Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  Torg shrieked in childish terror. It echoed along the never-ending length of his cramped prison, alerting all who might listen to his despair. He scrambled downward in a mad rush, scraping his elbows and knees on the smooth stone, dragging the clattering sword alongside. His panicked shouts outraced him, piercing the darkness. He went on this way for a long time.

  Finally, he fell on his face.

  Shivering. Moaning. Whimpering.

  The passageway echoed his suffering.

  All that he had been taught was a lie.

  There was no beginning.

  No middle.

  No end.

  There was only fear. Now and forever.

  But this time, exhaustion—long his enemy—came to his rescue, and he succumbed to sleep.

  Peta remained noticeably absent in his dreams, as if Torg had delved too deeply even for her to follow. Instead nightmares made an unpleasant visit. The tunnel closed around him, attempting to digest him. Worms chewed on his immobile flesh, and he could not escape their hunger. They devoured his nose, ears and tongue. They ate his fingers and toes. His screams sounded like Sōbhana’s.

  Torg sprang awake, banging his head against the low stone roof. When his brain cleared he found that—for whatever reason—his madness had receded. He had never been particularly claustrophobic before, but his confinement in the pit had given birth to that fear. Now he shut that door with a bang. He probably would die here, but it would not be of fright.

  He was The Torgon. Or at least, what remained of him.

  “Natthi me maranabhayam (For me there is no fear of death),” he shouted with as much conviction as he could muster.

  Natthi me maranabhayam . . . Natthi me maranabhayam . . . Natthi me maranabhayam . . .

  “But I don’t want to die,” he whispered.

  That echoed, too.

  Again he crawled forward, bringing the sword along with him, though it made it more difficult. He was able to loop his right pinky finger around the crossguard and drag it along without losing too much dexterity. He was amazed to feel that even the leather grip had survived the heat of the lava. Was it warded by ancient magic? He wasn’t sure why he continued to carry the weapon, anyway. It wouldn’t do him much good down here in this enclosed space. But out of respect for Sōbhana, he kept it with him.

  After blindly feeling his way in the darkness for a long time, Torg came upon a fork where the tunnel split in two directions. He had no idea which opening to choose. Both appeared to continue downward, but the one on the right felt larger and cooler. Torg had no desire to encounter any more magma, so he went that way.

  As he descended along the new tunnel, it quickly became very cold, and Torg began to shiver. He hadn’t felt this cold since Gulah had captured him, but he soon became re-accustomed to the discomfort. He certainly had experienced enough of it in the pit.

  After a while the tunnel split again. Torg felt around with his hands and discovered at least three different openings. This time, the left tunnel was the largest and coolest, so he went that way.

  However, this passageway soon tightened, and he was forced to press his shoulders together just to squeeze through. He put the sword in front of him, sliding it forward, afraid that if he continued to drag it and then lost his grip he wouldn’t have the will to back up and retrieve it.

  Eventually the tunnel split in several more directions. Torg realized he was hopelessly lost, then laughed aloud. Since this journey had begun, when had he not been lost? His laughter bounced off countless walls. He was trapped in a maze of passageways that wove in a thousand directions. Even if the tunnels were lighted, he could not hope to escape a labyrinth of such scope.

  From then on, whenever there was an option he chose the middle path. As Sister Tathagata always said, “The middle path leads to enlightenment.” Luckily, he found more trickling water—cooler and clearer than before. He drank his fill and slept again. What other pleasures were left to him? Quenching his thirst and sleeping had become the extent of his entertainment. And, of course, the nightmares. In one, Vedana came toward him holding a squalling baby. When she held it up, Torg saw that it had a human head and torso but legs like black worms. Torg recoiled, then reached out with his right hand and broke its neck. The thing turned to dust.

  Torg shrieked and bumped his sore head on the ceiling of the passageway yet again. A cacophony of his own echoing screams taunted his awakening.

