Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles by Jim Melvin Page B

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.
    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.