Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  Bard loosed an arrow that caught the lead wolf between the eyes. It tumbled and lay still.

  The second wolf leaped over its fallen brother. Torg shifted to his left and then whipped the Silver Sword in a high arc over his right shoulder. The blade cut through hide, bone and sinew. Blood as black as tar splashed onto Torg’s face.

  The third went for Ugga, but the crossbreed dealt a death blow with his axe.

  The fourth got past the three men and lunged for Rathburt, who tried to smite it with his staff but slipped instead, falling awkwardly onto his rump. The wolf went for his throat, but Elu pounced onto its back and plunged his dagger between the bones of its spine, killing it with one stab. Then the tiny Svakaran pounded his chest.

  “The little guy is tougher than he looks,” Ugga said.

  “Hurry!” Torg said. “The others will soon be upon us. We must reach the narrow way.”

  They darted upward, dragging Rathburt toward the wall of stone, within which was a crevice just wide enough for the largest of them to enter. It was a perfect place for their defense. Rathburt and Elu squeezed through the opening just as the main strength of the wolves rushed forward, growling and slavering, anxious for the kill. But something held them back. Rather than attack in uncontrolled rage, they approached slowly, side by side, heads down.

  “There are too many,” Rathburt shouted. “Come with us. We can escape on the other side of the path.”

  “It would be useless to run,” Torg said. “Stay where you are. Elu will protect you.”

  Torg was flanked by Bard and Ugga, who appeared alert but unafraid.

  “The wolves are not alone,” Torg said softly. “Something commands them. I can sense its power. Whatever it is, you must leave it to me. It is beyond any of you.”

  Just then the line of wolves parted, and the woods grew eerily silent. A dip at the base of the slope concealed what approached. But its footsteps boomed.

  Suddenly Rathburt screamed, “A Kojin comes!”

  The wolves were intimidated and enraged at the same time, the hair on their napes bristling. They tore at the ground with their claws, but it was clear the ogress was their master.

  “If I fall, you must flee,” Torg said.

  The Kojin crawled up the slope like a sister of Dukkhatu, using her six muscled arms to propel herself. When she reached the wolves, she rose on two legs to her full height, twice as tall as Torg or Ugga and almost three times as heavy.

  The ogresses were massively strong, yet also agile, and they possessed ancient magic that shielded their flesh. Eons before, when Java was five times its current size, hundreds of Kojins were believed to have roamed the forest, terrorizing any who dared enter. But Java succumbed to the onslaught of a thousand wars and was reduced in scope. Now fewer than a dozen ogresses were thought to survive. But that did not make this one any less dangerous. Torg could see a purplish glow emanating from the beast’s scaly hide. An ordinary sword, no matter how skillfully wielded, could not pierce the supernatural buffer.

  Kojins were incapable of speech, but they were not stupid. They communicated telepathically, much like the cave monkeys but with not nearly the delicacy. As the ogress strode to meet him, Torg felt the beast’s will beat upon his brow like the heat from a furnace. In a posture of challenge the Kojin pounded her fists together, causing the wolves to yip and snarl, maddened by her bravado.

  The ogress wielded no weapons other than her club-like arms and the poisoned claws on the tips of her fingers and toes. Torg wielded the Silver Sword. As he confronted the Kojin, the creature seemed to sense his confidence and was puzzled. It was possible that she had never before stood face to face with so bold an opponent.

  The wolves sensed the ogress’ confusion. As the will that drove them wavered, they rushed forward. But the Kojin let out a high-pitched screech, freezing the beasts in their tracks. Then she seemed to regain her composure and return her focus to the being that approached her.

  Wielding the Silver Sword, Torg continued toward the monster, closing within three paces. With long-practiced precision, he grasped the dull portion of the blade near the hilt with his left hand and lowered the sword to his left hip, its point facing behind him, its pommel facing forward. Then he knelt on his left knee.

