Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

“Adult Harry Potter and Eragon fans can get their next fix with Jim Melvin’s six-book epic
The Death Wizard Chronicles
 . . .
Melvin›s imagination and writing equal that of J.K. Rowling, author of the fantastically popular
Harry Potter
series, and Christopher Paolini, author of
Eragon
and
Eldest
. Some of his descriptions—and creatures—even surpass theirs.”

—The Tampa Tribune

“Jim Melvin’s
Death Wizard Chronicles
crackle with non-stop action and serious literary ambition. He has succeeded in creating an entire universe of interlocking characters—and creatures—that will undoubtedly captivate fans of the fantasy genre. It’s a hell of a story
 . . .
a hell of a series
 . . .
”

—Bob Andelman, author of
Will Eisner: A Spirited Life

“Jim Melvin is a fresh voice in fantasy writing with a bold, inventive vision and seasoned literary style that vaults him immediately into the top tier of his genre.
The Death Wizard Chronicles
 . . .
is scary, action-packed and imaginative—a mythic world vividly entwining heroes, villains and sex that leaves the reader with the impression that this breakthrough author has truly arrived.”

—Dave Scheiber, co-author of
Covert: My Years Infiltrating the Mob
and
Surviving the Shadows: A Journey of Hope into Post-Traumatic Stress

“Action-packed and yet profound,
The DW Chronicles
will take your breath away. This is epic fantasy at its best.”

—Chris Stevenson, author of
Planet Janitor: Custodian of the Stars
and
The Wolfen Strain

“Triken truly comes alive for the reader and is filled with mysteries and places that even the most powerful characters in the book are unaware of. That gives the reader the opportunity to discover and learn with the characters
 . . .
Melvin has added to the texture of the world by integrating Eastern philosophies, giving the magic not only consistency but depth. He has worked out the details of his magical system so readers can understand where it comes from and how it works.”

—Jaime McDougall, the bookstacks.com

The Death Wizard Chronicles

Book One

by

Jim Melvin

Bell Bridge Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-186-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-168-5

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 by Jim Melvin
Chained by Fear
(excerpt) © 2012 by Jim Melvin

This book was originally published as
The Pit
by Rain Publishing in 2007

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Figure (manipulated) © Andrei Vishnyakov | Dreamstime.com
Background (manipulated) © Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com

:Mifd:01:

Any and all descriptions of meditation in this volume were based on the Buddha’s teachings in the
Mahasatipatthana Sutta
.

Dennis Chastain enriched the beauty of the land, by answering endless questions.

Jackson Parris put weapons in my hands.

Stefan Locklair and Rick Loveday lent credence to the fights.

And Margo McLoughlin was the true master of the ancient tongue. Any inconsistencies in the translations are my fault, not hers.

—The Lord Bhayatupa,
most ancient and powerful of dragons

Such darkness he had never known. In all the centuries of his long life, the wizard had never felt anything as loathsome. Torturous days and weeks lay behind, endless horror ahead. He was helpless in the grip of an eternal doom.

For a millennium he had freely roamed the planet Triken, using his prodigious powers to unite the forces of good. But now a sorcerer held him captive in a pit bored into the solid rock of a frozen mountain. Beyond the walls of his prison, a war would soon take place that would dwarf all others. An evil had arisen that threatened not just Triken but the fabric that held together the universe. Only the wizard could stop it. But first he had to survive.

The pit was two hundred cubits deep but only three cubits in diameter. The prisoner lay curled at its bottom like a snake in a well. Fetid dankness swirled about him, creeping in and out of his nostrils as he breathed. A chill like no other clung to his body, freezing his heart.

All he had left were his memories, which provided his only relief from the relentless blackness. He immersed himself in them, focusing on the past rather than the present. Doing this went against all that he held true. But now it kept him sane.

For a fraction of a moment. And another. And another
. . .

In his mind the Death-Knower wizard replayed what had led to this hideous imprisonment. He fled to a land of fresh air and sunlight where courage and hope still existed. In this place he was known as Torg—king of the Tugars—and he led his desert warriors against Invictus, a sorcerer who threatened to ensnare the world in a prison as terrible as the pit.

