Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  “His cravings have no merit,” Torg spoke in his own voice. “His lore is great and his experiences many, but his wisdom has failed to flourish. His ego is so strong he fails to comprehend that ego doesn’t truly exist.”

  “I know, my lord,” Sōbhana said silently. “I’m a part of you now, don’t you remember?”

  “And I’m treasuring every moment.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Please don’t go.”

  “I won’t . . . not yet.”

  Still on his stomach and now facing the opening of the tunnel, Torg dropped his legs over the ledge. He was forced to hold the sword in his mouth. The frozen blade burned his toothless gums.

  “I must be quite the sight,” he said, his voice muffled.

  “You look terrible, to be honest,” she said. “You have no hair, your skin is covered with sores, and you sound like an old man who has misplaced his wooden teeth. Compared to you, Mala is handsome. But I love you, nonetheless.”

  Torg laughed so hard the sword fell out of his mouth and clattered on the ledge. The sound was a strange mixture of male and female tones.

  Then Sōbhana said, “A wild Sampati comes. I’ll keep quiet, until we dispose of it.”

  “How do you know? I don’t see it.”

  “I am fading, beloved. I exist in both worlds and can sense things beyond your awareness. This might prove useful to you—until I am no longer.”

  Sure enough, the Sampati appeared a moment later from around a bend in the mountain. When it saw Torg, it dove toward him like a hawk attacking a pigeon.

  Torg, however, was no pigeon. He hauled himself back onto the ledge, picked up the sword and stood to meet the hybrid monster. As the Sampati made its first pass, Torg hid the sword behind his back, not wanting the beast to sense its power.

  The Sampati circled and came for him again, this time intending to strike. Torg waited until the last moment before bounding off the ledge. With the sword again in his mouth, he somersaulted and fell onto the creature. Then he dug his fingers and toes between the feathers and scales, and held tight.

  The Sampati veered away from the mountain, twisting and shaking like an angry stallion—but failing to throw him. When Torg drove the sword into the thick of its back, the Sampati shrieked and tumbled out of control, slamming into the mountainside and bursting asunder.

  Torg struck the stone and was knocked unconsciousness. His limp body slid down the wall and came to rest on a flattened outcrop.

  The sword clattered beside him.

  Both lay still.

  Torg dreamed sweetly of a tender woman. Together they stood holding hands beneath the largest and brightest moon he’d ever seen. Torg assumed he was with Sōbhana, but when he turned to look more closely he saw someone else. The woman’s hair was the first thing to attract his attention. It was blond and hung past her waist—unlike Sōbhana’s, which was black and shoulder-length.

  The pale stranger was taller than Sōbhana, but less muscular and more voluptuous. Her blue-gray eyes contained a sparkling power that Torg found both intimidating and enticing. He had seen her before, but could not remember when or where.

  Was she a Warlish witch? Despite the flawlessness of her beauty, he did not think so.

  Was she a sorceress? That seemed closer to the truth.

  Was she good or evil? To Torg, she felt mysterious but unthreatening.

  The woman smiled at him, causing his heart to thump. An erection surged beneath his trousers, and he backed away. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what I do to women who get too close?

  The sorceress did not seem afraid. On the contrary, his presence seemed to please her. And yet she remained silent.

  Then Torg heard a faraway voice and spun toward it. In the moonlight, he saw the glowing silhouette of a figure on a distant hill. It was waving, slowly.

  “Farewell, my love,” Sōbhana called.

  Her words caused him so much pain. He dropped to his knees.

  “You and I were not meant to be,” she said. “A part of me will always love you, but I am no longer. I am gone.”

  Then she leapt into darkness, but not before shouting an urgent warning: “Wake up now. The spider comes.”

  Torg opened his eyes. At first his vision was hazy. When he finally was able to focus, he saw Dukkhatu standing nimbly on the wall just a short distance above him. He sat up. The monstrous spider reacted to his sudden movement, rearing on her back legs, fangs snapping.