  The Kojin towered above him, seeming to mistake his movement as an act of submission, and she pounded her hairy chest and screeched again. The wolves could barely tolerate the intensity, shaking their heads wildly. Bard, Ugga, Rathburt and Elu made smacking sounds as they clasped their ears. But Torg was unaffected.

  What happened next took less time than a single long breath.

  Torg grasped the black-leather grip with his right hand, lunged forward on his right foot, and leaped high into the air, whipping the blade left-to-right across the front of his body. The tip gashed the Kojin’s throat, and purple light exploded from the wound.

  Torg landed at the Kojin’s feet and knelt again. From this position, he again swung the blade across the front of his body, this time right-to-left, and cut off the Kojin’s left foot above the ankle.

  The ogress cried out and collapsed to her knees.

  Once Torg had completed the swing, the sword again pointed straight back on his left side. With barely a pause he leapt upward, raised the blade over his head, and drove the edge into the Kojin’s skull. A blinding explosion of purple erupted from the gory wound, scattering the wolves and setting nearby trees aflame.

  Almost nonchalantly, Torg flicked blood off the blade.

  The Kojin collapsed onto its shattered face. It would never again haunt the Dark Forest or any land. It was no longer.

  Torg stared down at her ruin. The Silver Sword remained lifeless and cold, as if totally disinterested in its role in the carnage.

  Though the ogress was dead, her body still writhed, and the ancient magic erupting from her skull, neck and leg scorched whatever it touched. The wolves went wild, attacking anything that moved, including each other. By the time they calmed enough to turn on their intended prey, fully a third of their own were dead or maimed. But that left more than sixty still capable of wreaking havoc, and these fell upon Bard, Ugga and Torg in a frothy rage. Bard dropped the bow and fought bravely with his spear, skewering two before being driven back against the wall. Ugga killed half a dozen with his axe, but he was forced to retreat to help Bard. Without Torg, they would have been lost. He entered into frenzy, butchering two dozen wolves with a variety of cuts, hacks and thrusts refined over a thousand years of practice. The surviving wolves—fewer than thirty in all—finally lost their courage and rushed down the slope with their tails between their legs, yelping as they fled.

  But five alpha males remained, still focused on Ugga and Bard. The crossbreed had a deep gash across his forehead that was dumping blood into his eyes. Bard was cut and bruised, and his spear had been sundered. He held just a pair of daggers. But now Elu had joined the fray, and he stood between the men like a boy come of age, waving his own dagger as if daring the wolves to attack.

  Still in the frenzy, Torg pierced the nearest wolf through its heart. The others turned to face him, but they were no match. A second fell, its legs cut out from under. Ugga swung his axe and beheaded a third. Elu stabbed the largest of the wolves between its ribs before Torg finished it with a thrust to the throat. The final survivor turned and ran, following the others into the forest.

  Bard sagged to his knees. Elu and Ugga knelt near their friend. Torg stood motionless, watching his breath until his rage subsided. Finally he motioned for Rathburt to come out of hiding.

  “The fight is over, for now. The wolves are routed. Once we regain our strength, we can recover the skins and be on our way.”

  “Is anyone badly hurt?” Rathburt managed to say.

  As a group, they turned to Bard, but he was already on his feet. “Nothing that beer won’t cure.”

  The others laughed—except for Rathburt, whose face was red with shame.

  “I’m sorry, Torgon. I’m too weak to
slay a single wolf, much less a Kojin. Once again I’ve failed you.”

  But Torg only smiled. “Sister Tathagata once said something similar to me, and it was foolish coming from her, as well. I inflict death. You do not. Are you inferior? Accept your destiny. And take pride in your accomplishments. They’re not as minor as you believe.”

  Rathburt glared at Torg. “Perhaps there will come a time when I will not fail you.”

  “You’ve never failed me.”

  “Just once . . . hate me. Scream at me. Hit me. I can’t stomach your unconditional love. It makes me feel even more worthless.”

  “I reserve hatred for a select few. And even then, I’m ashamed of it.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of shame,” Rathburt said, before stomping off.

  “You could not be more wrong,” Torg whispered.

  But none heard him say it.

