Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  “We could have killed the fool, we were so close,” Sōbhana said, “but it would have done little good. Rati and I suspected our approach was long witnessed, yet we were permitted to enter the city without resistance. It was too easy. Too many heads were turned in the wrong direction. They are poor soldiers, by our standards, but they are well-armed and all too capable of killing.”

  Torg could sense that Sōbhana was holding something back—and so he continued to fix his gaze only on her. There was a period of silence finally broken by Kusala, who cleared his throat and touched Torg lightly on the shoulder. “What is it, lord?”

  Torg twisted around and glowered. The chieftain hastily removed his hand from his shoulder. Torg grunted impatiently, then returned his gaze to Sōbhana. “You fear more than just a fool of a captain or his pathetic soldiers. I can sense it in your bearing. What do you keep from us?”

  Sōbhana took a step back, then sighed. Her full lips trembled, ever so slightly. “I saw something else. Or I think I did.”

  Kusala’s eyes almost bulged from their sockets. “Sōbhana.” He spoke so sharply that all the Asēkhas whipped their heads in his direction. “Tell us everything . . . now.”

  Seemingly ignoring the chieftain, Sōbhana moved slowly toward Torg and then stood on her toes so that her mouth was just a span below his. Her features softened, and at that moment Torg saw her as startlingly beautiful, even by Tugarian standards.

  Kusala was clearly amazed, perhaps perceiving her approach as a burst of arrogance, and he seemed prepared to discipline her.

  But Torg waved him off. “Sōbhana . . . speak,” he said gently.

  “Lord,” she said, “I saw something . . . someone . . . in the doorway at the top of the temple stairs. There was a deep shadow near the opening, and the sun’s glare prevented a clearer view. But I saw glints . . . or glows . . . that did not resemble the reflections off armor. Two figures loomed within, and one of them was huge—much larger than any of the soldiers, or monks and nuns. I believe, my lord, that it was the great monster we name Mala. And with him, a Warlish witch.”

  Though he was born deep within the recesses of the desert Tējo, Torg had resided at Dibbu-Loka many times during his long lifetime, and he knew its history as intimately as anyone. Even as he made his way toward the city, he replayed what he had learned in his thoughts.

  A greedy king had built the holy city ten thousand years ago to serve as his final resting place. King Lobha was to be buried in the center of the city in the bowels of a great pyramid. Lobha had originally named the city Piti-Loka, which meant Rapture World in the ancient tongue. The king had been a connoisseur of sexual gratification, especially when he forced it upon helpless victims.

  The temples of Piti-Loka were adorned with a myriad of statues, carvings, and jewels. The exterior walls were sheathed in contrasting marbles, shimmering in an ever-changing variety of colors, depending on the time of day. The interior walls were slathered with erotic paintings of naked men, women, and children.

  Because of his frequent atrocities, Lobha had acquired many enemies, and an army of Lobha’s vicious soldiers inhabited the inner grounds of the temple. But in truth, the king feared nothing except the demise of his own body, which had somehow retained its sexual prowess despite the feebleness of old age. His hands ruined many lives.

  One fateful day, the king made the mistake of molesting and murdering a woman who had been captured during a slave-hunting expedition on the border of the Great Desert. She was a member of a mysterious tribe which dwelled within Tējo. Even as Lobha lay in the throes of ecstasy, and his chained victim breathed her last, the desert dwellers invaded the city. Though outnumbered ten to one, they routed Lobha’s army with ease and slew the king.

  After that, Piti-Loka was renamed Dibbu-Loka, the ancient word for Deathless World. A remnant of the desert dwellers remained in the city for several years, allowing only peaceful people intent on goodness and charity to enter its walls. Their leader, a wizard of great renown, saw to it that Dibbu-Loka became a holy place. Thirty-three generations later, the trail of that wizard’s seed had led deep into the desert. A boy emerged that day during a birth so violent it killed his mother.

  His father, an Asēkha Chieftain named Jhana, was devastated, as would be expected. But Jhana loved his newborn son, nonetheless, and he named the boy Torg, which meant Blessed Warrior. His proper name for ceremonial events was The Torgon.