  Torg looked about for the sword and saw it lying two paces to his left, on the flat ledge that had broken his fall. He lunged for it, but in his dazed condition the spider was too fast for him. She swatted the sword off the ledge with the tip of her damaged front leg, and the weapon tumbled off the ledge and spun downward, sparking as it struck the floor of the talus far below.

  Dukkhatu retreated and reared again, her front legs stabbing at the air, hypersensitive to Torg’s slightest movement. He was surprised she didn’t attack right then. Perhaps her predator’s instincts were making her cautious; she hoped to stare down her prey until it panicked and fled, then ambush it from behind. But Dukkhatu had more reason to be afraid than she knew. Exhaustion made Torg vulnerable, but some of Sōbhana’s strength still surged in his body.

  When he stood, the spider retreated a little farther, apparently sensing something in his manner that made her wary. Anger overwhelmed Torg, shoving his spiritual training aside. The High Nun of Dibbu-Loka would have admonished him: Hate never dispels hate. Some part of Torg knew his teacher was correct, but he was beyond caring. He missed Sōbhana too much, despising what had been done to her—and to him. He had grown to hate Invictus and Mala and the wicked creature that now trembled uncertainly above him. Revenge was ugly and ignorant, but it offered sweetness that Torg could not resist, especially on this miserable day.

  Torg’s wrath demanded penance. This time, sword or no sword, he would not fail. He jumped toward the spider.

  Dukkhatu attempted to skitter backward, but Torg grabbed a thick segment of her left front leg and held on tight. Her ancient exoskeleton began to crack. She leaned forward and tried to stab her fangs into his eyes, but he caught one massive tooth in his free hand and snapped it in half. Poison spurted from the break, sizzling on Torg’s bare chest, but he ignored the pain. The frenzy was upon him. He would settle for nothing less than her death.

  Dukkhatu must have sensed the extent of his malice, because she drew back, trying to shake him. He defied her, scrambling up her leg and onto her back, pounding his great fists against her thorax. There were cracks and crunches and more black blood.

  In a final attempt to escape, she curled into a defensive ball and rolled.

  Torg dug his hands into the grotesque hair that sprang from her bloated abdomen.

  The spider and the wizard rumbled toward the ledge, struck it hard, and bounced over the side. They fell in airy silence onto a knot of sharp stones. Torg landed on top of her, his fall cushioned just enough to keep him alive. Then he rolled off her shattered bulk and lost consciousness, again.

  This time there were no dreams. When he opened his eyes the ruins of Dukkhatu were sprawled before him. The spider lay on her back, pierced in many places by prickly black rocks. Her hideous legs quivered, and a wet, whistling sound came from her mouth.

  The same mouth that had tortured Sōbhana’s flesh.

  The frenzy returned. Torg tore a chunk of obsidian from the ground, climbed onto the spider’s exposed belly, and stabbed the stone into her hide, perforating her long, tubular heart. Dukkhatu let out a final, ear-shattering scream—and went still. But Torg didn’t stop. He drove the stone into her again and again, punching huge holes in her carcass.

  Her body shredded and tore apart.

  Her entrails splashed in his face.

  Hate and despair drove his madness. When he no longer had the strength to move, he collapsed face-first in Dukkhatu’s gore.

  He didn’t remember standing. He wandered naked and
shivering through and around the crumbled stone . . . staggering, falling, crawling. Tears rinsed a little of the filth from his face, but his broken body reeked of the spider’s stink.

  Heaps of razor-sharp obsidian were scattered among the jumble of smoother stones, as if planted there with tiny black seeds. It took all of Torg’s remaining will not to grasp another shard and drive it into his own heart, ending his pain.

  His life had become nothing but pain. Why breathe any longer? His endurance was gone, his hopes destroyed. Who could blame him for giving up? Not even Sister Tathagata could ask any more of him.

  What did it matter anyway? All things were impermanent—he, certainly, as much as anything else. The time of his ending had come. A future lifetime beckoned.

  Perhaps he would live it in a better place than this.

