Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (25 page)

Kusala sensed the tension begin to diffuse, if only slightly. He rose to his feet and snapped his fingers. In long-practiced unison the Tugars sheathed their swords. It was a symbolic gesture only—they could re-draw faster than the eye could follow—but one Kusala hoped would be viewed as concession.

“Yama-Utu was
 . . .
is
 . . .
not under my sway, I admit,” Kusala said. “But if we could have somehow kept him in control until Mala arrived, I believe he would have proven to be our most valuable ally. What happened to Madiraa and me was unplanned and unfortunate, but in the end no harm was done.” Then he stepped closer to Henepola and stared hard into his eyes. “Regardless of how you feel about the snow giant, you cannot believe that I brought him here with the purpose of murdering the princess or anyone else. As you know better than all others, these are perilous times. Where strength can be found, we must seek it.”

Indajaala’s expression grew sly. “Perhaps you should ask the Tugars to leave. Do we really need the desert warriors? Send them all to Jivita and let them cower with the white horsemen.”

Henepola tilted his head toward the conjurer and then smiled ruefully. “Your loyalty means much. But your counsel is oft foolish. With Mala thirsting for my blood, would I banish the Tugars? I love my people too much for that.” Then he turned back to Kusala. “And if the snow giant returns?”

“His fate will be yours to decide,” Kusala said.

“You are assuming I have the strength to enforce his fate,” Henepola said.

“If you do not, then the snow giant is greater than all who stand among us.”

“Flattery, Chieftain?”

“You have always been susceptible to it.”

“How dare you speak to the king with such insolence!” Indajaala said.

But Henepola chuckled. “Relax, my friend.” He patted the conjurer on the shoulder. “Kusala is
almost
a king himself, and he and I have known each other since your grandmother was a child. I will not live as long as an Asēkha, but I have lived long, nonetheless. Too many years, it feels to me now.”

Then he strode out of the pavilion with Indajaala attending him closely.

When they were gone, Madiraa glanced at Kusala. “I’d better go after him and try to make peace. He despises it when I talk back to him, especially in front of men.”

“Remember one thing,” Kusala said.

“What’s that?”

“You are the equal of any man I know.”

“Flattery, Chieftain?”

Kusala smiled. “And remember something else.”

“What else could there be?”

“Everything you said to your father was the truth.”

“Sort of.” Then she laughed her lovely laugh.

AFTER HIS confrontation with Henepola, Kusala spent the rest of the day mingling with the Tugars in an attempt to improve morale. The desert warriors did what they were told when they were told, but they were not particularly comfortable spending long stretches of time away from Tējo. They worried about their families and friends and missed the desert’s blazing sands. In comparison, Nissaya felt barren.

The next morning, Kusala went in search of Tāseti to say his farewells, but found she had departed without seeking him out, another obvious sign that she was angry. Part of him regretted his decision to send her in his place. After all, Torg had ordered Kusala to return to Anna, not the second in command. But he knew that he was the best suited among them to deal with Henepola’s increasingly disturbing behavior. Tāseti was a powerful warrior and would make an excellent chieftain when he died or retired, but she tended to lead more by example than by words. Among her people, this was an effective tool, but it was not the best way to deal with the current king of Nissaya. Besides, Kusala had known Henepola since the king was a boy. In fact, Kusala had been a guest of Nissaya, along with The Torgon, at the royal birth. The baby’s father, Henepola IX, had been so proud.

“His hair is white,” the king had said to both of them. “He will be the first Conjurer King of my family’s line. How strong he will become. God’s lifeblood surges through his veins.”

Now it was noon, more than two hundred years later, and Kusala stood at the first gate, watching the black knights and an occasional Tugar bustling along Balak’s battlement far above. The Conjurer King had indeed grown strong, but the stability of his mind had never equaled his other faculties. This worried Kusala, to say the least. If Henepola X collapsed, the fortress would need a steady—and vocal—leader to replace him. Kusala was no Torg, but he was the next best thing.

Madiraa startled him by touching his shoulder. He turned and smiled at the king’s daughter, and his mind drifted again, this time to the day Madiraa had been born thirty years ago. That day’s joy had been overshadowed by sadness. The queen had died while bringing Madiraa into the world.

I remember it as if it were yesterday.

The princess gave him a puzzled look. “No words for me, Chieftain?”

Kusala chuckled. “As my Vasi master liked to say, ‘The Tyger got my tongue.’”

“You looked almost pale. Are you a Jivitan in disguise?”

“Neither Jivitan nor Nissayan, my lady. For better or worse, I am a Tugar.”

“We both know it’s much for the better. At the least, your people are less judgmental than the rest of us. Will you join me for dinner in the great hall?”

“It’s such a long walk to Nagara,” Kusala said. “Come instead to my pavilion. Churikā slew an elk early this morning. Our cooks are making a stew with strips of Cirāya added to enhance the flavor.”

“I could think of nothing better,” she said.

Then they walked together beneath a hot sun.

“Today is warmer than yesterday, and yesterday was warmer than the day before,” Madiraa said. “If this continues, Nissaya will be an oven by the time the battle begins. Is Invictus somehow to blame for this?”

