Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  The door was ajar. She slid inside the lighted room. One of the sentries was having a good laugh. He slapped his knee. The other two laughed along with him.

  With three blurring strokes, their heads leapt into the air, performed backward flips, and fell to the floor, striking the stone in a series of squishy thuds. She waited patiently until the blood finished squirting from their necks, then she repositioned their heads on their shoulders and put the mugs back on the table.

  A keg of wine sat next to the wall beneath the window. Sōbhana picked it up and took several long swallows. It was potent, but not particularly tasty. Still, it warmed her insides. She drank quite a bit more before setting it down.

  The room had one small closet. She rummaged through it and found plenty of thick rope and a plank that was just the right size. How absurdly easy this part of the operation had become. It made her wary.

  Suddenly, the door swung open. A fourth sentry strode through the entryway. He wore a heavy cloak over his tunic, but still he grumbled about the cold before heading straight for the keg, too stupid to notice Sōbhana’s presence. She stepped behind him and slammed the door. He jerked around. She crossed the room and pressed the sword against his throat. She forced him down, beneath the window, and crouched in front of him so close to his face she could smell his rancid breath.

  “I will let you live, if you answer all my questions—without pause,” she whispered. “Do you understand?”

  He nodded fiercely.

  “Does the wizard still live?”

  “The wizard?”

  Her forehead flew forward and butted him between his eyes. Steaming blood oozed from the bridge of his nose. He muttered something that made no sense. “And then I . . . I . . . kissed her . . .”

  Sōbhana slapped him. His eyes sprang open, and he started to shout, but she roughly pressed the palm of her hand against his lips. “Shhhhhh . . . shhhhh . . . if you ever want to kiss her again, then you must answer all my questions. I am an Asēkha and can silence you whenever I choose. You cannot thwart me. Do you doubt it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Does the wizard . . . the prisoner in the pit . . . still live?”

  “Yes, warrior . . . I heard noises coming from that accursed hole just yesterday. I almost soiled my pants.”

  Sōbhana’s cheeks flushed. Torg was alive! “What kind of noises?”

  “Moans. Shrieks.”

  “Is Mala here?” she said, through gritted teeth.

  “Yes. He won’t leave, though we all wish he would.”

  She pondered this, and then spoke again. “Another question. Where is the pit?”

  He pointed at the door.

  “How far?”

  “About one hundred paces.”

  “Is anything between us and the pit that could get in my way?”

  “About fifty strides from here, there is a short wall that encircles the hole. Otherwise, there is nothing.”

  “Is the pit watched?”

  The sentry grimaced. “It’s supposed to be. We guard it in pairs. But my friend came here for wine. And I got scared and followed. The storm . . . the cold . . . We were sure that Mala wouldn’t bother to check on us. My friend—” He pointed to one of the sentries seated at the table. “—is over there. Why does he not move?”

  “He didn’t answer my questions. Nor did the others. They are no longer.”

  The sentry shivered. A single tear slid down his rough, red cheek. “I will . . . I will answer your questions. I promise. I truly wish to kiss her again one day.”

  Sōbhana felt a twinge of sympathy. “Listen to me very carefully.”

  “Yes. But please don’t kill me. I’m not ready to die.”

  “I won’t slay you, if you don’t force me to. I’m going to tell you a secret, and if you keep it to yourself, I’ll let you live. I’m going to free the prisoner. After that, I’ll need a place to hide—for a short time—from Mala and the guards. Where might that be?”

  “There is no place to hide . . .” The sword pressed against his throat. “Wait . . . wait! I meant no good place. But if I wanted to hide, I would go to the roof of the keep. A narrow stair leads to the top. Few ever use it. No one would think to look for you there, especially in this storm.”

  Sōbhana considered his suggestion. “If you are lying . . .”

  “No, warrior, I speak the truth. But may I say one thing?”

  “Quickly!”

