Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (10 page)

TORG WAS surprised to see Lucius and Bonny coming down the hallway so soon after she had entered his room. Sure enough, the pirate had managed to cheer up the firstborn. It was as if the recent incident with Laylah had never occurred. Torg breathed a sigh of relief. Things had suddenly become less complicated.

“Your scarf is missing, madam,” Rathburt said to Bonny.

“Huh? Oh! It must have fallen off somewhere.”

“Yes, it must have,” Rathburt said drolly.

Torg cleared his throat. “For Anna’s sake. Everyone stop staring at them—and listen carefully. Rakkhati, Laylah, and I will search for the
Mahanta pEpa
. The rest of you will wait here for sixty slow breaths before leaving the inn and following Bonny to the slave pits where the Daasa are held prisoner. Once there, stay out of sight and wait. If by midmorning nothing unusual has occurred, you’ll know that Laylah and I have failed. After that, you’ll be on your own and may go where you will.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ugga said. “It’s bad enough we’ve lost Jord. We won’t be able to stand it if ya and Laylah don’t come back to us.”

“We shall see what we shall see.”

Before they left, Torg heard Laylah say one last thing to Bonny. “Take good care of my friends
 . . .
please.”

“I will, Missus. Do not worry.”

Torg was amazed when Laylah placed her hand on Bonny’s muscular shoulder. “What you’ve done for him means a lot to me. From one woman to another, thank you.”

Bonny gently removed Laylah’s hand. And kissed it. “Believe me, Missus
 . . .
it’s
my
pleasure.”

Torg, Laylah, and Rakkhati then started down the stairs to the first floor, entering a common room several times larger than the parlor. A dozen men sat near the hearth, drinking ale and smoking tobacco with long pipes. They appraised Torg and Laylah, their eyes full of mischief. Though their new outfits served as a partial disguise, Torg’s size and Laylah’s beauty were uncommon in the City of Thieves. Plus, Laylah carried Obhasa, which looked even more unusual—and valuable.

“What are ya staring at, ya scoundrels?” Rakkhati said in the northern tongue. “Mind your own bizz-nuss and stay outta ours.”

They did just that, turning back to each other. Apparently the innkeeper was a man to be reckoned with, even among the riffraff.

The trio left the inn through a side door, entering an alley that was wide and well-lit, at least by Duccaritan standards. Torg drew the Silver Sword from its scabbard and held it at the ready, which was routine behavior in these streets at night. Laylah wielded Obhasa, which glowed in the scant moonlight. Rakkhati carried his long dagger.

“There are secret ways,” Rakkhati whispered in the common tongue, “where you can avoid unwanted attention. But they are even more dangerous than the streets. If it weren’t for you and the sorceress, I would not dare such a thing after sunset. The monsters are powerful and numerous, and they are far more active in the darkness. An ordinary man cannot stand against them. If attacked, I will need your protection.”

“If at all possible, Laylah and I will not fail you,” Torg said. “Lead on. The night grows old, and there is much to do.”

Rakkhati nodded and then turned to his right, racing down the alley. They came to a street poorly lit by sputtering torches on short iron poles driven into the ground. Rakkhati peeked out in both directions and then whispered again. “We’ll be in the open for more than a mile before we reach the alley that leads to the dwelling place of the Great Evil. Few humans go near, even in daylight, but ogresses often are seen dragging chained Daasa slaves into the alleyways. The ogresses return, but the slaves are never seen again.”

Rakkhati turned left and entered the street, but he stayed close to the ramshackle buildings, flitting from shadow to shadow beneath the eaves of a series of rickety porches. Torg and Laylah followed, alert for any disturbance. Light crept from crevices in the shuttered windows and weathered entryways, along with loud arguments and unpleasant laughter.

At one point, the door of a noisy tavern swung open just a few paces from where they stood, and a drunken man was thrown head over heels into the street. He lay in the dust and cursed at his assailants. Torg watched his expression slowly change; once the man got over his anger, fear took its place. He shuffled across the street toward another tavern, pounding on the door and begging for someone to open it.

