Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  During Torg’s imprisonment in the pit, all of his teeth had fallen out, so it was difficult to enunciate the syllables he had learned from his visit with Peta to the Realm of the Undead.

  But it would take more than that to cause him to falter.

  “Yakkkkha,” he said.

  The dead man’s eyes sprang open. “You’re not leaving me alone. I’ll soil my pants.”

  “You’re not alone,” Torg said, his speech slowly improving as he grew more used to talking without teeth. “And I’m sorry to say that you’ve already soiled your pants. But I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Who am I?” it said.

  “You are who you were . . . but that doesn’t matter. I need to ask you what you know.”

  “I am no longer. I am gone. I will never kiss her.”

  “Kiss her? Who?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Never mind,” Torg said. “Just listen to me and answer my questions.”

  “Let me go to the warden. You stay here and watch.”

  “Why do you want to go to the warden?”

  “That nasty wizard is making noises again. He’s crawling out of the pit.”

  I must have shouted when I returned from death, Torg thought. It was probable that others had already been alerted.

  “Was anyone else with you when you heard the ‘nasty wizard’ make noises?”

  “Yes. And the bastard stuck me.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Who else is up there?”

  “Up there?”

  Torg realized the man must have been dead before he fell into the pit. The memory that remained in his corpse still thought it was on the surface. But at least he was newly deceased. His recollections would be strong.

  “Who else is near the pit?”

  “No one. There was just the two of us.”

  “Is Mala somewhere close?”

  “The Chain Man? Yes. And he’s fearsome, I tell you. I soiled my pants around him more than once.”

  “And Invictus, the sorcerer? Is he nearby?”

  “No. I heard the warden talk about him, but I’ve never seen him. They say even the Chain Man is afraid of Invictus. But I don’t believe it. How could Mala be scared of anything?”

  “Is there any way to escape the prison?”

  “Escape? Ha! If there were, don’t you think I would have done it?”

  “What if you had to try? Where would you go?”

  “There is nowhere to go. All the walls are watched. More than just sentries are on guard. And even though he’s small, the warden is almost as dreadful as the Chain Man. It’s hopeless. There is nowhere to go.”

  Torg sighed. The corpse had told him little, other than to warn him that it was likely the pit would be guarded if he were somehow able to climb out. Torg struggled to his knees and, with great difficulty, stood up. In order to fit within the pit’s cramped confines, he had to lift the dead body up with him. He now stood almost face to face with the corpse, though Torg was more than a span taller. The claustrophobia was intense, but Torg resisted its contagious effects.

  “I ask you again: If you had to try to escape, where would you go?”

  “The only place would be over the cliff,” the corpse said. “There is no wall there. But if you didn’t slip and fall into the abyss, then the birds or the spider would get you. I’d rather fall.”

  “Where is the cliff? Is it near the pit?”

  “Yes . . . too near.”

  Now at least, Torg had something to work with. He released the dead body. As it collapsed to its knees, its head again flopped against its chest.

  “Good luck in your next existence,” Torg whispered. “May you be healthy, happy and peaceful. After what you’ve been through, you’ve earned it.”

  The corpse began to sizzle. The acids and poisons in the walls of the pit had eaten through the uniform and now were working on the flesh. Within a short time, the body dissolved into bloody slush before finally vaporizing and vanishing. The smell was terrible. Torg might have vomited, but he had not eaten or drunk for almost a month. His stomach was as empty as a dragon’s heart.

  Torg’s tissues were far more durable than the corpse’s. Perhaps no living creature could have resisted the pit as long as he. All the same, touching the walls was painful, even to him.

  At least the floor of the pit was ordinary rock. A prisoner could lie at its bottom and not immediately perish. Invictus intended to extend the suffering a bit. In Torg’s case, it had worked even better than planned.

  He ran his hand along his body. His skin, once tanned and flawless, now felt mottled and hairless; and in addition to his teeth, his fingernails and toenails also had fallen out. He could only imagine how hideous he must look. Probably even worse than Mala.