  When silence returned, he lay still and began to watch his breath. It was his first attempt at meditation since his escape from the pit. He had no intention of achieving Sammaasamaadhi; his broken body was incapable of surviving another Death Visit. But the benefits of meditation were many and varied. At the very least it would calm him. He doubted there was any way he could escape this predicament, but a clear mind was always superior to a clouded one, no matter the precariousness of the situation.

  The darkness and quiet aided his concentration. He felt his breath whistling in and out of his nostrils. The skin on the tip of his nose tingled ever so slightly. After several inhalations and exhalations, a thought entered his mind: Where was Vedana now? Was she pregnant with his child? He acknowledged the thought and gently pushed it aside, returning his focus to the skin surrounding his nostrils. Inhale. Exhale. Peaceful mind.

  Why had Peta believed it was so important not to resist the demon? Why would a child with Vedana be able to provide him with the weapon to destroy Invictus?

  Return to focus. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Peaceful mind. Quiet mind. Clear mind.

  Abruptly, his concentration was interrupted.

  He heard something.

  Scraping and slurping on the stone.

  And it appeared to be headed his way. Fast.

  3

  Whatever was approaching Torg came at a speed that was impossible to evade. To make matters worse, the darkness was disorienting. Torg couldn’t tell from which direction he would be attacked. All he could do was grasp the sword, brace his body and prepare for the inevitable.

  Suddenly something bit down on his left foot and swallowed his leg up to the knee. It chomped with terrific force, attempting to devour him, but it could not bite through his flesh. Torg spun the sword around and drove it into the monster, piercing something thick and cartilaginous. With a hiss the tentacle withdrew.

  Although Torg’s leg burned, he touched the wound and felt no blood. Then he attempted to illuminate the tunnel with his magic, but he was too weak. He would have to wage this fight in total darkness. And the creature he faced must have been born in darkness.

  It attacked once more, driving between his legs and snapping at his groin. To protect his genitals, Torg slipped his free hand between his legs. He felt the thing gnaw on his inner thighs, then it reared back momentarily and rushed forward.

  This time, the creature shoved him more than twenty body lengths. The passageway narrowed too much to accommodate his girth, and Torg was wedged wickedly into the hole. He managed to retain his grip on the sword, but his arms were locked against his sides.

  He couldn’t move.

  The creature sensed his helplessness and renewed its attack. First it bit his right foot. Any normal being would have been dismembered, but Torg’s dense flesh was too great for the toothy mouth to penetrate. Then the creature pulled away and drove forward again, swallowing most of Torg’s right leg and crunching on his thigh. Again, it did little damage and was forced to withdraw.

  Torg twisted and squirmed, but could not free himself. He could barely wiggle his fingers. With terrific power the tentacle struck again, pounding against his feet, ankles and calves. It bit, hissed and spat.

  Over and over it smashed against him. The more it failed, the angrier it seemed to become. Had it ever encountered a prey so defenseless and yet so invulnerable?

  One final time, it crushed its colossal strength against Torg’s underside. He felt excruciating pressure build along his torso, and his shoulders were pressed forward until they touched. Suddenly,
impossibly, his body squirted through the tiny hole into a wider portion of the tunnel.

  The tentacle continued to propel him forward at fantastic speed.

  Finally Torg exploded from the tunnel into an open expanse—and fell a long way, thudding against the hard floor of a magnificent cavern. The sword clattered beside him.

  Torg was dazed.

  But there was light.

  Splendid and dappled.

  He gazed upward. What he saw amazed even him.

  Flaming torches were jammed into clefts in the cavern’s sheer walls. A treasure trove of multicolored gems protruded from the stone, reflecting the flickering light. The wall from which Torg had emerged was pockmarked with hundreds of round holes, each less than two cubits in diameter. From each hole a black tentacle extended, flipping and flopping.

