared Obhasa before it struck the ground. The staff continued to glow, providing enough light to see for about the length of an arm. Laylah looked down and saw two things at the edge of the gloom: the Silver Sword stuck point-down in the ground and Rakkhati sitting on his rump, hugging his legs.

  She reached for the innkeeper, but when she touched his shoulder, he moaned.

  “Rise!” she heard Torg saying to Rakkhati, his voice as hard as granite. To her amazement, the Jivitan spy complied. But his eyes were glassy and his expression confused.

  “Secrecy is no longer an option,” Torg said to both of them. “The Mahanta pEpa is aware of our presence. But if we move swiftly enough, we might yet succeed. We must find and destroy its brain before it regains its courage and strikes again.”

  “Lord . . . lord . . .” Rakkhati mumbled. “I cannot . . . go farther. Leave me. I am useless.”

  “You are our guide,” Torg said. “You must lead, nothing more. Leave the fighting to Laylah and me. We are your only chance.”

  Rakkhati started to sob, but Laylah took him in her arms. When she did, magic emanated from her flesh, bathing him in alabaster. It seemed to temporarily strengthen him, and he stood upright and was able to breathe more calmly.

  Finally he pointed down the alley. “This way.”

  After Torg drew the sword from the ground, they resumed their original positions in line. Laylah willed Obhasa to glow again. The writhing walls shied from the light, but she sensed a lurking malice.

  Soon they came to another crossroads, this time with three offshoots instead of two. Rakkhati pointed toward the middle of the three, and Torg plunged in. This part of the alleyway was enclosed by a rooftop. The goo clung everywhere. Putrid drops of liquid spilled onto their heads, sizzling and stinging. The air became stuffy and suffocatingly warm.

  “I cannot . . . cannot . . .” Rakkhati mumbled, and then collapsed on his face. The wizard crouched down and rolled the Jivitan onto his back.

  “He’s gone,” Laylah heard Torg say. “He is no longer.” But it was as if he were speaking to her from the other side of a wall. She could hear his voice but could not see him.

  “Laylah? Are you all right? Can you hear me? Laylah . . . Lay . . . lah . . . laah . . . laaah . . . laaaaaaaaaaah . . .”

  “LAYLAH! LAYLAH!” Torg said, holding her face in his hands. Both Obhasa and the Silver Sword lay at their feet, alongside the corpse of Rakkhati. Everything was falling apart before Torg’s eyes, and he couldn’t seem to regain control. His beloved had fallen into a trance and wouldn’t respond. The Great Evil’s will was more powerful than a Kojin’s, more pervasive than a druid queen’s. If he didn’t think of something immediately, he too would succumb, and all would be lost.

  Torg started to reach for Obhasa, planning another burst of energy in an attempt to drive back his foe. But he changed his mind and instead grasped the sword and plunged it into the wall. The point sheared through the goo-coated wood all the way to its guard. Torg felt more than heard a high-pitched shriek that caused the walls and ceiling of the alley to shiver. Then he kicked at the wall, and it burst apart, revealing a wide room that in times past must have served as a meeting hall. Now it was empty, other than a wobbly table and some splintered chairs. He dragged Laylah inside and sat her down on the floor, kneeling in front of her, his deep-blue eyes glowing so brightly he could see their reflection on her skin.

  “Laylah, come back to me. I need you. There is much to be done.”

  Torg set down the sword, picked up Obhasa, and laid the rounded head of the ivory staff on the bridge of her nose. Prickly blue-green beams crept down her cheeks. In response, the glaze left her eyes, and she looked at him with recognition.

  “My beloved, you found me. I was wandering in darkness . . . lost . . .”

  Torg smiled, but only briefly. “Other than Invictus, the Mahanta pEpa is stronger than any creature I have encountered. It appears able to enter our minds and control our thoughts. But I still believe we can kill it, if we can find its brain. Can you go on, my love?”

  “I think I can, if you are with me. But without Rakkhati as our guide, do we have any hope? It was terrible the way he died. He was killed by his own fright.”

  “Even if Rakkhati were still with us, I don’t think he would have been of much use from here on. This creature is too powerful for an ordinary mind to abide. I curse whoever brought it here from across the ocean. Rise, my love. We must plunge even deeper into the lair.”

  Laylah stood shakily.

  Torg turned toward the tear in the wall, but then he froze. They had a visitor. Standing in the shattered opening was a beast out of a nightmare, as ugly as the hideous version of a Warlish witch. The ruined Daasa was the size of a boulder and resembled a bloated tick covered with bony spines. It crept into the room, ripping away more chunks of the wall as it entered. Holding both the sword and Obhasa, Torg placed himself between the beast and Laylah. But instead of approaching nearer, the Daasa stopped and stared.

  Torg felt Laylah press against his back and peer over his shoulder.

  “I don’t think it intends to attack us,” she whispered. “Can it sense that we mean it no harm?”

  “It is probing my mind,” Torg responded softly. “I can feel its intentions. There is decency within the rage.”

