Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (11 page)

Reason told her to wait, that the storm would dissipate. If she went now, she might be blown off the wall before she was able to reach the top.

But Sōbhana was finished with reason. Madness drove her—born of love.

With her right hand she grasped a flake of stone. It was not quite as slippery as she had feared. Her powerful fingers crunched through the ice and pressed against the granular surface of the brick. She raised her left hand higher and inserted her fingers into a thin crack. Now both her hands had firm holds, and she was able to stand.

She flung her right hand several inches higher, grasping a knoblike protrusion. Then her left hand swung above the right and locked into a jagged tear. Her black boots rose off the floor of her hiding place and dangled in the air. Bit by bit, she climbed. Bolts of lightning revealed her position, but she couldn’t allow herself to think about that now.

Gusty winds punched at her, threatening to knock her into space. At times, squalls lifted her torso off the wall and nearly yanked her hands and feet free. But she continued upward, not to be denied. At less than an arm’s length from the top, her spirits soared. She was going to make it. Once over the wall she would be more in her element, and her instincts as a trained assassin would take over.

Suddenly a jolt of intuitive wrongness surged through her body. The inner voice born of her long training warned her to look down. Just then, a blast of lightning careened off the stone, revealing a hideous shape on the rock face below her. The spider was at least twenty cubits wide—if you included her legs—and her gruesome abdomen was twice as thick as an ancient oak.

Quicker than Sōbhana could think, the sword was in her free hand, sweeping down with fantastic speed. Dukkhatu had defeated many warriors, but apparently she had never fought anyone with the prowess of this Asēkha. The blade of the Silver Sword hacked off the tip of Dukkhatu’s upper right leg. Black blood spurted onto the stone.

There was another bolt of lightning.

Sōbhana saw the spider leaping sideways along the wall.

Soon after, Dukkhatu was gone.

Sōbhana’s counterattack seemed to anger the storm, and its vehemence increased. She cried out and nearly lost her grip on the sword. If she dropped it, she would be helpless against Mala and the Stone-Eater. She would not allow it.

Sōbhana replaced the sword in its sheath and took a moment to regain her composure. Then she climbed the remaining distance to the top of the wall and flung herself over the parapet, collapsing onto the narrow wall walk.

She lay there, gasping.

If she had been discovered at that moment she might have been easy to capture. But there were no sentries nearby. It appeared none had braved the ferocity of the storm. Instead Sōbhana imagined that they huddled in cold chambers and prayed for death.

The storm retained its intensity. Sōbhana had never felt so cold, but she ignored her physical anguish. She had no other choice.

The roiling darkness was her friend—though also her enemy. It hid her from prying eyes, but it prevented her from studying her surroundings. Asēkhas were brilliant at assessing situations and taking advantage of their opponents’ weaknesses. But that was more difficult to do when you couldn’t see.

Wind, snow, and fist-sized hail pounded Asubha, but the flashes of lightning occurred less frequently now. Sōbhana could no longer depend on them to provide spurts of visibility. She would have to proceed by feel. At least her foes were in the same predicament.

She worked her way along the wall walk until she came to a spiral stair that corkscrewed steeply downward into blackness. For all she knew, a sentry guarded the lower steps. If so, she would end his miserable life.

Bhayatupa had told her there were several guard rooms scattered around the main courtyard. Within one of those she should be able to find lengths of rope. If she tied a rope to a plank laid across the top of the pit, she could shimmy down. She hoped her king would have the strength to climb out on his own. If not, she would carry him on her back. She was an Asēkha. All things were possible.

Sōbhana proceeded warily down the stairs. She could see clearly for about ten paces. Beyond that, vague shapes and ghostly blurs haunted her vision. She reached the floor of the courtyard without encountering resistance. Several stubborn torches burned weakly on iron poles driven into the stone, but they provided scant illumination. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled along the ground, peering to-and-fro, until she came upon a one-room building with a single window. An oil lamp flickered inside. Though the storm continued to roar, she heard voices. She peeked in the window and saw three sentries huddled around a table. They guzzled from large mugs; if they were drunk, all the better.

The door was ajar. She slid inside the lighted room. One of the sentries was having a good laugh. He slapped his knee. The other two laughed along with him.

With three blurring strokes, their heads leapt into the air, performed backward flips, and fell to the floor, striking the stone in a series of squishy thuds. She waited patiently until the blood finished squirting from their necks, then she repositioned their heads on their shoulders and put the mugs back on the table.

A keg of wine sat next to the wall beneath the window. Sōbhana picked it up and took several long swallows. It was potent, but not particularly tasty. Still, it warmed her insides. She drank quite a bit more before setting it down.

The room had one small closet. She rummaged through it and found plenty of thick rope and a plank that was just the right size. How absurdly easy this part of the operation had become. It made her wary.

Suddenly, the door swung open. A fourth sentry strode through the entryway. He wore a heavy cloak over his tunic, but still he grumbled about the cold before heading straight for the keg, too stupid to notice Sōbhana’s presence. She stepped behind him and slammed the door. He jerked around. She crossed the room and pressed the sword against his throat. She forced him down, beneath the window, and crouched in front of him so close to his face she could smell his rancid breath.