  Beneath the Mountain

  1

  The Silver Sword had come to rest amid a tangle of obsidian, the volcanic glass protruding from the ground like black fangs. Yet the great weapon appeared unharmed. Through his tears, Torg saw it glimmering in the bright noon sun.

  He crawled toward the sword. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to retrieve it; he barely had the strength to pick it up. But on this stark and frozen ridge between Asubha and one of its sister mountains, the sword was his last connection to his former self. Though he had held it for just a little while, it felt like his only remaining friend. And it reminded him of Sōbhana, who also had wielded the weapon.

  As he struggled forward, Torg laughed and cried as if deranged. If a young Tugar had seen him—naked, hairless, toothless—the child probably would have fled in terror, mistaking him for a sinister monster that had slithered from a cave.

  But Torg was delirious with grief and had no concern for his appearance. Not even he could endure such prolonged torture. He had been placed in the pit while already weak, and had spent many long days trapped within its black horror. Finally he had escaped, only to discover that the person in the world who loved him most had suffered in ways every bit as terrible as his own—and all because she was trying to rescue him. Torg had once thought of Sōbhana as a young sister, but her true connection to him was revealed in her final moments of life. Flashes of her memory and personality still clung to his psyche. Torg mourned her loss as if she were his longtime lover.

  Hill-sized heaps of stone, torn from Asubha’s crown, stood in Torg’s way, but he clambered over them like a drunken chameleon. He approached the obsidian and climbed onto the razor-sharp rocks. He reached for the sword and closed his hand on the hilt.

  Suddenly a heavy foot stomped on his fingers.

  Torg cried out and looked up. The sun blinded him.

  Something kicked him in the face and sent him tumbling into the teeth of the obsidian. When his sight cleared a few moments later, he saw a stout figure looming over him. Flames flared from its flat nostrils, smoke seeped from its pointed ears, and its hide had the texture of an elephant halfway turned to stone. The creature had grabbed the sword from Torg and now held it in one hand while waving a spear of obsidian in the other. The beast brought the black volcanic glass to its mouth and began to chomp on it, as if snacking on an ear of corn.

  “You killed my father,” it said. “For that, I will enjoy a long-awaited revenge. But first, I have promises to keep.”

  Several other Stone-Eaters stood nearby.

  “Give him a sip of Asava,” Gulah said. “We need him alive, but barely. He could still be dangerous. Do not underestimate him, despite his pathetic appearance.”

  One of the Stone-Eaters lifted Torg’s head and poured scorching liquid down his throat. He felt like he was swallowing lava. Though his stomach burned, strength surged through the rest of his body, along with a drugged weariness. Soon afterward, sleep strode forward and claimed him. He could not resist it.

  Torg did not know how long or deeply he slept, but he regained partial consciousness several times and was able to look about. Gulah and his fellow Stone-Eaters had strapped him to a crude litter and were dragging him across the rocks. It was a bumpy ride.

  More of the Asava was splashed into his mouth. He gagged, but Gulah slapped his hand against Torg’s lips and forced him to swallow. Once again, Torg felt the odd combination of strength and weariness. It was the first nourishment of any kind he’d received in almost a month. But more than anything, he craved cold water. If he could take a long drink and pour the rest over his head, he might be able to shake this drowsiness.

  Again he slept, but his dreams raged out of control. A particularly wicked thud shook him awake, and he looked up and saw they were approaching the mouth of a large cave in Asubha’s sheer side. Several Stone-Eaters stood guard at the maw of the cavity, as well as an enormous troll who shied from the bright sunlight. There also were three women, two extremely beautiful and one extremely ugly. Warlish witches . . . just what he needed.

  But the Asava—whatever it contained—had re-energized Torg’s spirit. Though he was drugged and barely able to move, he felt his body responding internally to the sizzling sustenance, increasing his desire to resist.

  When the Stone-Eaters dragged him into the cave, the ground became smooth and the ride less chaotic. Torg was able to sleep in relative comfort.

  He dreamed again.