  At least twenty furry creatures were leaping athletically from tentacle to tentacle. They used sharp stone daggers to hack at a limb before pouncing to another—just quick enough to avoid being snapped up by a snarling set of teeth. The daggers could not fully sever the writhing tentacles, but they sliced off small chunks of steaming flesh. The cave monkeys—Torg could think of no other words to describe them—scooped up the raw meat that had fallen to the floor and then moved to a safe place away from the wall.

  One of the monkeys paused from its frenetic activity and crept within a few paces of Torg, staring at him with obvious curiosity. Instantly Torg was charmed by the creature’s expressive face, which appeared capable of humanlike expressions. Was it smiling at him?

  The cave monkey had a pointy nose and a mouth full of flat teeth. A pair of bioluminescent eyes three times larger than a Tugar’s dominated its small head. Its face and long bushy tail were black, but the top of its head was white and the rest of its body reddish brown. Torg guessed it weighed less than two stones.

  As the creature’s eyes glowed, Torg felt a tingling sensation inside his skull. The monkey was using telepathy to probe his mind. Was this how they communicated with each other in the darkness?

  The tingling increased slightly, but Torg felt no discomfort. The monkey lacked either the power or desire to force itself into his thoughts. Instead it investigated gently, searching for clues to his intentions. Was he, the large intruder, a friend or foe? Torg sent out a wave of loving kindness, hoping the monkey would recognize his amiability.

  It seemed to work. This time, there was no doubt. The creature smiled.

  Without warning, a squeal interrupted their pleasant encounter. A tentacle had seized one of the monkeys and yanked it into a hole. A second monkey chased after it, diving into the darkness. Several moments later, the rescuer emerged with the bloodied victim, who was mangled but still alive.

  The monkey that stood near Torg scampered off to help, as did the rest. They carried the injured one away from the groping tentacles, which seemed to extend only a short distance from the wall. The monstrous limbs had either come to the end of their reach or were wary of entering too far into the torchlight.

  All at once the tentacles withdrew completely, and there was sudden silence in the cavern. The worm monster—again, Torg could think of no better name—had failed to devour even a single one of its prey. Perhaps its frustrating confrontation with Torg had demoralized it.

  At least thirty monkeys surrounded him. Each was small but appeared strong, with long flexible fingers and toes. Though Torg was ten times their size, the monkeys were able to work together and lift him off the floor. Slowly they carried him into a dark tunnel.

  Torg was too weak to remain conscious. The last thing he remembered was watching one of the monkeys leap along the wall from torch to torch, dousing the flames with quick slaps of its little hands.

  Then all went black, as if the lights had been turned off inside his head.

  Time passed, but Torg could not gauge it. Eventually he awoke to the most wonderful aroma he’d ever smelled. He took several long whiffs before opening his eyes and looking around. Off to one side, an ancient woman stood over a stone pot heated by a blazing fire. The woman stirred the pot’s bubbling contents with a wooden spoon.

  Cave monkeys were everywhere. One was perched on each of her shoulders and another on her head. Dozens more scampered about her feet, staring up at her with adoring eyes. She appeared to be their master.

  Torg lay on a soft bed of sand in a spacious cave. The Silver Sword leaned against the wall nearby, amazingly undamaged by all that had occurred. He sat up slowly and studied the gray-haired woman. He had no idea whom she was or how she’d gotten here, but he did not sense anything evil about her.

  “Where am I, dear lady?” he asked. He was pleased to find that his lisp was almost gone.

  She turned to him and smiled. Then she answered—in the ancient tongue: “Tvam saddhim amhaakam bhavasi. (You are with us.) Mayam kataññuu homa. (We are grateful.) Dharaama bhojanam tam. (We bear food for thee).”

  One of the monkeys grabbed a clay bowl and held it next to the pot. The old woman filled it with fragrant soup. The monkey carried the bowl over to Torg. Several others followed along excitedly. In the dim firelight Torg noticed the creatures were similar in size and shape, but with wide coloration. Some were reddish-brown, like the monkey who had probed Torg’s mind, but with different-shaded faces or tails. Some had gray bodies with black-and-white striped tails. Others were snow-white with black-rimmed eyes and ears.