  In the current day, Dibbu-Loka remained an enchanted place. However, it was the monks and nuns who now resided there that made it special, not its desolate location. Dibbu-Loka rested atop a hill that rose out of dusty land pockmarked with canyons and ravines on ground almost as inhospitable as the desert that lay to the east.

  The central shrine of Dibbu-Loka dominated the interior of the city. Bakheng, originally designed as King Lobha’s tomb, had been grandly built to match his excessive tastes. The pyramid contained three entryways leading to three main chambers. The top chamber was intended to house Lobha’s head, the middle his arms and torso, and the bottom his legs.

  Now, other more wholesome uses had been found for these chambers.

  Three smaller temples surrounded Bakheng, and hundreds of single-story buildings formed a triangular frame around these three. Originally built to house Lobha’s army, the chambers now were the residences of the five hundred monks and nuns who occupied the holy city.

  All the other interior buildings of Dibbu-Loka were set amid courtyards linked by a maze-like pattern of paved causeways. The main causeway led from the grand entrance to the central shrine. Smaller roads scattered in unusual directions, often ending abruptly in empty pavilions, without doors or windows. Newcomers to Dibbu-Loka frequently became lost if they strayed off the main streets. The noble ones, of course, gently set them back on course. Torg, too, knew all the ways.

  As the sun began to fall, he strode purposefully with the Asēkhas through the grand entrance, his pace solemn and hypnotic. Torg was dressed entirely in black, wearing a silk jacket belted tightly at the waist and tucked inside his narrow breeches. Cloth gaiters covered his calves. His hair, which hung to his shoulders, matched the color of his clothing. His tanned skin and blue eyes provided a startling contrast to his monochromatic outfit.

  The Asēkhas looked almost identical to Torg. Tugars who had not crossbred with other races always had black hair and blue eyes, and most were between four and four and a half cubits tall, considerably taller than almost all of Triken’s humans. Sōbhana was shorter than most purebred desert warriors, but that made her no less dangerous in Torg’s mind.

  When Asēkhas were adorned in black, they were in a killing mood. The desert warriors who had defeated King Lobha’s army had worn black, but while those warriors had been outnumbered ten to one, Torg and his Asēkhas now were outnumbered one hundred to one. Still, he wasn’t overly concerned.

  Their first sighting of noble ones was not a pleasant experience. Golden soldiers had forced more than a dozen monks and nuns to stand along the roadside with daggers held to their throats. The soldiers grinned maliciously behind their plated helms, which glowed crimson in the fading light.

  Some of the noble ones had trickles of blood on their white robes, but the monks and nuns did not appear to be afraid. Torg knew they did not fear death. In their perception it was as natural as breathing. Even so, they prized life above all things because it provided them with the opportunity to overcome suffering and achieve enlightenment, either in this existence or in one of the countless that followed.

  Kusala walked on Torg’s right, one pace behind. Torg looked back and saw the chieftain’s eyes ablaze and tears streaking his dusty cheeks. If not for Torg’s steady presence, Kusala already might have lost control and succumbed to what the Asēkhas called frenzy, butchering any soldier within reach. Torg sensed the other Asēkhas also struggling to contain their fury. It was not inconceivable that the small band of twenty could kill all two thousand of their enemy, if they were given the time and
enough room to maneuver.

  “Remember your vows of obeisance,” Torg said in a loud voice, bending them to his will. The fate of the prisoners depended on it. “My order was clear. You must not act unless I command it.”

  Several dozen enemy soldiers laughed, moving their daggers even closer to the throats of their prisoners.

  “Yes, do not act unless the King of Death grants his permission,” a soldier said, his voice echoing in the otherwise silent streets. “He, at least, is wise enough to know that if you attacked, you would be cut down like helpless women.”

  A dagger suddenly buried itself in a wooden pillar next to the soldier’s head. The blade hummed and quivered.

  Torg shot Sōbhana a fiery look.

  “I missed on purpose,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

  Several of the Asēkhas chuckled nervously.

  Even Torg could not resist a wry smile. Then he raised his right hand and cried, “Kantaara Yodha tam! (A Desert Warrior calls!)” The dagger sprang from the pillar and spun through the air, its handle landing crisply in his palm. Torg noticed a tiny scratch near the tip of the blade before tossing it back to Sōbhana and then continuing onward.