Rakkhati pointed above the man’s head to a dark shape creeping along the wall on all fours like a lizard. It got within a cubit of the man and started to reach out a long arm, but the door swung open just in time for him to leap inside, oblivious to how close he had come to being a vampire’s late-night meal.

Torg felt Laylah shiver beside him, but she knew enough to remain silent. The vampire stayed above the door for a few moments before skittering off. Torg watched it creep into another alleyway and disappear. Laylah let out a long breath.

When Torg looked back at Rakkhati, he saw that the Jivitan’s eyes were wide with horror.

It must be frightening to be so near such monsters when you can’t match their power.

Torg was comforted that Ugga and Bard would be with the others when Bonny led them from the inn. Though they wielded no blatant magic, Torg believed that their bodies were imbued with supernatural strength. And they would need every bit of it. Torg doubted Rathburt would perform well under duress. The battle with the black mountain wolves had nearly done him in, and there were creatures in Duccarita more dangerous than wolves.

Torg, Laylah, and Rakkhati went on for more than a mile.

Each wooden building resembled the other. Torg couldn’t tell an inn from a tavern, or a shop from a house. Occasionally, a warped plank would creak beneath their feet, betraying their whereabouts to anyone or anything nearby. But for whatever reason, they were never challenged and saw no other beings. Eventually the street narrowed, and torches no longer lighted it, but the gibbous moon shone brightly. The buildings now lining the street were more decrepit than the previous ones. Most of the doors and shutters were broken, and no lights came from inside.

Rakkhati seemed even more apprehensive than before.

Without warning, a dark shape lumbered out of an alley and headed right for them, snorting and slavering. Rakkhati flattened himself against the nearest wall and slid down to a seated position, though the creature had appeared not to see them.

Torg recognized it as an ogress, at least seven cubits tall. Ogresses, being distantly related to Kojins, were far larger than their male counterparts. They also were mean-spirited and dull-witted. Torg was more concerned about the noise it might make than any danger it presented to him.

All three knelt in the shadows, hoping it would pass without detecting them, but at the last moment it stopped, sniffed the air, and turned in their direction.

It smells Rakkhati’s fear
, Torg thought, before springing forward and beheading the beast with a single stroke of the Silver Sword. Blood as black as tar squirted from its neck, splashing down like a sudden burst of rain. The beast’s bulbous head fell like a stone; the rest of its huge body followed. Torg picked up the head by its scraggly hair and tossed it inside one of the open doors. Then he dragged the heavy carcass into the shadows.

Rakkhati remained against the wall, still trembling. Torg knelt beside him and exhaled. Blue-green vapor oozed from his nose and crept into the Jivitan’s nostrils. Soon after, Rakkhati was able to stand. Torg turned to Laylah to see how she was holding up. The sorceress looked alert but unafraid. His respect for her swelled another notch. She seemed to see it in his face and smiled.

They heard a shuffling sound on the roof of one of the porches. Rakkhati waved for them to follow and then darted away. Fifty paces later they stopped and spun around. From this distance they could see only a vague outline of the ogress’ carcass, but they could make out several dark shapes swarming around it, accompanied by tearing and slurping sounds. The vampires had come to feed. Torg was disgusted, but at the same time relieved that their attention was elsewhere.

Just then, a deep-throated growl startled all three of them. Torg turned just in time to see a shape as large as a Buffelo thunder past on its way to the carcass. When it reached the ogress, it tore into its flesh with a hysterical rage. The others fled from its wrath. Torg’s first encounter with a ruined Daasa would not be his last.

Leaving the carnage behind, the trio crept along for another half-mile before Rakkhati came to a halt.

“May I have more, lord?” he whispered.

“More?”

Rakkhati tapped the tip of his nose.

“Ahhh.”

Torg blew another dose of the blue-green vapor into the Jivitan’s nostrils, calming him enough to continue. Finally they approached an alley that was narrower than most of the others, its opening as black as the surface of a lake on the night of a new moon. Torg was reminded of his visit to the Realm of the Undead.

