Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  The other sentry, his nostrils clogged with frozen mucus, grabbed his partner by the arm.

  “You’re not leaving me alone,” he barked into the wind. “Having to stand guard next to this accursed pit is bad enough, but if that nasty wizard crawls out of it, I’ll soil my pants. Let me go tell the warden. You stay and watch. I’ve suffered enough. It was only twelve days ago that the Asēkha almost killed me.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You think you’re scared now? Think how it’ll be if the Chain Man hears you’ve messed things up again. It’ll make soiling your pants seem like a nice, hot bath.”

  “Nothing good’s going to happen to me up here, I’ll grant you that. But I’m not staying alone, no matter what. If you go, I go . . . Chain Man or no.”

  A dagger appeared. A speckle of starlight that somehow had weaved its way through the swirling clouds reflected off the deadly blade. The cowardly sentry grasped his stomach, his hands feeling warmth for the first time since arriving at Asubha. Steaming blood gushed out and bubbled on the gray ground.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m ready to die now.” He staggered, slipped on a patch of ice, and fell backward, tumbling into the pit’s hungry maw. At first his corpse clung to the narrow opening, arms and legs draped outside of the perfectly round hole as if making one last effort to avoid termination. Then his lifeless body folded and disappeared into the black cavity.

  “Thank me in hell,” the other sentry yelled. Before sprinting into the angry darkness, he paused and whispered, “It can’t be any worse than this.”

  Torg’s eyes filled the bottom of the pit with blue light, and for the first time in many days, he could see something other than blackness. The walls of his prison were horrid and lumpy, writhing as if alive.

  To his surprise Torg felt, more than heard, a commotion above him. Then he sensed that something was falling down the long shaft of the pit straight at him. Just in time, he raised his hands to shield his head. A hard bundle crashed into his side, striking him in the ribs, and the force of the blow rocked Torg. A man-sized body had fallen roughly upon him. Torg closed his eyes and lay still for a dozen long breaths, trying to regain his composure. Though he was sick and exhausted from the accumulation of his ordeals, his inner power now blazed. But he was also stretched dangerously thin.

  The body smelled salty and stale. The man was dead; the fall alone would have killed him. But there was more. Torg felt warm blood and acidic goo dripping onto his naked chest, making it probable the man had been stabbed, probably in the stomach. But why? What was happening up there? Torg could not begin to guess.

  The man’s arms and legs were propped above his torso and pressed against the sides of the pit, which was only three cubits in diameter. The poison that Invictus had magically imbedded into the stone walls began to dissolve the exposed skin on the corpse’s wrists and ankles.

  Torg gagged from the stench.

  He considered his options. Since achieving Sammaasamaadhi, he had become dangerous again. He could use his powers to incinerate the body that lay atop him, but he needed to conserve whatever strength he still possessed. Just getting out of the pit could prove impossible, much less accomplishing anything once he was free. If he were somehow able to climb out, dozens of soldiers, and who knew what else, would be waiting for him. Mala still might be up there, and the prison on Asubha was home to other horrors. It was even possible that Invictus would be part of the welcoming committee.

  “One thought at a time,” Torg said aloud, and the corpse’s head flopped down noisily onto its chest.

  “I’m glad you agree. You seem like a nice enough fellow. I could use a friend down here.”

  Torg opened his eyes and willed their bluish glow to illuminate the bottom of the pit again. Then he studied the man’s face. His jaw was thick and square, and there was a recently healed wound on his forehead. His dark-brown eyes were wide open, exhibiting an unsettling combination of horror and relief. If you cleaned him up and dressed him in golden robes, he would look like a cousin of Invictus, or a younger brother. He even had the long yellow hair, though a lot of it already was dissolving.

  Despite his bizarre predicament, Torg managed to lie still and breathe slowly. In order to plan an escape he needed to find out what was happening on the surface. Though the corpse’s weight continued to press uncomfortably against his side, Torg managed to delve into his own memories in search of an answer to his quandary. Whether directed by fate or otherworldly forces, Torg’s mind seized on a single memory.