  The others followed, probably relieved that he had chosen to ignore her insubordination. They marched into the city’s depths, but as they neared Bakheng, Torg heard the captain’s dreaded mantra, which erased his brief mirth.

  “Come, Torgon, or the killing will begin. Sundown approaches.”

  Again.

  “Come, Torgon, or the killing will begin. Sundown approaches.”

  Torg ignored the chanting and continued to lead his Asēkhas up the main causeway toward Bakheng. He was relieved that the incident with the dagger had not caused a skirmish. He’d have to discipline Sōbhana, but it would have to wait for later. In truth, he probably wouldn’t follow through. He treasured her spirit and hoped she would someday bear children, continuing her precious bloodline. Though that too he doubted. More and more, his Tugars failed to proliferate. When needed most, their numbers dwindled. It had become especially troublesome the past one hundred years, coinciding with the birth of Invictus, whose evil had had a deadening effect that reached all the way to Anna, the Tugars’ Tent City in the heart of the desert.

  More golden soldiers appeared along the road. Monks and nuns, each with a dagger less than a finger-length from their jugulars, were held on display. Without exception, the noble ones’ faces remained calm. During their many years of meditation they had studied all things—without prejudice. Death was an empty threat. They did not demand or expect rescue, but Torg refused to accept the sacrilege of such a slaughter. The noble ones were an invaluable counterbalance to Invictus, an antivenin to his toxic existence. Without their gentleness, the balance of power would irreversibly favor the sorcerer.

  Torg struggled to contain his anger. He could hear the grinding of his own teeth. However, he had a plan that he would follow through success or failure.

  Bakheng finally came into view. A thick formation of golden soldiers was arranged at the base of the huge pyramid. Several hundred more stood on the steep steps that led to the upper entrance, their swords drawn and their shields pressed to their chests. Archers lined the highest landing.

  Torg and the Asēkhas marched to the bottom of the stairs. They looked upward—and beheld an abomination. An elaborate wooden bench had been placed on the balcony at the top of the shrine. Cruelly strapped to it was the High Nun of Dibbu-Loka.

  Sister Tathagata, the Perfect One, was more than three thousand years old. But her eyes—ah, her eyes—were as clear as a child’s. Torg had spent many years with her in conversation and meditation. She liked to call him “young man” before throwing her head back and guffawing. Her laughter was like a waterfall, pleasing more than just the ears. Torg felt insignificant in her presence. For Invictus’ minions to threaten her in this way was an insult against anything sane.

  Someone had shoved a pewter funnel into Tathagata’s mouth, attaching it to her jaw with a leather strap. A bronze cauldron hung two cubits above her head. It contained a bubbling liquid. Even from where he stood, Torg could hear her gagging.

  Torg sensed the cauldron’s contents. Molten gold—superheated by magic.

  He was enraged. Swirling specks of bluish flame crept along his fingertips. Tiny sparks spun about his ears and nostrils. His hair floated and danced, as if electrified. He was a volcano about to erupt, but he knew that if Tathagata and the other noble ones were to survive, he would have to somehow remain calm until he enacted his plan.

  The obnoxious captain stood next to Tathagata. He smiled wickedly. Torg smiled back.

  At that moment, however, there were greater evils than the captain. The Warlish witch, her face full of filth and fire, loomed over Tathagata. But she was not the worst. Not even close. Inside the dark entrance to the shrine stood the witch’s true master, an unholy being whose very presence in that sacred place was blasphemy—and it was on that creature that Torg now focused his formidable gaze.

  The captain with the loud voice, seemingly unaware of his peril, walked to the edge of the balcony and leered down at Torg. Surrounded by archers and armor-clad soldiers, the annoying little man must have felt brave and powerful, believing that he was the one in control. But Torg saw him as nothing more than a mouthpiece.

  “So, you have finally arrived,” the captain said. The timbre of his voice was the most impressive thing about him. “Thank you very much for taking your time, Desert Peasant. Did you walk here so slowly because your boots were full of sand? Or was it simply because your legs would not stop shaking?”