  The Daasa made a strange grunting sound, then turned and lumbered back into the alley, heading deeper into the labyrinth.

  “It wants us to follow,” Torg said. “It hates the Mahanta pEpa far worse than we. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Neither one of them wanted to go anywhere near the goo, but there was no other choice. The ruined Daasa already had shuffled beyond their sight, and Torg—now holding Obhasa—willed enough light to illuminate the creature’s tail-end. They followed for what seemed like half the night, turning this way and that, and at times even walking up or down creaking sets of stairs that somehow supported the beast’s great weight. The goo became thicker and more grotesque, but the Daasa seemed not to notice, lumbering along at a surprisingly brisk pace. They saw no other monsters, including vampires and ghouls. At first Torg was relieved, but then he began to feel his own strength fading as he neared the center of the Great Evil’s lair. What would happen when they found the brain? Torg could barely breathe, much less fight.

  “We’re inside of it,” h
e heard Laylah say, but her voice sounded far away. Torg wished Jord was with them. She would know what to do. He wasn’t so sure he did anymore—or if he even cared. Though he continued to keep the Daasa within sight, the desire to lie down and rest was overwhelming. How pleasant it would be to sleep.

  Torg became so bewildered he almost bumped into the back of the beast, which had stopped and was staring down a set of stairs leading to a smoky basement.

  The brain of the Mahanta pEpa was just a few steps away.

  The Daasa pressed against the side of the wall, its bulbous body flattening just enough to allow Torg and Laylah to pass. But Torg seemed unable to will his body forward.

  “We’re almost there,” he heard Laylah say from some distant place. “I am with you, beloved. The Daasa can go no farther. We’re on our own.”

  “We’re all on our own,” Torg whispered, with no intention of taking another step. But he felt her hands push against his back. “All right, Laylah, I’ll go . . . but you’ll have to carry Obhasa. It’s too heavy for me. It has always been too heavy.”

  AS THEY DESCENDED the stairs, Laylah gained a sense of what was happening. The will of the Mahanta pEpa was enormously strong, but apparently not powerful enough to subdue them both simultaneously. When it was focused on her, Torg remained lucid. Now it had turned its supernatural attention to the Death-Knower, which was a wise choice on its part, considering the wizard was the deadlier of the two. Without him, Laylah doubted she had the power to destroy such a monster.

  The room they entered was far larger than any ordinary basement. Beneath the impossible tangle of decrepit wooden buildings, the Mahanta pEpa had constructed a lair huge enough to contain its ever-growing body. Because the creature was ignoring her and focusing on Torg, she was free to read its thoughts, which hung in the roasting air like steam.

  Hunger drove the Great Evil. When it had first arrived in Duccarita—hidden in a sack of nuts collected by pirates in the forest across the ocean—it had been an infant, about the size of an ordinary rat. After a pirate cut open the sack, it had leapt out and scurried into the city, barely avoiding being crushed by stomping feet.

  In its native environment, its kind often grew as large as trees, lurking in hidden places and feeding on anything that came within reach of its gooey flesh. The Daasa—in their gentle form—were its favorite food. But in this new world, there was so much more to eat. Over the years, its body had grown to outrageous proportions, as had its psychic domination of the Daasa. The humans that brought it over the sea were easy to control, and they willingly supplied it with as many Daasa as it could devour. In return, the creature held the Daasa in check, preventing them from changing into the form that would have made them impossible to manage. A few slipped through the cracks of its domination, but there were not enough ruined Daasa to cause major problems.

  Laylah realized first with relief, and then with dismay, that Torg had begun to move forward again. But this time he was walking too quickly, heedless of whatever dangers lay ahead. With a surge of speed, he rushed deep into the chamber.

  “Torg! Wait . . . WAIT!” But he did not heed her calls. Suddenly panicked, Laylah squeezed hard on Obhasa, forcing a burst of light to illuminate the cavern. What she saw sickened her. The foul-smelling goo coated the ceilings, walls, and floors. Scattered throughout were thousands of bones, some unrecognizable, some disturbingly familiar. Laylah finally identified the smell that had disgusted her from the moment she first entered the alley. It was one she had come to despise while a prisoner of Invictus. The goo smelled like vomit.

  They were inside the creature’s stomach.

  Torg had been wrong. The Mahanta pEpa did not have a single point of vulnerability. There was no brain to stab with the sword or blast with Obhasa. The creature had evolved into a throbbing blob of ravenous flesh that spread throughout the buildings and alleys for hundreds of cubits in all directions, and its will was embedded in every shred of its titanic body.

  Laylah experienced a wave of revulsion. A mist passed over her vision. She imagined herself abandoning Torg. In return for the wizard’s life, the Great Evil would permit her to go free. She could rush up the stairs, past the Daasa, past Rakkhati’s corpse, and flee into the street. Who could blame her? She would find the others, and they could go back to the inn and hide.

  Laylah heard Torg sobbing.