  This time he wandered in absolute darkness, but his hearing was acute, and he could sense objects before bumping into them, which enabled him to move boldly forward, unperturbed by his lack of vision. Torg heard a small figure rise up beside him. It grasped his hand. He could not see it, but he knew who it was.

  “Peta, I have missed you so much, my dear little friend. But how came you here?”

  The little girl giggled. Torg remembered the sound of her laughter with fondness.

  “You rescued me from the tower. For that, I am grateful. When you saved me, I foresaw your future and knew that you would need my help. So I chose to stay and look out for you.”

  “I don’t understand. When you died—when I released you—your karma should have moved on. Only demons are immune to the natural cycle of life and death. You aren’t a demon. This should not be.”

  “I cannot defy my future forever, but a few hundred years is no great matter. In my reckoning, you ended my suffering just a moment ago.”

  Peta squeezed his massive hand. “But we have already spent far too much time in greeting. I must tell you some important things before she returns.”

  “She?”

  “The demon . . . Vedana.”

  “Was it the demon who imprisoned you in the tower?”

  “Vedana recognized my abilities.”

  “Your father told me you were blind. But he also said you had powers that the demons found valuable. What did he mean?”

  “They—she—found my powers valuable enough to imprison me for ten millennia. The amulet you discovered on my chest kept my physical body intact while Vedana’s magic controlled my spirit. She used me . . . for terrible things. And eventually, for the most terrible thing of all. You see, without my clairvoyance, she could not have created Invictus.”

  “You foresaw his birth?”

  “I cannot deny it. Vedana had spent almost her entire existence breeding with mortals. Her offspring were magical and powerful, but none attained the might she desired. When she discovered me, her hopes were renewed. She knew I could guide her, in all the ways that mattered. And—against my will—I did guide her.” Peta paused for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then she said, “But you came along and disrupted her plans, removing me from her sway before she was ready. In most ways I had already shown her enough. Due to my guidance, she was able to mate with a man whose bloodlines were interwoven in just the right order, and from his seed she bore Invictus’ father, who in turn bore the greatest bane in all of history.

  “However, when Vedana lost my guidance she also lost the knowledge that would have enabled her to control Invictus. And now no one is his master. The Sun God is like wildfire in a forest long plagued by drought. He threat
ens more than just our land. If he continues to grow unimpeded, he will endanger all things.”

  “I know not how to impede him,” Torg said.

  Peta nodded, as if in agreement. “Invictus’ rise has not gone unnoticed. There are beings beyond all known laws, natural or otherwise, and they are watching the sorcerer with growing interest—and making plans for his demise.”

  “How do you know this? Who are you, really?”

  Peta giggled again. “I am just a little blind girl who can see too well for her own good. But allow me to finish, before the demon comes to stop me. There is more you must know. Vedana still desires control, but her grandson has become her most lethal enemy. Invictus wields enough power to eliminate the demon and her kind. She and her minions fear that more than all else. For this reason—and others—Vedana schemes to dethrone him. The first step in a long process is for her to become impregnated . . . by you.”

  “Then her plan will fail. I cannot impregnate anyone. I can only burn and destroy.”

  “You are wrong. There are three females on Triken who can abide you. Vedana is one. She is great enough to withstand the fury of your orgasm and retain the wonder of your seed.”

  Such words, coming from a child, made Torg uncomfortable. But then again, was Peta really a child? “If that is so, then how do I thwart her? I am a prisoner and lack the strength to resist.”

  “I beg you . . . do not thwart her. Do not! She must bear your child.”

  Torg felt pressure on his arms. The skin on his face began to sting.

  “She comes. Farewell!” Peta said.

  Thick hands shook him, and Torg was torn from sleep. Someone slapped his face, hard and often. When he finally opened his eyes, it took several moments for his vision to clear.

  There stood Vedana, the mother of all demons. And she was not alone.

  “Bastards! Asses! Fools!” Vedana shouted. “I told you, ‘Do not let him sleep.’ She has spoken to him.”