  2

  Three times in the early years of his long life, Torg had journeyed through the Gap of Gamana and entered Arupa-Loka, which meant Ghost City in the ancient tongue. The first two times, he had gone with Asēkhas at his side, and the city’s stone buildings had appeared to be deserted. The third time, when he was three hundred years old, he went alone, still curious to see if Arupa-Loka was worthy of its notorious reputation as a haven for demons and other monsters. He was not disappointed. The inhabitants of the Ghost City opened their doors.

  For a long stretch of time during the deep darkness of a moonless night, Torg had stood transfixed on the center median of a street in the heart of the city. Now he could see wicked faces peering from windows and doorways. A collective hatred beat upon his mind. Torg wondered what might happen if they all attacked him at once. But he was not overly concerned. None in the Ghost City—save the demon Vedana—would dare to stand alone against him. And Torg was certain that Vedana was not present. If she were there, he would have sensed her strength.

  A ghost-child appeared in front of him. If she had been alive, Torg would have guessed her to be about ten years old. She smiled at him, her mouth curling upward at its corners. The beauty of her face stunned Torg. She beckoned him to follow.

  In the cold of midwinter, they wandered along many winding roads. Some areas were so dark that Torg could see nothing but the slight sway of the ghost-child’s petite dress, which glowed like phosphorous in a black sea. Obhasa also glowed, as if in reaction to her power.

  Finally she led him to the outskirts of the city, where they came upon a modest house of gray stone. The ghost-child stepped inside the front door. Torg had to bend over to clear the entryway. Demonic torchlight lit the interior. Sitting in a decrepit chair facing the door was the long-decomposed corpse of what had once been a tall man.

  “He has a story to tell you,” the girl said, her voice as sweet as innocence.

  “I’d prefer to hear your story,” Torg said.

  “They are the same.”

  Torg looked at the skeleton’s face, then turned back to the girl. “I would listen to his story, but he seems incapable of telling it.”

  The ghost giggled. She walked over to Torg and waggled her finger. She wanted to whisper something in his ear. He bent down. “The sirens can make him speak,” she said, ever so softly. “I know where they hide. I know when to listen.”

  “And what do you hear?” Torg said.

  “The word . . . the magic word.”

  “What is the magic word?”

  More giggles. The room seemed to wobble. “You have to hear it before you can say it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She reached for him. Her tiny hand barely filled his palm, but it burned like ice.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  The torchlight blinked out, and Torg found himself in utter darkness. For the first time in his long existence, he entered the Realm of the Undead. Never before had he seen such unbroken blackness. The souls of the undead were trapped between life and death, and it was horrid and hopeless. He sagged to his knees.

  But the girl was there to guide him. “Do you hear them?”

  As Torg knew from Sammaasamaadhi, the lone sensation of death was the ability to see. But he now discovered that the lone sensation of undeath was the ability to hear.

  Female voices were chanting. “Yakkkkha. Yakkkkha. Yakkkkha.”

  “I hear them,” Torg said. “But t
ell me what it is you need of me. You know something I do not.”

  Suddenly there was a flash, and they again stood in the dusty room lit by magical torchlight. The girl pointed at the skeleton. “His spirit is gone, but his bones remember. Ask him to speak.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Say the magic word.”

  In a remote corner of his mind, Torg could still hear the chanting. “Yakkkkha,” he said, though the word sounded like garble in the Realm of Life.

  Torg was surprised to see the skeleton begin to move. Its bones flailed, and its head lolled from side to side.

  “I told them we shouldn’t attempt the pass.”

  “Who are you?” Torg said.

  “Who am I?” the skeleton said. “I am no longer. I am gone.”

  “Who were you?”

  “I was her father.”

  “Ask him what happened,” the little ghost said to Torg.

  The skeleton stood, clicking and clacking, and it tilted its skull toward the girl. “Peta? Is that you?”