  Torg didn’t believe he could escape the prison. His return from Sammaasamaadhi had recharged his body, but he still was a reduced version of his former self. If Mala were waiting for him on the surface, Torg knew he could not defeat him. If Invictus were there, Torg would be even more helpless. He clung to one slight hope: If he could climb out of the pit and somehow get over the side of the cliff, he might catch them off guard. Torg had visited the snow giants more than once in his long life, and they had taught him how to climb and descend difficult cliffs without ropes or other devices.

  The pit was three cubits in diameter. Torg was four and a half cubits tall. He flattened his bare shoulder blades against the spongy wall. Acids flared. Poisons seeped down his spine and buttocks. The toxins chewed on his skin like a million voracious mouths. He cried out. The pain was abominable, but his flesh did not turn to slush; it was too great, even for the might of this malignancy.

  Torg pressed one bare foot against the side of the pit. The disturbance caused the noxious surface to splutter. He jammed his other foot against the wall. Golden flames flared angrily. The effort paid off—his quivering body was suspended a cubit above the floor. For the first time in weeks he was not at the deepest depth of hell.

  Torg flattened his hands against the sides of the pit. His fingers sank into the wall, which had the same texture as a gooey mass of worms. The large muscles of his back, shoulders, and thighs pulsated, and his biceps and forearms shivered. Where the acids and poisons oozed onto his flesh, golden flames erupted. Torg moaned. He had climbed only one cubit.

  The pit was two hundred cubits deep.

  He slid his shoulders up another cubit, dragged one foot upward, and then the other. Now he was two cubits above the floor, his knees bent, his buttocks facing downward. The last surviving hair on his body, a single black curl on his left big toe, burst into flame and disappeared in a tiny puff of smoke.

  Three cubits. Five. Ten. Frustration caused Torg to shriek. He wriggled like a tortoise flipped onto its back.

  Just one hundred and ninety cubits to go.

  Torg sighed. It was obvious that his physical strength would not suffice. Instead he needed his magic. Though his body was drained, he still was internally aflame. Death Energy roared through his flesh.

  The power inside Torg obeyed his will like a loving servant. His ability to wield it had been refined over many centuries. He could spray it like a rainstorm. Or launch it like a bolt of lightning. He could heal with it. Or kill. He could build with it. Or destroy. And now he would use the power within him to save his own life.

  Torg enveloped his body in death’s broiling might. The golden flames flickered out; the acids and poisons retreated. Blue flames burst from his back, resembling the fiery tail of a comet. He began to rise, slowly at first, but ever quickening.

  Ten more cubits.

  Fifty.

  One hundred.

  Far above, Torg saw a trickle of radiance, and he roared in delight. For a moment it didn’t matter what happened once he reached the surface. Escaping the pit was his only concern.

  Like lava racing upward through a fracture in bedrock, Torg surged toward the surfac
e. When his body catapulted from the hideous hole, all of Asubha seemed to tremble. The pit—as if ashamed of its failure to contain him—exploded.

  Then it collapsed upon itself and was no more.

  Torg soared into the air, somersaulted, and fell a long, long way as if in slow motion.

  He struck hard stone and lay still.

  A short time later, he shook his head and struggled to his knees. A storm raged all about him, a combination of wicked winds and snow-choked air. Through a brief gap in the clouds, he caught a glimpse of the moon, which was waning crescent in the midpoint of the sky. As a desert dweller, Torg was well-acquainted with the phases of the moon. Now he truly comprehended the duration of his confinement. He had been in the pit more than three weeks.

  Torg shook his head and struggled to his knees. Dawn approached, and with it streaks of jagged light. He scanned his surroundings. He felt as if he were witnessing the end of the world.

  Asubha rumbled. Torg’s emergence from the pit had awakened the mountain’s inner violence. The stone split and shattered, as if crunched by the hand of a god. As the ground beneath him buckled, he was thrown against a low stone wall. He grasped it and managed to stand, looking eastward into the first glow of the rising sun.

