Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (14 page)

Despite his bizarre predicament, Torg managed to lie still and breathe slowly. In order to plan an escape he needed to find out what was happening on the surface. Though the corpse’s weight continued to press uncomfortably against his side, Torg managed to delve into his own memories in search of an answer to his quandary. Whether directed by fate or otherworldly forces, Torg’s mind seized on a single memory.

Three times in the early years of his long life, Torg had journeyed through the Gap of Gamana and entered Arupa-Loka, which meant
Ghost City
in the ancient tongue. The first two times, he had gone with Asēkhas at his side, and the city’s stone buildings had appeared to be deserted. The third time, when he was three hundred years old, he went alone, still curious to see if Arupa-Loka was worthy of its notorious reputation as a haven for demons and other monsters. He was not disappointed. The inhabitants of the
Ghost City
opened their doors.

For a long stretch of time during the deep darkness of a moonless night, Torg had stood transfixed on the center median of a street in the heart of the city. Now he could see wicked faces peering from windows and doorways. A collective hatred beat upon his mind. Torg wondered what might happen if they all attacked him at once. But he was not overly concerned. None in the
Ghost City—
save the demon Vedana—would dare to stand alone against him. And Torg was certain that Vedana was not present. If she were there, he would have sensed her strength.

A ghost-child appeared in front of him. If she had been alive, Torg would have guessed her to be about ten years old. She smiled at him, her mouth curling upward at its corners. The beauty of her face stunned Torg. She beckoned him to follow.

In the cold of midwinter, they wandered along many winding roads. Some areas were so dark that Torg could see nothing but the slight sway of the ghost-child’s petite dress, which glowed like phosphorous in a black sea. Obhasa also glowed, as if in reaction to her power.

Finally she led him to the outskirts of the city, where they came upon a modest house of gray stone. The ghost-child stepped inside the front door. Torg had to bend over to clear the entryway. Demonic torchlight lit the interior. Sitting in a decrepit chair facing the door was the long-decomposed corpse of what had once been a tall man.

“He has a story to tell you,” the girl said, her voice as sweet as innocence.

“I’d prefer to hear your story,” Torg said.

“They are the same.”

Torg looked at the skeleton’s face, then turned back to the girl. “I would listen to his story, but he seems incapable of telling it.”

The ghost giggled. She walked over to Torg and waggled her finger. She wanted to whisper something in his ear. He bent down. “The sirens can make him speak,” she said, ever so softly. “I know
where they hide.
I know
when
to listen.”

“And what do you
hear
?” Torg said.

“The word
 . . .
the magic word.”

“What is the magic word?”

More giggles. The room seemed to wobble. “You have to
hear
it before you can say it.”

“I don’t understand.”

She reached for him. Her tiny hand barely filled his palm, but it burned like ice.

“Come with me,” she said.

The torchlight blinked out, and Torg found himself in utter darkness. For the first time in his long existence, he entered the Realm of the Undead. Never before had he seen such unbroken blackness. The souls of the undead were trapped between life and death, and it was horrid and hopeless. He sagged to his knees.

But the girl was there to guide him. “Do you hear them?”

As Torg knew from
Sammaasamaadhi,
the lone sensation of death was the ability to see. But he now discovered that the lone sensation of undeath was the ability to hear.

Female voices were chanting
. “Yakkkkha. Yakkkkha. Yakkkkha.”

“I hear them,” Torg said. “But tell me what it is you need of me. You know something I do not.”

Suddenly there was a flash, and they again stood in the dusty room lit by magical torchlight. The girl pointed at the skeleton. “His spirit is gone, but his bones remember. Ask him to speak.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Say the magic word.”

In a remote corner of his mind, Torg could still hear the chanting.
“Yakkkkha,”
he said, though the word sounded like garble in the Realm of Life.

Torg was surprised to see the skeleton begin to move. Its bones flailed, and its head lolled from side to side.