Seventy-two days ago, Torg and twenty Asēkhas—the Tugars of highest rank—had set out from their encampment on the western edge of the Great Desert. As dawn approached, the desert warriors had walked across a dry ravine strewn with crumbled rock, their long strides barely disturbing the loose ground. Few living things noticed their presence. Even a tiny elf owl, hopping from stone to stone in search of beetles, never saw them pass, though its yellow eyes were clever and keen.

Many believed that Tugars were magicians capable of invisibility. Others considered them gods who were immortal in battle. Tugars knew invisibility was a state of mind: silence the mind, and the body became difficult to see. As for their perceived invincibility, Tugars trained under the guidance of Vasi masters for fifty years before attaining the rank of warrior. No greater fighters had ever existed. But they were not immortal.

In the fiery heat of late summer, the small band had traveled westward for three days, marching twenty-five leagues across the rocky wasteland of Barranca, which partially encircled the Tējo desert. At dusk of the third day, Torg and the Asēkhas finally passed through the wastes and into lowland choked with scrub. They scrambled over creosote bushes that stank like skunks and strode past giant sagebrush that stood thirty spans tall. If the task before them had not been so crucial, Torg would have had them stop and collect parts of both plants, which the Tugars used for medicines and dyes, and to weave hats and bags.

They camped that night in a remote hollow that was a three-day march from their destination: the city called Dibbu-Loka, the realm of the noble ones. All was quiet, and the Asēkhas slept, except for Torg and one other. The pair stood together on a nearby hillock—two imposing figures dressed in black. Curved swords hung at their hips.

“Lord, is your mind set?’’ Chieftain Asēkha-Kusala asked. He was the most powerful Tugar in the world besides Torg. “Must you remain with us on this mission? Your people need you more than does our small company.”

Torg stood with his back to Kusala, staring at the golden orb in the night sky. For the past several months the full moon had called to his heart in a confounding manner. He ached when he looked at it, a sensation that was sweet and sour. He didn’t understand why he’d begun to feel this way. It was unlike him. But he recognized this puzzling development as far too powerful and persistent to dismiss as mere imagination.

“My mind
is
set,” he said. “I am a Death-Knower. I have lived for a millennium, yet I have died a thousand times. The paradox makes me wise. Do you doubt it?” He turned to glare at Kusala, who was a shorter but slightly thicker man. “You have been at my side for centuries, chieftain. Do you doubt me?”

“Forgive me, lord,” Kusala said, his expression momentarily downcast and obedient. Even he, revered among the Tugars and throughout Triken, knew better than to oppose his king. “I meant no disrespect.” But then his countenance quickly changed, as was his custom. He lifted his gaze and his eyes glowed, bathed in the moon’s reflected light. “My love for you inspires my speech, and I fear for you.”

Torg smiled. He knew Kusala too well. The chieftain was preparing to give his king a spirited lecture.

“The rise of Invictus threatens Triken and its free people, but we have been slow to respond,” Kusala said, his voice rising. “Even the Tugars have stood like statues in this storm. If not for you, we already would have closed the doors of Tējo and vanished from the world, away from the young sorcerer’s grasp. But you have taught us that sloth would merely postpone our demise. Invictus grows strong beyond his merit, and those who would see goodness prevail depend on you more than ever. Who else but a Death-Knower can stand against a Sun God? Who else but you? And yet his soldiers prepare a trap. An
obvious
one. And you enter it
 . . .
willingly.”

Torg allowed him to finish. Then he calmly said, “There has never been such a dangerous threat in our lifetime. And it comes from someone who—compared to you and me—is relatively young. But this has not stopped Invictus from surpassing us.”

Torg closed his eyes and breathed in the hot night air. He leaned against his walking staff, which was carved from the ivory of an immense desert elephant found dead of old age at the base of a dry lakebed. He had named the staff Obhasa, which in the ancient tongue meant
container of light
. An impressive weapon, Obhasa crackled with Torg’s own magic.