  “Freeing the wizard is impossible. It hurts just to stand near the pit, especially if you’re not used to it. If you try to enter, you . . . you will not survive. It is deadlier even than you, mistress. Only the warden has the equipment needed to remove the wizard. It’s a special contraption with a large clamp, and it is cleverly made. But it is out of reach—behind barred doors.”

  “I will find a way,” she said. “And the keep . . . how far is it from the pit?”

  “It is on the northern wall, several hundred paces beyond it. You can reach the stairs, if you veer around to the left and slip between the walls.”

  “Very good. You are behaving yourself. One more question: Where does Mala sleep?”

  “In a large chamber at the base of the keep. He comes out often—even during the night—to check on the prisoner, but usually not during the worst storms.”

  “You have been helpful,” Sōbhana said. “I’m going to tie you up now. If you struggle, the ropes will strangle you. Do you doubt it?”

  “No, warrior. I believe every word you say.”

  “If you somehow betray me, you will die in a most painful manner.”

  Sōbhana left the guard house a few minutes later with the sentry gagged and bound and tucked inside the closet. Her knots couldn’t be undone without help from others. She left the torch lit and the card players in place. If anyone peered through the window, they would see nothing unusual, except for frozen splotches on the floor, as if they had spilled a lot of wine.

  The storm had lessened somewhat, but it still blew with considerable force—enough, she hoped, to keep Mala, the Stone-Eater, and the other sentries inside their chambers.

  While the storm raged on, Mala lay awake in his room, his enormous body stretched out on the bare stone floor, his thoughts raging as wildly as the weather. He hated the prison and yearned to return to Uccheda, but Invictus had ordered him to stay on Asubha for thirty days. If the wizard still lived after that, Mala was to remove him from the pit and bring him back to Avici.

  Mala doubted Torg could survive much longer. It had been ten days, and Mala could sense that the wizard was near death.

  On the first day of the Death-Knower’s imprisonment, Mala had peered into the pit. Ferocious pain seared his face, and he shouted and jerked back. Now, as he lay in a heap within his chamber, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he’d grown to admire Torg. Anyone—or anything—able to survive in the pit for more than a day was extraordinary. Ten days was beyond possibility. And Invictus thought the wizard might live for a month?

  Lightning stroked the air, followed by a concussive blast of thunder. Mala sat upright. Maybe he should go out and have a look around. Wind and hail tearing at his flesh would clear his mind.

  Ten days down. Twenty to go. Would this torture ever end? The things he did for his king.

  Carrying the rope and plank on her back, Sōbhana slithered over the low wall that encircled the pit. Occasional bursts of lightning threatened to reveal her position, but she moved so slowly and so close to the ground she was all but invisible.

  Before she could see the pit, she could sense it and recognize it as pure evil. Poison, decay, sickness, despair . . . the pit contained them all . . . she experienced the same kind of desperation she’d felt when she first saw Invictus. She wanted to flee.

  But of course she would not. She had come too far and fought too hard, and she would rescue her beloved—or die trying. Despite the enormity of her fear, no other scenario was possible.

  Buoyed by her immense stubbornness, Sōb
hana crept closer. She found it difficult to imagine how the sentries were able to guard the pit; either they were partially immune to its wickedness or she was more susceptible. When she had crawled within an arm’s length of the opening, her eyes began to water, her ears rang, and her tongue swelled. Surely the sentry had lied. The Torgon must be long dead. Not even one as great as he could have survived inside this monstrosity for a single day, much less ten.

  Then she heard a shriek, and it almost stopped her heart. Her beloved was down there, enduring horrors beyond her comprehension. But he was alive.

  And she was his last hope.

  The perfect circle glared at her. It had its own mind, its own voice, and it challenged her to proceed.

  Come inside and play with me, little one. You look so sweet and tasty.

  Forcing herself to crawl to the lip of the abyss, Sōbhana peered down into the blackness. Instantly her face was ablaze with pain, and the muscles in her cheeks quivered. Mucus gushed from her nostrils, freezing as it fell toward the mouth of the pit, but sizzling and bursting into steam as it entered. What kind of hell was this?