  Despite the tumult, Torg could make out the silhouettes of several dozen guards teetering at the edge of a cliff. One of them started to fall, but even before he disappeared from Torg’s view, a condor swept out of the sky and seized the guard in midair. Then it soared over his head, with the screaming victim in its huge beak.

  Torg recalled the words of the dead sentry; the only place was over the cliff. There is no wall there. But if you didn’t slip and fall into the abyss, then the birds or the spider would get you.

  Torg had seen one of the birds. Would he also encounter the “spider” before much longer?

  A dreadful voice boomed through the hysteria. Instantly Torg recognized it, for he had spent more than six weeks learning to hate it. Mala stood in the center of the prison, waving his arms and bellowing at anyone within range.

  “Stay away from the cliff, you stupid donkeys. Come to me!”

  Another massive quake shook the prison. Buildings shuddered and began to crumble. Torg was tossed to-and-fro. He had expended almost all his remaining strength during his escape from the pit, but he wasn’t ready to give up. Now, with the mountain threatening to explode around him, he crawled shakily toward the cliff.

  It was his last chance.

  The Chain Man had not yet seen Torg, but a much smaller creature, less than a third Mala’s height, ran toward him, waving its stubby arms.

  “Here! Here!” it said. “Don’t you see him? The wizard is free. HERE!”

  Torg watched the creature approach. He recognized it as an ancient enemy. He had defeated its father’s army in a great war many centuries before.

  “A Stone-Eater.” Torg sighed. “And I am already weary.”

  Peak of Despair

  1

  “Here! Here!” Gulah said. “The wizard is free. HERE!”

  Another immense reverberation jolted Asubha, almost knocking the Stone-Eater off his feet. After regaining his balance, he saw Torg squirming toward the edge of the cliff. Somehow the Death-Knower knew where to find the quickest escape route, which puzzled Gulah but also secretly delighted him. The mountain did not blow itself up every day. This opportunity would never come again. Now he just needed to find a way to keep Torg alive long enough to meet the doom he had devised for his ancient enemy.

  Asubha continued to rock and sway, yet Mala—the wretched bastard!—was lumbering toward Torg with surprising quickness. None of the pathetic sentries could stop the Death-Knower, even in his weakened state. But the Chain Man was more than capable of ruining Gulah’s vengeful plans.

  Gulah had to do something fast, while not looking too suspicious, so he stepped in front of Mala and clumsily fell against his stocky legs. Though he was only a third Mala’s size, he still was able to knock him sideways. The Chain Man slipped and crashed against the stone floor, cursing wildly. When he tried to stand, Gulah tripped him again.

  “You puny fool. You pathetic ass,” Mala said. “If you can’t help, at least get out of my way.”

  From the raging darkness Gulah watched as a wild Sampati swooped down and attempted to grasp the Chain Man in its talons. In an extraordinary feat of strength, Mala grabbed one of its clawed feet and flipped the beast over his back. It struck the stone floor and blew apart. Feathers, scales, flesh and bone splattered in all directions, and a steaming chunk of gore struck Gulah in the face. When he cleared his eyes, his worst fears were realized. The Chain Man was closing in on the wizard, who was just a stride or two from the edge of the cliff. Would Mala catch him at the last moment?

  Perhaps not. A slab of granite tore itself from the mountaintop, rising between Torg and Mala like a tidal wave. The stone screamed, as if in pain. It towered above Mala, teetered momentarily, and then fell. The Chain Man scrambled backward, barely avoiding the shattering collapse. When the debris cleared, Mala remained standing, waving his arms. But Torg was gone.

  The Death-Knower had made it over the cliff.

  Gulah smiled, regained his footing and worked his way through the tempest to a secret exit, leaving Mala and the doomed prison on the peak of Asubha behind forever. Gulah knew the ways better than any other. Even a cave troll could not have kept up with him.

  He beamed.