“Invictus’ armies, though powerful, are not yet invincible,” Torg continued. “But what of the sorcerer himself? Against him, I have not been tested. Still, as his might spreads throughout the land, my confidence diminishes.”

“All the more reason for you
not
to go to Dibbu-Loka,” Kusala said. “Let the Asēkhas rescue the noble ones. Return to the desert and await us there.”

“You are a brilliant chieftain,” Torg said. “But your vision can be short-sighted. You are underestimating the scope of Invictus’ malevolence. The noble ones of Dibbu-Loka believe there is only one way to defeat such malice. They say, ‘Hatred is never appeased by hatred. Hatred is appeased by love.’”

“They are a gentle and beautiful people,” Kusala said. “But they are helpless against such evil.”

“Helpless? Is a tree helpless against the wind? The wind blows and fades. The tree bends and remains. Kusala, there are those among the keepers of Dibbu-Loka who are far older than you or me. And they do not waste their long lives on meanderings. Instead they wisely use their time to learn the true nature of love and hate, good and evil, pleasure and suffering. What you mistake for helplessness is actually a deep understanding of what is and isn’t real.”

“You are right, lord. My vision
is
short-sighted. Their ‘deep understanding’ is beyond my comprehension.”

Torg chuckled. “Ah, Kusala, now it is my turn to say that I meant no disrespect. I do not intend to demean your courage or loyalty. It’s just that I have spent much time among the noble ones and have grown to cherish them. I could not bear to see such an intense and sincere people perish from the world. I would rather fail in an attempt to save them than not make the attempt at all. A trap? Of course. Do I enter it willingly? Yes. But you must trust that I am not without a plan.”

Again Torg looked at the moon. When he sighed, a bluish vapor flowed from his mouth, floating seductively in the thick air. Kusala flared his nostrils and inhaled, then visibly relaxed. Torg’s essence imbued a calming strength not unlike drunkenness, yet it wrought clarity instead of intoxication.

“You are my king,” Kusala said. “I would cast myself off Mount Asubha, if you but said the word.”

“Do not speak of Asubha,” Torg said. “The prison on the mountaintop is Invictus’ most terrible creation. I will beg the snow giants to cast it down, if we are able to defeat the sorcerer.”

Without further speech, Torg and Kusala strode back to the hollow where the others slept. This close to the Great Desert, they had little to fear.

Nevertheless, Torg knew that danger lay ahead, and it was greater than anyone else had yet begun to realize.

Three days later,
Torg stood again with Kusala, this time on the precipice of an escarpment overlooking the temples of Dibbu-Loka. Although it was midday and the air was clear, they were far enough away to be undetectable to anyone within the holy city, enabling them to remain in the open and take their time studying the surroundings. Thousands of golden flashes burst from the three-cornered conurbation, resembling a wind-ruffled lake sparkling beneath a setting sun.

Two scouts made their way up the side of the cliff. Kusala was so eager to hear their report, he could hardly stand still. But Torg already knew much of what they would say. The flashes were reflections coming off the armor of the golden soldiers of Invictus. Invaders occupied the holy city.

Asēkhas Rati and Sōbhana, wearing black silk jackets tucked into their breeches, reached the roof of the escarpment and strode forward. Both were excellent scouts. Sōbhana, especially, was held in high regard. She stood a finger-length shy of four cubits, which was considered small for a Tugarian woman, but she was strong, limber, and could run almost as fast as a wolf.

Despite her well-documented prowess, Sōbhana, like many Tugars, was visibly intimidated by Torg’s presence. The Tugarian nation considered him to be not just a king, but a king of kings. Sōbhana had once told him she’d take out her dagger and slit her wrists, if he but commanded.

Torg, of course, would never demand such a heinous act. He loved Sōbhana like a little sister. Her nervousness amused him, and in less troubling times he would have teased her until she grew comfortable. But there was no time for that now.

Sōbhana looked at Torg, and her face began to flush. She lowered her gaze.

“Speak,” Kusala demanded, with his typical impatience.

Rati stepped forward instead. “Dibbu-Loka is overrun. At least two thousand golden soldiers control the temples and surrounding walls. The monks and nuns offer no resistance. Daggers are held to every throat. Even a surprise attack by a thousand Tugars would save just a few of the prisoners. The soldiers would be easily defeated, but not before most of the noble ones were slaughtered.”