  “I’m coming, my love,” she whispered. “I will not forsake you.”

  A low moan rose, as if in reply.

  Sōbhana laid the narrow plank across the opening and looped one end of the rope around it, securing it with a sturdy knot. The cord was three finger-lengths thick and well made. She hoped it could survive the pit’s virulence long enough for her to climb down and bring Torg up. If she fell, all would be lost.

  First though, she drew the Silver Sword and lowered it partway into the pit, expecting it to melt or wither. But the sword was not affected, and its blade remained cool. Perhaps it would protect her. At the least, it might bolster her resolve.

  Reluctantly she returned it to its sheath, needing both hands for the descent. She lowered the rope into the darkness while estimating the distance. Five cubits. Ten. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred. Did it touch bottom? She couldn’t quite tell.

  For a moment she imagined Torg reaching for the rope and climbing out on his own, relieving her of the burden of entering the pit. But then she realized this was a false hope. She had to go down—and she had to do it now.

  Sōbhana sat down on the plank, which bowed slightly but held her weight, and then lowered her feet into the darkness. Even though she wore heavy boots and tight-fitting pants, her feet, ankles and calves instantly burned like frostbitten flesh submerged in steaming water. She left them there for several seconds, testing her ability to tolerate the pain. It hurt terribly, but at least it seemed to level out. She could not have withstood anything worse.

  Summoning her strength, she slid the rest of her body into the hole. To stop from crying out she bit her lip. Blood dripped down her chin and smoked like burning oil.

  She was submerged into agony, except where the sheath of the sword touched her leg. So she focused her mind along the length of the blade. It did provide comfort. And strength. In some ways the sword was greater than the pit.

  Hand by hand she descended. The agony remained without intensifying, but her stomach soured, and she vomited. Now her entire body was sweating profusely, and she believed she might die of dehydration before anything else.

  How was Torg still alive?

  Sōbhana coughed. One of her teeth spit out of her mouth and impaled itself in the side of the pit, where it caught fire and shattered, casting blazing shards that provided a tiny circle of light—just enough for her to see a portion of the wall. Black things wiggled and squirmed, like the flesh of a devil.

  Down she went, farther and farther. The air was so foul she could barely breathe. Blood replaced the mucus that had gushed from her nostrils. Warmth oozed from her ears and eyes. Liquids poured from her vagina and anus. If she did somehow rescue Torg and return to the surface, she wouldn’t be a pretty sight. But then, she imagined, neither would he.

  She had to be getting close. It felt as if she had been descending for days. Just when she was about to give up hope, her foot touched an object beneath her. She reached down with her free hand and grasped something solid. It was his shoulder—his wonderful, muscular shoulder.

  Torg moaned again. Sōbhana felt around as best she could and determined that he was curled naked on his side. The warrior hated to do it, but she had to relieve the pressure on her other arm, so she gently placed her boots onto his thick ribs and crouched down onto his body. If only he would wake up, they could escape together. But he seemed incapable of movement. She would have to lift him, and it wouldn’t be easy. He was almost twice her weight—and dead weight, at that.

  No, don’t use that word.

  “I am here, my beloved,” she whispered. “I have come. I will save you. Do not fear.”

  He groaned, but did not move.

  Then to her horror, the rope began to jiggle. Something was yanking on it from above. Someone had discovered her, and if he severed the rope, both she and Torg were doomed.

  “I’ll be back,” she said. “I promise you.”

  Sōbhana climbed with terrific speed, expecting the rope to go slack and dump her into the abyss at any second. Instead it began to sway violently, throwing her against the wall. Her black coat burst into flame and then disintegrated. The skin on her right shoulder bubbled and blistered. Ignoring the pain, she continued to climb.

  When she arrived at the top and reached for the plank, something huge and powerful grasped her wrist and lifted her from the pit. Sōbhana dangled in front of Mala, barely a third his height.