  So much had gone right. If fate allowed, he would encounter the wizard one final time. And when he did, he would rip Torg’s heart from his chest and devour it raw to avenge the long-ago murder of Slag, his beloved father.

  Whom he missed . . .

  . . . so very desperately.

  The mountain had become a symbol of impermanence, tearing itself apart like a man ripping off his own head.

  Torg crept to the edge and peered over the side. The icy stone was as slippery as a demon’s tongue, and he couldn’t judge the depth of the abyss. The precipice dove downward into a morass of tornadic winds, fist-sized hail, and jagged lightning. In the last breath of darkness before the arrival of dawn, he could see less than a stone’s throw. He believed that if he fell, he would not strike bottom for a long time.

  Torg could sense the Stone-Eater behind him, closing fast. He knew the beast well, but it had been many centuries since their last encounter. Besides, Torg had many enemies, and right now it was Mala who was his main concern. If the Chain Man caught him in his current state, Torg would be doomed.

  Behind him came a whining roar, and the rooftop of the mountain vomited a titanic slab of granite. Torg was cast over the edge of the cliff and would have fallen to his death had he not thrust out his right hand and caught a tiny lip of stone with his fingers. Precariously he hung there by one hand before finally grasping hold with his other.

  The mountain trembled again. Torg searched for footing with his bare toes, but the cliff wall was too smooth and slippery. He had hoped his rock-climbing skills would be sufficient to get him down, but he now feared he could not go much farther without falling, especially in such gusty winds and poor visibility.

  The slab of stone above him collapsed, shattering ferociously. A disgusting barrage of screams and curses from Mala soon followed.

  With his face pressed against the wall, Torg began to move horizontally along the cliff’s edge, hand by hand, hoping to find some sort of foothold. As if his predicament weren’t bad enough, a wild Sampati chose that moment to emerge from the broiling darkness and hover behind him, reaching out with its talons. Forced to call on his draining energy, Torg turned and sent a blue flame from his eyes toward the creature, striking its leg. Squawking in pain, it swerved away from the cliff. Half a dozen wild condors—a third of the Sampati’s size but still very dangerous—sensed the crossbreed’s distress and attacked, tearing at feather and scale.

  Above the confusion rose Mala’s obnoxious voice.

  “Help me find the Death-Knower, you slimy worm
s. Where is Gulah? If the coward has deserted, I’ll squash his little head.”

  Doing his best to ignore Mala’s ranting, Torg continued to creep along the wall. His arms ached, and his bare toes could not find the slightest indentation. If he lost his grip, he would fall a thousand fathoms.

  Dawn continued to push against the darkness in an apparent attempt to overthrow the night. But Torg held little hope that visibility would improve with the arrival of daylight. The storm was too intense.

  Before hope faded entirely, Torg discovered a tiny fissure just large enough to contain the big toe of his left foot. The farther he moved to his left, the wider the crack became. Soon, both his feet were rooted in the rock, and he was able to hold on with only his right hand while he felt along the wall with his left.

  At waist level, he discovered a knob of stone and gripped it with his left hand, which freed his right. Then he thrust out his buttocks and squatted. It was a precarious position, but at least it was a start.

  The fissure descended, and he slid his left foot a few inches along the crack, followed by his right. Then he released the knob with his left hand and grasped it with his right. This enabled him to feel along the wall with his left hand, and he finally was able to grab a protruding flake and use it as leverage to traverse several more inches along the face of the cliff. Now his head was five cubits below the edge. But his progress was agonizingly slow. And he was so weak. If the mountain shook again, he probably would fall.

  “There you are, you ugly rat!” Mala yelled from above. “Where are you going?”

  The Chain Man peered over the edge. His eyes glowed red, and not even the surging winds could disperse the stink of his breath.

  A bolt of lightning crashed nearby, momentarily illuminating the night.

  “Look at you,” said Mala, laughing in the manner Torg had grown to despise. “You’re as ugly as a toothless monkey. How did you get down there without falling? Everyone falls. Unless the spider gets them.”