  Slaughter and Solitude

  1

  Before leaving the scene of the battle, Torg tended his companions’ wounds. The gash on Ugga’s forehead was the worst of the injuries. Torg cauterized it with a tendril of blue-green flame from the tip of his right index finger, stopping the bleeding and eliminating the chance of infection. The others stared, wide-eyed and silent.

  “What should we do with the carcasses?” Ugga said to Torg. “It will take too long to bury them, and burning could attract evil eyes.”

  “Let them rot. The forest will consume them at its leisure.”

  “I likes that idea,” Bard said. “We need to go back quick as we can. If the wolves have ruined the skins, I’ll come back here and kill them again.”

  Elu obviously thought that was funny and wrapped his arms around the trapper’s leg.

  “When you’re finished hugging Bard, can we get back to our business?” Rathburt snapped.

  “Rathburt is right, we should delay no longer,” Torg said. “The wolves have been routed, but there are other enemies in the forest more dangerous in the dark than in the light.”

  Elu let go of Bard’s leg and began to inspect the remains of the Kojin. Sparkles of purple light still spun from the creature’s wounds. The beast’s chest was thicker than the Svakaran was tall. Elu poked at it with his dagger.

  “Be careful, little guy,” Ugga said. “It might still be dangerous.”

  Torg approached. “Stand back, all of you.”

  None questioned his order, and they retreated down the slope in a rush.

  “Vanadevataayo! (Gods of the forest!)” Torg said in the ancient tongue. “Paapam imam visodetha. (Purify this evil.)”

  Torg lifted the Silver Sword high into the air and whipped the blade down upon the back of the Kojin’s neck. The bulbous head fell away, and a conflagration of purple light raced along the ground. But the remnants of the ogress’ power proved impotent.

  Torg rejoined the others. “The Kojin is no longer dangerous. Now even the crows can feast on her flesh without fear.”

  “Always the showoff,” Rathburt mumbled, though he said it this time with little conviction.

  After retracing their path, Bard was delighted to find the skins unmolested. Torg had been right. The wolves were interested only in their prey. But after they restarted their trek, the litter regained its status as an enormous nuisance. At this pace they wouldn’t reach the longhouse until deep into the evening. Their only consolation was that the sky remained clear.

  Now Torg was wary of using his powers to clear paths. The litter slid on top of the snow relatively well, but the men’s feet dug deep. The whiny Rathburt wondered aloud if they would arrive at all.

  “At least we won’t freeze,” Ugga said, trying to cheer Rathburt. “We have enough of the skins to keep an army warm.”

  At dusk they stopped briefly near a running stream, drinking their fill of the frigid water and eating what remained of their food. The quarter moon already had reached midpoint in the darkening sky. Stars winked on, one by one. The air became as icy as a demon’s breath. But there was no wind, not even the slightest breeze, and the men—clad in thick cloaks and boots—did not feel the cold.

  “How much farther now?” Torg said to Elu, his patience withering along with the rest of them. “It feels like we’ve been walking for weeks.”

  “If there were no snow and wolves and skins, Elu could make it to the longhouse in a short time,” the Svakaran said. “But as slow as we’re going, it will be a while yet. A third of the night will be gone before we arrive. And that’s if there is no more trouble.”

  “I’m surprised we haven’t seen someone yet,” Rathburt said. “Not that Elu’s people make a habit of running around in the middle of the night in the freezing cold, but there usually are scouts about, and I’d have guessed they’d be especially vigilant after receiving the news that the Great Ogre,” he nodded toward Torg, “is in the vicinity.”

  “We should have met someone by now,” Elu agreed. “There are more than a thousand in the village.”

  “What about the wolves?” Bard said. “Maybe the people are afraid to go outside.”

  “That could be,” Torg said. “Regardless, we have only two choices: to continue on or to stop and make camp. But I’m not certain we dare risk a fire. On a night like this, the smoke will cling to the ground like a fog and attract any number of nuisances.”