“Nothing that the sorcerer accomplishes would surprise me. But right now, I’m more concerned about your father. You were going to try to make amends. How did it go?”

The luscious corners of Madiraa’s mouth curved downward. “It was worse than I expected. Not so much because he shouted at me, but because he didn’t. When I caught up with him, it was as if he barely recognized me. Indajaala, of all people, treated me with more courtesy. The conjurer and I followed him all the way to his quarters in the keep, but Father slammed the door in our faces. His eyes looked strange, Kusala. He reminded me of a man addicted to the milk of poppies. That
thing
consumes him. He has not emerged since yesterday afternoon. What can I do? What
should
I do?”

“How well do you trust me, my lady?” Kusala said.

“You are like a second father to me. I trust you with my life.”

“And you are wise to do so. I will say this: Your father has a strong will. He won’t change—for good or ill—just because we tell him to. But when Mala arrives, someone must lead Nissaya. Do not be surprised if the rule falls to you and me.”

“If he heard you say these words, he would imprison you in the caverns beneath Nagara. Indajaala would chuckle all the while.”

“Indajaala is not as he appears,” Kusala said, causing Madiraa to cock an eyebrow. “Do not be overly quick to discount him. As for your father, we shall see what we shall see.”

While they ate, Madiraa pleased Kusala by telling him that the freed slaves who had accompanied the Asēkhas to the fortress had been provided food, clothing, and accommodations inside one of the lesser keeps within the third wall.

She also said that there still had been no sign of the snow giant. None knew where he had gone.

Messenger pigeons—the few that still dared to fly—had returned with reports from Nissayan scouts that Mala’s army had moved fewer than fifteen leagues in three days. At this rate, it indeed would take three weeks before the entire army reached the fortress, especially considering the difficulties it would encounter on the sabotaged road west of the forest. By then it would be the middle of spring.

“The only good news is that Nissaya has never been stronger,” Madiraa said, reiterating words oft-spoken by many. “Of knights, bowmen, sergeants, and squires, we number more than fifty thousand. And we have one hundred conjurers, which is unprecedented. Never in our proud history have we been so well-armed. Entire storage chambers are stacked with armor and weapons, all excellent in make and condition. Even our stable of horses—though no rival to Jivita’s—has never been so well-stocked, being five thousand strong.

“Indeed, if the Chain Man’s army were made of ordinary men and women, it would stand no chance of breaching our walls were it ten times our number.”

“The sorcerer would not unleash this army if he did not believe it would succeed
 . . .
and not just in defeating Nissaya, but Jivita, as well.”

“Believe me, I am anything but overconfident,” Madiraa said. “But if I were Mala, I would not attack immediately. A prolonged siege would make more sense. By the end of the summer, the refugees alone would deplete our provisions. More than one hundred thousand swarm within our walls.”

“I agree that a prolonged siege would be the wisest course for the enemy, but Mala’s pride will not permit it. He will give his army time to arrive and dig in, but once that occurs, it will be all or nothing. Starvation is not our concern. Victory or defeat will come before that.”

When they finished eating the stew, Madiraa took her leave, telling Kusala that she again would attempt to meet with her father.

“If he doesn’t come out of his room soon,” she said, “I might have to order the guards to bash down the door.”

“If it comes to that,” Kusala said, “leave it to me. I might have more success with your father, if you are not there to watch. And here is something else that I should have already told you. The Pabbajja are not your enemies. Inform the black knights that Kusala knows this as fact. It appears there are traitors within Mala’s army. This could work to our advantage in the coming days.”

“If anyone else uttered such words, I would only laugh,” Madiraa said. “The Pabbajja have always been a nuisance. I will tell as many as I can, though not all will believe it. Such are the times.”

And then she strode away, her long black hair flowing freely down her back. Unlike her father, she was no conjurer. But she was strong, nonetheless. If she outlived Henepola and became queen, Nissaya would be better off.

FOUR DAYS AFTER Kusala’s angry encounter with Henepola in the pavilion, five thousand Tugars arrived from Lake Hadaya. Kusala, the Asēkhas, and the desert warriors already at Nissaya greeted their comrades in the open field west of the fortress. Madiraa was also there with a vanguard of black knights also numbering five thousand, including five hundred mounted, each carrying a Nissayan banner. Trumpeters filled the air with sweet music, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of a
Bheri
, a Tugarian drum as thick as a snow giant. Shouting and clamor arose from the walls a mile distant. The coming of the Tugars was a major event. An army ten times their size would not have been more welcomed. Despite all this, King Henepola X was not in attendance.

The arrival of the Tugars provided a lift for the entire fortress. Given the multitude now residing within the walls, it wasn’t practical for everyone to make merry, but the Tugars arranged a feast outside the walls for themselves that lasted long into the night. They built a mammoth bonfire and consumed great quantities of beer and wine. Afterward there was lovemaking in almost every tent, but between Tugars only. A few Nissayans and refugees attempted to join in but were summarily escorted from the camp.

Even Kusala became caught up in the revelry, and he ended up making love to Churikā. The next morning he awoke sore and exhausted, though she seemed as sprightly as ever.