  “An Asēkha!” he said, his voice puzzled. “How . . . how did you get here? Are you alone?”

  With her free hand, Sōbhana drew the sword from its sheath and whipped it at Mala’s neck, but he bent his head back just enough to avoid decapitation. The sword dug into a portion of the chain that was burned into his breast, and there was an outburst of golden flame. The Chain Man was cast backward, dropping Sōbhana as he fell. She landed awkwardly on her side next to the mouth of the pit, momentarily stunned.

  When she regained her senses, the Chain Man still was dazed. Sōbhana watched his every move. Almost too late she detected a whisper in the air, and she flipped the sword behind her back. Another sword clashed against hers and burst asunder. Sōbhana rose to her feet, spun around, and cut her attacker—this one man-sized—in half with a single swipe.

  “What did she do to me?” Mala said, still confused. “What does she wield?”

  More sentries arrived, carrying hissing torches. Though Sōbhana had managed to kill the first attacker, she remained dizzy and disoriented, and her shoulder felt as if it had been shredded by poisoned blades. But rage gave her strength. She had been so close. She had touched her king. And at the worst possible moment, the monster she’d grown to despise had thwarted her.

  Her screams of frustration echoed in the night. The sentries retreated.

  Mala became infuriated. “Get her, you cowards! Slice her up.”

  Sōbhana regained her wits. Killing was what she did best, and when she faced superior numbers, she eliminated the most dangerous first. With an anger that had fermented over weeks and weeks, she charged at the Chain Man, intent on making him pay for his cruelty.

  Her sudden ferocity seemed to awaken Mala. The monster bellowed, and golden liquid, as hot as dragon fire, spurted from his chain. Sōbhana grunted and leapt to the side, barely avoiding the profusion. She fell at the feet of a sentry, rolled to her knees, and swept off both his legs at mid-thigh. Then she stood up, whipping the blade around. Three more fell. The sword cut through anything it touched with ridiculous ease.

  The Chain Man picked up a stone statue almost his size and heaved it at her. Sōbhana sidestepped the massive missile and watched it crush a cave troll who’d emerged from the darkness. Another statue, one of a series that lined the outer court, tumbled by, bowling over several approaching sentries.

  The storm joined the fight. A blast of lightning, more powerful than Sōbhana had ever witnessed, blew into
the mouth of the pit. A blob of electrical energy spewed upward and exploded like fireworks, casting a blanket of dazzling light that illuminated the entire courtyard and revealed the locations of at least one hundred well-armed men.

  Despite the threat of the sword, Mala dared to approach her. Sōbhana believed she could kill him with it, but she had to get close enough to strike, and that wouldn’t be easy. His powers were formidable, and she had no magic of her own to counter them.

  The Chain Man rushed forward, liquid fire spurting from his chain. Even for an Asēkha the scathing flames were difficult to avoid, and she was forced to duck and run while at the same time slaying any sentry that strayed within her vision. Most feared her wrath and stayed back. But Mala continued his pursuit, and now he held the advantage. He could destroy her from a distance, but she needed to get within the length of the sword to harm him. She began to fear she could not prevail.

  Gasping and panting, Sōbhana moved reluctantly away from the pit. More sentries fell beneath her blade, but fighting them and avoiding Mala was exhausting. She already had been pushed beyond her limits, and her damaged shoulder felt as if it were dissolving. A fist-sized brick—hurled from her blindside—ricocheted off her cheek, and her mouth filled with blood. A golden soldier could not have thrown with such force. This one must have come from another troll.

  Another bolt of lightning struck somewhere in the courtyard. She glanced behind her and realized she was just a span from the edge of a terrible cliff.

  Turning back to her attackers, she held the sword in front of her, grinning crookedly. “Come and get me, you bastards. Every one of you will die. I swear it.”

  Emboldened by Mala, they approached close enough for the torchlight to reveal their grim faces. Sōbhana saw anger, but then fear. Suddenly they stopped. Even Mala.