  The sound shattered her trance. The wizard stood in the middle of the room, arms at his side, the Silver Sword at his feet. The goo was creeping over the top of his high boots. But that wasn’t right. Rather, her beloved was sinking into it like quicksand. At that moment, Laylah realized she was their only hope. For the first time in her life, there was no one else to depend on—not her parents, or Takoda, or even Lucius. Her beloved’s life hung in the balance, and hers, as well, for when the wizard was destroyed, she would be next.

  She held Obhasa aloft, squeezed it with all her strength, and willed whatever magic she contained into its ivory shaft. Blue energy laced with white leapt upward in a concentrated beam, blasting through the ceiling of the chamber and several floors of wooden building before erupting into the sky. Such an expenditure of power felt exhilarating, but Laylah’s rapture soon diminished. Other than a hole in its immense flesh, the Mahanta pEpa was unharmed. She lashed out again and again, but failed to do any serious damage. Meanwhile, Torg had sunk to his knees, his head bowed to his chest.

  She ran to him, faced him—now taller than he—and shook him. Slapped him. Struck him. All to no avail. The creature held him in its psychic embrace and was slowly attempting to digest his body. As if resigned to his fate, Torg did not resist. Even the Silver Sword had disappeared from view.

  Laylah couldn’t let him go, not like this, not ever. She dropped Obhasa and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him, kissing him, begging him to awaken. She pressed herself against him, wrapped her legs around him, clawed at his back like an animal. Still he did not react . . .

  . . . but, she reacted. A glowing warmth seemed to rise from her skin, and once again light flooded the room, only this time the illumination came from her own flesh, not from Obhasa’s magical ivory. Like a spark fallen upon dry grass, Laylah’s energy caused Torg to respond—involuntarily—to her release of power, and he too began to glow, his blue-green energy merging forcefully with her alabaster. Their magic fed off each other’s, growing brighter and hotter and more dangerous, and Laylah realized that whatever was about to happen had grown beyond her control, not that she had any desire to stop it. Instead, the intensity of it filled her with bliss, as if the two of them were making love on a plane higher than a physical one.

  Laylah remembered the words Torg had spoken in their room at the inn when she had attempted to seduce him.

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

  Could it be?

  By now, Torg had sunk halfway up his thighs. His head remained bowed, but his body had tensed, and his back had arched. Heat emanated from his flesh, along with a blue-green glow. The hair on his head stood straight up, his hands drew into fists, and his chest expanded and contracted in a series of rapid convulsions. Her own body performed similar histrionics. Her brow oozed sweat. Her heart raced. Her body became consumed in luscious warmth.

  It built and built and built . . .

  Suddenly, a cacophony of power erupted from both of them. Blue-green energy—laced with white—blared out in waves, radiating in all directions. Laylah cried out and was thrown back a hundred paces, and though her clothes were consumed, she was not injured. The wizard’s chaotic magic speared through her like stones through water, piercing her but causing no harm. Obhasa and the Silver Sword also were undamaged.

  But everything else within a thousand cubits, including the Mahanta pEpa, was incinerated.

  When the smoke cleared, they strode toward each other through the rubble. Even as they embraced, the sun rose above the eastern wall of Duccarita, casting an explosion of yellow light upon
the smoldering remains of the destruction.

  9

  WHEN BONNY told them it was time to go, Lucius jumped up quickly. But Ugga remained in his chair, his eyes closed and body frozen.

  “Get up, ya booger!” Bard said impatiently. “Didn’t ya hear Missus Bonny?”

  Ugga opened his eyes. “But I has only counted fifty breaths,” the crossbreed said, clearly puzzled. “Master Hah-nah said to count to sixty.”

  “For Anna’s sake!” Rathburt said. “Would you jump off a cliff if he told you to?”

  Ugga considered that for a moment. “Master Hah-nah would have a good reason, I supposes.”

  “Arrrggghhh!”

  Lucius went to his room to get his uttara and war club. When he returned to the parlor, the others were waiting: Ugga with his axe, Bard his bow and arrows and a pair of daggers, Rathburt his staff, and Elu his Tugarian dagger. Bonny, looking as luscious as ever, returned with a steel cutlass in a leather scabbard at her waist and a dagger strapped to each muscular calf.

  “The more dangerous you look, the more you will fit in,” Bonny said. “While it’s still dark, we’ll need to move quick and quiet. The monsters are active until dawn. But they’ll think twice before attacking our bunch, especially with him around.”

  She motioned toward Ugga, who smiled proudly.

  “He does make ya feel safe,” Bard agreed.

  “Elu loves Ugga too.”

  “Let’s get moving,” Lucius said. “We might as well get this over with.”

  “Yes, sir!” Bonny said, saluting. “I will do whatever you say, whenever you say it.”

  With Lucius blushing, the pirate woman led them down the stairs into the common room. Half a dozen men remained by the hearth. A pair of them had fallen asleep, snoring in their chairs. The others huddled around a small table, smoking and drinking and playing a game of cards. They looked up with curiosity—their eyes opening especially wide when they saw Ugga—but quickly lowered their heads when Bonny gave them a threatening stare.