  What happened next came as no surprise to Torg, for he had designed it to astound his enemies. But even the Warlish witch, who stood guard over Tathagata, seemed caught unaware. Suddenly Asēkha-Podhana was halfway up the stairs, standing amid a tight group of golden soldiers. The warrior let out a scream that rose in pitch to an impossible intensity, causing dozens of soldiers to tear off their helms and clench their ears. While the attention was focused on Podhana, there was a shuffling sound higher up, away from the diversion. The obnoxious captain cried out, and then his head sprang from his shoulders and tumbled all the way down the stairs—thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Podhana screamed again. All eyes returned to him. Meanwhile, something dark streaked down the stairs, quick as a fox.

  Kusala stood next to Torg, flicking blood off the blade of his uttara.

  Afterward there was much shouting and confusion. A slew of arrows rained down on the Asēkhas, but none were capable of penetrating Tugarian flesh.

  Torg reached down and grabbed the captain’s head by its long yellow hair. He lifted it high in the air, its face still wearing an expression of disbelief.

  “Mala, we could not abide this one,” Torg said. “His death was not negotiable. I’m sure you understand.”

  For a moment everyone appeared unable to move. Evoking the name of Mala had stunned the gathering into silence. But in place of the monster, the Warlish witch stepped into view, and a noise far more unpleasant and painful than any scream Podhana could have conjured disrupted the eerie quiet.

  In Torg’s perception it began as a low growl, like that of a large feline sighting prey, though it was interspersed with tiny cackles and high-pitched profanities. The bizarre mixture of sounds was designed to breed despair, as if confirming the worst fears of all living beings: Hell was the only true reality and eternal suffering the fate of all. The effect on the gathering was widespread. Several of the noble ones, temporarily freed from the grasp of their captors, bent over and vomited. Sōbhana and the other Asēkhas spat and reflexively drew their curved swords. Kusala bared his teeth and growled in return, one dangerous beast squaring off with another. But Torg held up his hand, as if to stay them all.

  When he spoke, the spell was broken—at least enough to relax the Asēkhas. “I did not come all this way ‘with sand in my boots’ to deal with the likes of you,” Torg said to the witch.
“Let your master show himself. He is the only one here worthy of my regard.”

  Despite Torg’s bold words, the witch did not appear dismayed. Mucus squirted from her nostrils and fell to the stone at her feet, smoking and sizzling. She stomped to the edge of the balcony and kicked the captain’s headless body off the platform. It flew sideways and tumbled halfway down the stairs before crumpling in a bloody heap. Those nearby backed away in disgust.

  “Youuuu,” she purred, pointing a finger at Torg. “I come for youuuu.”

  To Torg, the words themselves were harmless, even comical. But there was a madness in the way she uttered them that seemed to cause nervousness and trembling among most in attendance. The witch’s eye sockets were empty, but they blazed with rancid light. Her scraggly hair was gray, and it danced on her head like a tangle of snakes. Worst of all she stank, as if long decayed. Torg could smell her even from where he stood. The soldiers could not abide her, and they fled the balcony and scrunched together on the lower stairs. Only the witch remained—with Sister Tathagata lying beneath her on the wooden bench.

  The hideous thing put a gnarled hand on one of the nun’s small breasts and squeezed. Tathagata made no sound. If she was afraid she did not show it.

  “Are you rrrready?” the witch said to Torg. “Are you rrrready for me? It’s time for some fun.”

  Though Torg did not move or blink, the witch began to laugh. Sōbhana lifted her hand, as if to throw her dagger again. But the witch was too quick. When she raised her skinny arms there was a flash, followed by a violent boom and a cloud of black smoke. The air cleared slowly. Where a monster had once stood, there now was a woman of incalculable beauty. She still wore a ragged dress, but on her it looked, even to Torg, like a priceless gown. Intoxicating green eyes filled the once-empty sockets, and waist-length auburn hair replaced the tangled gray. A perfume as sweet as spring spread outward in waves, enriching the air and making the fear and hopelessness of a few moments ago feel like a foolish misunderstanding. The soldiers, now entranced, raced back to the balcony and bowed low.