  “Yes, father,” she said. “But please . . . tell this man what happened. I’m afraid she will make him leave before he can help me.”

  “I won’t leave,” Torg said. “There is nothing here that can make me go anywhere.” He walked to the skeleton and looked down at its hollow face. “Her name is Peta? And what is yours?”

  “I do not remember. I am no longer. I am gone.”

  “Your daughter needs me. To help her, I need you. What can you tell me?”

  “I told them we should go south,” it said.

  “His bones remember,” Peta interrupted. “Please ask him to speak.”

  Torg nodded. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  The skeleton’s karmic energy was gone, moved on to countless other existences. But its bones remembered like a painting that had retained the vision of the artist.

  “What happened in the pass?” Torg said to the skeleton.

  “They came for her.”

  “Who?”

  “The demons. They took Peta. And they took me. But they killed her mother and all the rest. It was Peta they wanted. They only took me along to keep her calm.”

  “Why did they want Peta?”

  The little ghost was jumping up and down.

  “Because she is special,” the skeleton said.

  “Special?” Torg said. “How so?”

  “She is blind.”

  Torg was confused, but he sensed he was on the verge of a breakthrough. “Why did the demons believe her blindness was special?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Peta said, wiggling like a worm.

  “Because she could hear,” the skeleton said.

  Torg thought back to his brief visit to the Realm of the Undead. In that dreadful place he had been blind—just like Peta. But at least he had been able to hear. In life, Peta’s blindness must have enhanced her senses, including her hearing. Was it enhanced among the undead, as well?

  “Where is Peta’s body?” Torg said.

  The little girl screamed with delight. “Yes! Yes! Tell him. Tell him!” she said to her dead father.

  But the skeleton’s response made no sense. “Her body is forgotten.”

  “I don’t understand,” Torg said.

  “Neither do I,” the skeleton said.

  Torg turned to Peta. Fluorescent tears now lined her cheeks. “Can you tell me anything? He says your body is forgotten. What does that mean?”

  “Ask him to speak.”

  “I have asked him to speak. But I have no more questions. Why can’t you tell me where your body is? And tell me also why you want me to find it.”

  “He knows. Ask him.”

  Torg sighed. He walked to the side of the room, leaned against the wall, and slid down to his rump. The skeleton also attempted to sigh. Dust puffed from where its nostrils used to be. Then it stepped back and flopped down in its chair, bones cracking and snapping.

  Peta wailed. “He knows . . . he knows . . .”

  “Peta?” the skeleton said. “Is that you?”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said.

  “Yes,” the skeleton said. It sounded sad.

  Torg stood up, unsure of what to do next. He leaned against the doorway and looked out at the street. They were not alone. Hundreds of the undead stood nearby, still as stones, staring at him but not daring to approach.

  Torg shouted at them. “Where is her body? Tell me.”

  One by one they fled from his wrath. The street was empty again.

  “Her body is forgotten,” the skeleton said.

  Suddenly Peta’s face grew bright. She had thought of something that renewed her hope. “Tell him to walk,” she said, her head held proud.

  Torg looked at the skeleton. “Stand up.”

  The skeleton regained its feet, but not without a price. Its left arm fell off at the elbow.

  “Now walk to where Peta’s body is hidden,” Torg said.

  “Yes,” the skeleton said, and it tottered toward the doorway, bumping hard into the stone frame, crunching several ribs and busting a knee. Seemingly undeterred, it staggered into the street and moved awkwardly along the sidewalk. Torg followed. Peta pranced after them, bursting with merriment.

  “Tell him to walk,” she said, over and over.

  The skeleton made poor progress, banging into anything in its path. Large chunks of bone broke off and clattered on the stone roadways. Torg feared that Peta’s father would fall apart before they could reach their destination.

  “Are we close?” Torg asked, his breath smoking in the frozen air.

  “I do not remember. I am no longer. I am gone.” But it continued its slow march.