Kusala looked at Torg somberly, as if hoping to see some form of resignation that might indicate he would give up the mission.

But Torg paid the chieftain no heed, instead focusing on Sōbhana. “What say you?”

Sōbhana looked up, her cheeks still splashed with red. Though she opened her mouth and seemed about to speak, nothing recognizable came out.

“Sōbhana, are you a warrior or a child?” Kusala said. “Report to me, if not to your king.”

When Sōbhana turned toward the chieftain, her clumsiness vanished. Her cheeks remained flushed, but this time with anger. “It is worse than Rati reports,” she said. “One of their captains stands boldly on the upper steps of the main temple and calls over and over for
The Torgon
to come forth. He says they’ll sacrifice three monks and three nuns for every hour that passes, beginning at sundown of this day, unless our king enters the city and surrenders himself.”

“The captain claims our king is a traitor to the free people of Triken,’’ Rati added, “and that he must stand trial for his crimes before the seat of Invictus. He promises a
just
trial. The noble ones roll their eyes. Despite their predicament, they keep their sense of humor. They seem to have no fear. They are warriors, as well, it seems.”

“We could have killed the fool, we were so close,” Sōbhana said, “but it would have done little good. Rati and I suspected our approach was long witnessed, yet we were permitted to enter the city without resistance. It was too easy. Too many heads were turned in the wrong direction. They are poor soldiers, by our standards, but they are well-armed and all too capable of killing.”

Torg could sense that Sōbhana was holding something back—and so he continued to fix his gaze only on her. There was a period of silence finally broken by Kusala, who cleared his throat and touched Torg lightly on the shoulder. “What
is
it, lord?”

Torg twisted around and glowered. The chieftain hastily removed his hand from his shoulder. Torg grunted impatiently, then returned his gaze to Sōbhana. “You fear more than just a fool of a captain or his pathetic soldiers. I can sense it in your bearing. What do you keep from us?”

Sōbhana took a step back, then sighed. Her full lips trembled, ever so slightly. “I saw something else. Or I think I did.”

Kusala’s eyes almost bulged from their sockets. “
Sōbhana
.” He spoke so sharply that all the Asēkhas whipped their heads in his direction. “Tell us everything
 . . .
now.
”

Seemingly ignoring the chieftain, Sōbhana moved slowly toward Torg and then stood on her toes so that her mouth was just a span below his. Her features softened, and at that moment Torg saw her as startlingly beautiful, even by Tugarian standards.

Kusala was clearly amazed, perhaps perceiving her approach as a burst of arrogance, and he seemed prepared to discipline her.

But Torg waved him off. “Sōbhana
 . . .
speak,” he said gently.

“Lord,” she said, “I saw something
 . . .
someone
 . . .
in the doorway at the top of the temple stairs. There was a deep shadow near the opening, and the sun’s glare prevented a clearer view. But I saw glints
 . . .
or glows
 . . .
that did not resemble the reflections off armor. Two figures loomed within, and one of them was huge—much larger than any of the soldiers, or monks and nuns. I believe, my lord, that it was the great monster we name Mala. And with him, a Warlish witch.”

Though he was born
deep within the recesses of the desert Tējo, Torg had resided at Dibbu-Loka many times during his long lifetime, and he knew its history as intimately as anyone. Even as he made his way toward the city, he replayed what he had learned in his thoughts.

A greedy king had built the holy city ten thousand years ago to serve as his final resting place. King Lobha was to be buried in the center of the city in the bowels of a great pyramid. Lobha had originally named the city Piti-Loka, which meant
Rapture World
in the ancient tongue. The king had been a connoisseur of sexual gratification, especially when he forced it upon helpless victims.

The temples of Piti-Loka were adorned with a myriad of statues, carvings, and jewels. The exterior walls were sheathed in contrasting marbles, shimmering in an ever-changing variety of colors, depending on the time of day. The interior walls were slathered with erotic paintings of naked men, women, and children.