  “We will feed thee,” the old lady said, still in the ancient tongue. “We will feed the lovely one.”

  She waddled over, knelt beside him and took the bowl from the monkey. Using the wooden spoon, she fed him. The soup tasted better than it smelled, containing a rich red broth with delicious chunks of tender meat—sliced from the worm monster, Torg guessed.

  Without his teeth Torg could not chew very well, but the meat was cut into small enough bites to swallow whole. Other than the Stone-Eaters’ scorching brew, the soup was the first nutritious thing he had eaten in more than a month. When the bowl was empty he begged for another—and another.

  “Thou art insatiable. Food will make thee strong. When your strength returns, will thou helpest us?”

  After the meal Torg was given several cups of fresh water. He drank deeply and then lay back on the sand bed and took a long nap. But he awoke many times to a strange sensation: The monkeys were cleansing every inch of his skin with their coarse tongues. Then they dressed him in gray robes and a pair of straw sandals.

  Upon coming fully awake, he was relieved to discover that some of his former strength had returned. His body was responding to the nourishment, rest and kind treatment. However, his skin itched. He scratched himself all over, finding nubs of hair already starting to grow back. His gums were sore. He skimmed along them with his tongue and discovered the rough edges of teeth, also starting to re-grow. This was not unusual for Tugars. When the desert warriors lost adult teeth—which happened occasionally during battles—they routinely grew back, though it usually took several weeks.

  The old woman was by his side, shimmering in the gloom. She stroked his head with her tiny hand. Then she leaned over and licked his nose. Her tongue was coarse. When she smiled, her facial expression was familiar.

  Torg knew her. He said, in the ancient tongue: “There is no purpose for this disguise. Discard it. I do not threaten you or your friends.”

  The old woman sighed. Then she seemed to fold, fade and shrink. In her place sat the little monkey who had first approached him in the torch-lit cavern.

  “Eso tvam avoca yam me upakaaram appekhasi (You said before that you need my help),” Torg said, sitting upright in the powdery sand. “You have already done so much for me. It would please me—very much—to return the favor.”

  The monkey wriggled her finger, motioning for Torg to follow. He stood, surprised to find that his legs weren’t wobbly. The soup had worked wonders on his battered body.

  I must look terrible, he thought, but I feel better than I have in a long time. He knew it would take weeks
of food, water and rest to return to his former self, if he ever did, but this was an excellent beginning.

  Leaving the sword by his bedside, he followed the monkey past the still-bubbling pot of soup into a smaller chamber. There, at least twenty of the creatures huddled in a circle. As Torg came forward they parted, revealing a troublesome sight. The monkey who had been injured by the tentacle lay on the floor. How long had it been since she was bitten? Torg had no idea.

  The combined force of their telepathic energy pressed into Torg’s mind. A myriad of words swirled within his head. It was confusing, but he understood the general concept.

  “Can thou healest her?”

  Torg kneeled and placed his ear on her small chest. Her breath arose in staccato bursts. When he touched her, she grunted. Her external wounds had been tended, but Torg could sense there was life-threatening internal damage. He rued the short time he had spent in his own recovery, but he recognized the necessity of it. Had he been any weaker, he would not have been able to aid her.

  At least now, he had the strength to try.

  Torg yearned for Obhasa. With the aid of his ivory staff, he could have blasted his blue fire in thin beams, making his magic more effective. He had no doubt he could summon enough power to heal the injured monkey, but he didn’t know how much control he could muster. It wasn’t as simple as bathing the small creature in flame. Torg had to be able to cauterize individual regions of her tiny body, one by one.

  Without Obhasa, Torg’s fingers would have to serve as the conduit. He placed his right hand on the monkey’s chest and focused his concentration on the pads of his fingertips, searching beneath her soft fur for hot spots that would guide him to the wounds. There was a bewildering array of damage beneath the creature’s small ribs. Torg struggled to pinpoint a specific injury.