  They came at last to a strange tower that stood alone in a cobbled courtyard. Though the tower was just ten cubits in diameter, it was at least fifty cubits tall. An elaborate bas-relief wound upward from its base, and near its pinnacle was a small window where an eerie light shone from inside.

  The skeleton had had enough. It collapsed into pieces and said no more.

  “Goodbye, father,” Peta said, without apparent sorrow.

  There was a single door at the base of the tower. Torg pushed against it, but found that it was barred. He raised his staff and smote the ancient wood, which splintered and gave way. Then he stepped inside.

  The interior of the tower was dark. He willed Obhasa to glow, providing enough light for him to view a steep, spiraling stairwell. He started up. Peta did not follow.

  “Will you not come?” Torg said.

  Peta bowed her head. It was obvious that something disturbed her.

  As Torg stared at the ghost-child, he saw movement behind her. The undead had returned. Thousands were in the courtyard, watching but not approaching. This time he disregarded them. Whatever was at the top of the tower now consumed his attention. He strode up the slippery stairs.

  At the top was another locked door. It was no more capable of stopping him than the first. He blasted through it and entered the chamber. It was small with a low ceiling, and it glowed with a sepulchral light.

  Peta lay on a stone pallet in the center of the room, her body untouched by the passing of time. If it weren’t for the stillness of her chest, Torg would have believed she was sleeping. She wore the same dress as her ghostly form, and her face was just as beautiful. If she had been allowed to grow to womanhood, she would have been splendid.

  Torg hunched over and approached the pallet, which barely came to his knees. He looked down at her. A tiny gold amulet lay on her chest, and it shimmered and purred. Torg could sense it was a talisman of great power, perhaps created by some long-ago demon or sorcerer to preserve flesh. Peta’s body was unmarred, but Torg somehow knew that the little girl had lain in the tower for thousands of years.

  He took the amulet in his right hand. Its thin chain snapped off her neck. Instantly Peta sat up and opened her eyes, which were pure white, without iris or pupil. She screamed, and her body flailed. For the briefest of moments, sh
e again was alive.

  Then her flesh began to curl, hiss and disintegrate. The little girl writhed in unimaginable agony.

  “Kill me,” she screamed. “Hurry! Pleeeeaaassseeeee . . .”

  Tears filled Torg’s eyes. He could not bear to harm her, but neither could he leave her like this. He closed his left hand around her tiny throat and broke her neck with the slightest shift of his thick fingers.

  Peta stopped moving. Silently her flesh withered, and her bones turned to dust. Her body was gone. When Torg left the tower, the ghost-child was gone too. He wept.

  Afterward he departed Arupa-Loka. The undead followed him to the outer boundary of the city and watched as he slipped into the wilderness. For a month Torg wandered in bitter cold. North of the Gap of Gamana, the Mahaggata Range split into the shape of a Y. Torg headed northwest. In this far realm, the mountains were a jagged jumble of rock and ice. Torg had never felt so lonely.

  Though he studied the amulet, he could unravel none of its mysteries. He decided to destroy it, so that it would never again perform such a heinous deed. But the amulet’s power was too great. He could not even scratch its smooth surface. Finally he chose to hide it.

  On the peak of Catu, the northernmost mountain on all of Triken, Torg discovered a hidden cave. He crawled deep inside on hands and knees and covered the amulet with a shaving of granite. It was a relief to leave it behind.

  Soon after he left the cave he witnessed a strange occurrence. A shadow had crept across the sun, consuming it bit by bit until the day became as dark as night. Torg had stood and watched in amazement. Two weeks later, as he’d journeyed back to Anna, the same thing had happened to the full moon.

  3

  With startling suddenness Torg’s thoughts returned to the present moment. He was back on Mount Asubha, trapped at the bottom of the pit, desperate to find a way out, and eager to rid himself of the corpse that had fallen on top of him. He looked the dead sentry in the eyes. He needed to have a little talk.