“I will let you live, if you answer all my questions—without pause,” she whispered. “Do you understand?”

He nodded fiercely.

“Does the wizard still live?”

“The wizard?”

Her forehead flew forward and butted him between his eyes. Steaming blood oozed from the bridge of his nose. He muttered something that made no sense. “And then I
 . . .
I
 . . .
kissed her
 . . .
”

Sōbhana slapped him. His eyes sprang open, and he started to shout, but she roughly pressed the palm of her hand against his lips. “Shhhhhh
 . . .
shhhhh
 . . .
if you ever want to kiss her again, then you must answer all my questions. I am an Asēkha and can silence you whenever I choose. You cannot thwart me. Do you doubt it?”

He shook his head.

“Does the wizard
 . . .
the prisoner in the pit
 . . .
still live?”

“Yes, warrior
 . . .
I heard noises coming from that accursed hole just yesterday. I almost soiled my pants.”

Sōbhana’s cheeks flushed. Torg was alive! “What kind of noises?”

“Moans. Shrieks.”

“Is Mala here?” she said, through gritted teeth.

“Yes. He won’t leave, though we all wish he would.”

She pondered this, and then spoke again. “Another question.
Where
is the pit?”

He pointed at the door.

“How far?”

“About one hundred paces.”

“Is anything between us and the pit that could get in my way?”

“About fifty strides from here, there is a short wall that encircles the hole. Otherwise, there is nothing.”

“Is the pit watched?”

The sentry grimaced. “It’s supposed to be. We guard it in pairs. But my friend came here for wine. And I got scared and followed. The storm
 . . .
the cold
 . . .
We were sure that Mala wouldn’t bother to check on us. My friend—” He pointed to one of the sentries seated at the table. “—is over there. Why does he not move?”

“He didn’t answer my questions. Nor did the others. They are no longer.”

The sentry shivered. A single tear slid down his rough, red cheek. “I will
 . . .
I will answer your questions. I promise. I truly wish to kiss her again one day.”

Sōbhana felt a twinge of sympathy. “Listen to me
very
carefully.”

“Yes. But please don’t kill me. I’m not ready to die.”

“I won’t slay you, if you don’t force me to. I’m going to tell you a secret, and if you keep it to yourself, I’ll let you live. I’m going to free the prisoner. After that, I’ll need a place to hide—for a short time—from Mala and the guards. Where might that be?”

“There is no place to hide
 . . .
” The sword pressed against his throat. “Wait
 . . .
wait! I meant no
good
place. But if I wanted to hide, I would go to the roof of the keep. A narrow stair leads to the top. Few ever use it. No one would think to look for you there, especially in this storm.”

Sōbhana considered his suggestion. “If you are lying
 . . .
”

“No, warrior, I speak the truth. But may I say one thing?”

“Quickly!”

“Freeing the wizard is impossible. It hurts just to stand
near
the pit, especially if you’re not used to it. If you try to enter, you
 . . .
you will not survive. It is deadlier even than you, mistress. Only the warden has the equipment needed to remove the wizard. It’s a special contraption with a large clamp, and it is cleverly made. But it is out of reach—behind barred doors.”

“I will find a way,” she said. “And the keep
 . . .
how far is it from the pit?”

“It is on the northern wall, several hundred paces beyond it. You can reach the stairs, if you veer around to the left and slip between the walls.”

“Very good. You are behaving yourself. One more question: Where does Mala sleep?”

“In a large chamber at the base of the keep. He comes out often—even during the night—to check on the prisoner, but usually not during the worst storms.”

“You have been helpful,” Sōbhana said. “I’m going to tie you up now. If you struggle, the ropes will strangle you. Do you doubt it?”

“No, warrior. I believe every word you say.”

“If you somehow betray me, you will die in a most painful manner.”

Sōbhana left the guard house a few minutes later with the sentry gagged and bound and tucked inside the closet. Her knots couldn’t be undone without help from others. She left the torch lit and the card players in place. If anyone peered through the window, they would see nothing unusual, except for frozen splotches on the floor, as if they had spilled a lot of wine.

The storm had lessened somewhat, but it still blew with considerable force—enough, she hoped, to keep Mala, the Stone-Eater, and the other sentries inside their chambers.

While the storm raged on,
Mala lay awake in his room, his enormous body stretched out on the bare stone floor, his thoughts raging as wildly as the weather. He hated the prison and yearned to return to Uccheda, but Invictus had ordered him to stay on Asubha for thirty days. If the wizard still lived after that, Mala was to remove him from the pit and bring him back to Avici.

Mala doubted Torg could survive much longer. It had been ten days, and Mala could sense that the wizard was near death.

On the first day of the Death-Knower’s imprisonment, Mala had peered into the pit. Ferocious pain seared his face, and he shouted and jerked back. Now, as he lay in a heap within his chamber, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he’d grown to admire Torg. Anyone—or anything—able to survive in the pit for more than a day was extraordinary. Ten days was beyond possibility. And Invictus thought the wizard might live for a month?