“Lord, I have never entered this place after dark,” Rakkhati whispered. “In the daytime, you can see a little of what lies ahead—and even then, dozens of armed men carrying torches accompanied me. A slave trader hired our group to retrieve a prized ring lost by one of his assistants who had been attacked by a ruined Daasa and dragged inside. I have never been so terrified in my life, and we never located the ring. But we found parts of the assistant’s body, strewn about here and there inside the alley.”

“You are free to return from whence you came,” Torg said, “but neither Laylah nor I will be able to escort you.”

“I will not forsake you, Lord,” Rakkhati said. “Nor you, my lady. The way is yet far and complicated. Without me as guide, you would be lost. I have been inside just once, but it is burned in my memory. I can recall every twist and turn as if it happened just a moment ago. I believe that Sakuna played some role in this. She came to me the night after I went inside and did something to my mind that enabled me to remember. I asked her how she knew to come, and she said only that it had been foretold.”

Laylah held up Obhasa. “Do we dare to light our way?”

“Without light, even I will become lost,” Rakkhati said.

Torg agreed. “You cannot wander in darkness among creatures of darkness. Though Obhasa will announce our presence, I see no other option. Laylah, it is up to you.”

LAYLAH WAS startled. In a repeat of their encounter with the vines, Torg again was asking her to play a crucial role in a dangerous situation. But this time, her use of the staff would have to be more subtle, and she wasn’t sure she had sufficiently mastered it.

“I think you should take the staff,” Laylah said. “I can carry the sword.”

“Obhasa has grown fond of you,” Torg said. “It will obey your commands, whatever they may be.”

“As you say, beloved.”

“One of you will have to go first,” Rakkhati said. “Only then will I have the courage to enter. Where we are going is not pleasant.”

“We’ll stay close together,” Torg said. “I’ll go first, then you, then Laylah. Obhasa will light the way from behind.”

“I’ll do my best,” Laylah said.

Holding the sword in front of him, the wizard stepped into the darkness. Rakkhati shuffled behind. Laylah was the last to enter, and the sudden virulence took her aback, as if she had entered a crypt filled with decaying corpses. The air stank like rotting flesh, and the ground became squishy as a bog. She grasped Obhasa and willed it to life. For a moment it shined like a star, casting light far along the narrow alleyway and revealing walls covered with foul growths and wiggly worms.

Rakkhati yelped. “It’s worse than before,” the Jivitan said. “
Much
worse. And we have so far to go before we find the thing you seek. Lord, this cannot be done!”

“Retreat is not an option,” Torg said. “Keep your wits about you. And Laylah, I said we need light, but not
that
much.”

Laylah barely heard him. Like the Jivitan, she also felt hopeless, having never seen anything so disgusting, even in her nightmares. The alley had no ceiling, but its walls and floor squirmed like a living entity. And there were fibrous tendrils strewn between the walls that looked like spider webs—only thicker, wetter, and oilier.

Torg sliced at them with the sword as if clearing a way through a jungle choked with wispy vines. “My love, we need light, but not
that
much,” the wizard repeated, attempting to gain her attention. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to burn down Duccarita and melt the glaciers of Nirodha along with it.”

Despite the horror of their situation, Laylah giggled nervously. “Sorry
 . . .
sorry.”

Then she focused her attention on Obhasa, soon finding that she could control the intensity of light by adjusting the pressure of her hands on the shaft. She quickly willed it down to a magnitude that illuminated just a few paces ahead and behind.

“Excellent,” Torg said.

The three of them delved deeper into the alleyway, going on for about fifty paces before it split in two directions. Torg looked at Rakkhati and shrugged. The Jivitan pointed to the right.

The wizard followed his instructions, moving slowly along the alley, which continued to narrow. With arms outstretched, Laylah could have touched both walls at once, though she had no intention of doing so. The sorceress had never smelled such stench. The surface of the walls writhed as if the light maddened it. Laylah felt nauseous and dizzy. Rakkhati fared even worse, stumbling along like an old man. If Torg was affected, he didn’t show it.

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.