  “Nuisances?” Rathburt said. “There are worse than nuisances about. I, for one, vote against a fire. Let’s keep walking. Once we reach the longhouse, we can build a nice fire inside and sleep till noon.”

  For the first time, all agreed with Rathburt. Ugga grabbed the litter while Torg and Bard went ahead and dug a path through the thigh-deep snow. Elu was sent out to look for any signs of a fellow Svakaran, but he reported discovering no other humans out on this night.

  Later on, they heard tormented cries. At first they mistook them for snow owls, which make haunting sounds that carry long distances on still nights. But the men became convinced that animals had not made the noises. There were words among the screams.

  “Are these woods haunted?” Torg said to Rathburt.

  “You believe in ghosts?” the fellow Death-Knower said.

  “Of course. I’ve spoken with them.”

  “I wants to speak to no ghosties,” Ugga said, his small eyes darting about. “Ya talk to them, Master Hah-nah. I will stand behind ya.”

  “Ghosts are nothing to fear. Unlike demons and ghouls, they lack power over the living. But even if they were dangerous, none would dare approach while I am with you.”

  “I’m glad ya are here,” Bard said. “The ghosties, demons and ghoulies give me the shivers.”

  “Do you fear nothing, Master Showoff?” Rathburt said.

  “I fear desire and aversion. Greed and suffering. But I don’t fear ghosts. Does that answer your question, Master Complainer?”

  “Do you fear fear?” Elu said.

  “A wise question,” was Torg’s response. “I wish Sister Tathagata were here. She could answer better than I.”

  “Who is that?” Ugga said. “I heard ya say her name before.”

  “A very wise woman. The wisest of women. Even Jord could learn a thing or two from her.”

  “Could you learn from her?” Rathburt sneered. “Or are you beyond her teaching?”

  Torg did not respond.

  The quarter moon had set by the time they arrived at the longhouse. The men covered the litter with several tarps and then went inside, the ghostly cries following them all the way to the door. The weary travelers lit candles and started a fire. They ate jerky and dried apples and then opened the first barrel of beer. But on this rare occasion, they didn’t drink very much. Exhaustion overcame their desires, and they cast themselves upon furry blankets and slept like dead men.

  In the morning the men woke amid a cacophony of stretches and groans, their legs and backs sore from the previous day’s exertions. All except Torg and Rathburt had cuts and bruises that Torg had not had time to heal.

  Torg discovered that the longho
use was divided into three rooms: a main area for cooking and sleeping; a storage area for food and supplies; and a stable housing three goats and nine chickens, which had produced several dozen eggs while Elu and Rathburt were away.

  The Svakaran built a fire in the hearth, heated slices of salted pork in an iron skillet, and scrambled eggs in the pork fat, tossing in onions and herbs. Then he spread hickory-nut butter onto slices of dark bread. Even Rathburt got into the act, brewing a pot of black tea.

  The men sat on the floor around the fire and spooned the eggs out of wooden bowls. The meal was not large enough to satisfy Ugga, but it worked wonders for the rest of them. Afterward they went outside to relieve themselves, and when they returned they drank more tea.

  “There’s enough food here for two men to survive the winter, but not five, especially the way Ugga eats,” Rathburt said. “We’ll need to go to the village and barter. Either that or Torgon can just scare them into giving us what we need.”

  “Let’s try bartering first,” Torg said.

  Elu, however, was in no mood for jests. “The village is not far, but it will take until early afternoon to reach it and until dark to return. We should leave as soon as possible.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Bard said. “There’s enough food to last awhile. Shouldn’t we rest a few days before we go tromping ’round again?”

  “Elu is worried,” the Svakaran said nervously. “Something is wrong. We should have seen someone. These woods are not usually so empty.”

  “Your people are hiding from the great one,” Rathburt said. “Cowering in their huts, afraid to breathe. Maybe they fear he will stomp into their village and burn it down like an angry dragon.”

  “I feel it too, Elu,” Torg said, ignoring Rathburt’s sarcasm.

  “Did the wolves come this way?” Ugga said.