“I told them we shouldn’t attempt the pass.”

“Who are you?” Torg said.

“Who am I?” the skeleton said. “I am no longer. I am gone.”

“Who
were
you?”

“I was her father.”

“Ask him what happened,” the little ghost said to Torg.

The skeleton stood, clicking and clacking, and it tilted its skull toward the girl. “Peta? Is that you?”

“Yes, father,” she said. “But please
 . . .
tell this man what happened. I’m afraid she will make him leave before he can help me.”

“I won’t leave,” Torg said. “There is nothing here that can make me go anywhere.” He walked to the skeleton and looked down at its hollow face. “Her name is Peta? And what is yours?”

“I do not remember. I am no longer. I am gone.”

“Your daughter needs me. To help her, I need you. What can you tell me?”

“I told them we should go south,” it said.

“His bones remember,” Peta interrupted. “Please ask him to speak.”

Torg nodded. “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

The skeleton’s karmic energy was gone, moved on to countless other existences. But its bones
remembered
like a painting that had retained the vision of the artist.

“What happened in the pass?” Torg said to the skeleton.

“They came for her.”

“Who?”

“The demons. They took Peta. And they took me. But they killed her mother and all the rest. It was Peta they wanted. They only took me along to keep her calm.”

“Why did they want Peta?”

The little ghost was jumping up and down.

“Because she is special,” the skeleton said.

“Special?” Torg said. “How so?”

“She is blind.”

Torg was confused, but he sensed he was on the verge of a breakthrough. “Why did the demons believe her blindness was special?”

“Yes! Yes!” Peta said, wiggling like a worm.

“Because she could
hear,”
the skeleton said.

Torg thought back to his brief visit to the Realm of the Undead. In that dreadful place he had been blind—just like Peta. But at least he had been able to hear. In life, Peta’s blindness must have enhanced her senses, including her hearing. Was it enhanced among the undead, as well?

“Where is Peta’s body?” Torg said.

The little girl screamed with delight. “Yes! Yes! Tell him. Tell him!” she said to her dead father.

But the skeleton’s response made no sense. “Her body is forgotten.”

“I don’t understand,” Torg said.

“Neither do I,” the skeleton said.

Torg turned to Peta. Fluorescent tears now lined her cheeks. “Can you tell me anything? He says your body is forgotten. What does that mean?”

“Ask him to speak.”

“I
have
asked him to speak. But I have no more questions. Why can’t you tell me where your body is? And tell me also why you want me to find it.”

“He
knows
. Ask him.”

Torg sighed. He walked to the side of the room, leaned against the wall, and slid down to his rump. The skeleton also attempted to sigh. Dust puffed from where its nostrils used to be. Then it stepped back and flopped down in its chair, bones cracking and snapping.

Peta wailed. “He knows
 . . .
he knows
 . . .
”

“Peta?” the skeleton said. “Is that you?”

“Oh, shut up!” she said.

“Yes,” the skeleton said. It sounded sad.

Torg stood up, unsure of what to do next. He leaned against the doorway and looked out at the street. They were not alone. Hundreds of the undead stood nearby, still as stones, staring at him but not daring to approach.

Torg shouted at them. “Where is her body? Tell me.”

One by one they fled from his wrath. The street was empty again.

“Her body is forgotten,” the skeleton said.

Suddenly Peta’s face grew bright. She had thought of something that renewed her hope. “Tell him to
walk
,” she said, her head held proud.

Torg looked at the skeleton. “Stand up.”

The skeleton regained its feet, but not without a price. Its left arm fell off at the elbow.

“Now walk to where Peta’s body is hidden,” Torg said.

“Yes,” the skeleton said, and it tottered toward the doorway, bumping hard into the stone frame, crunching several ribs and busting a knee. Seemingly undeterred, it staggered into the street and moved awkwardly along the sidewalk. Torg followed. Peta pranced after them, bursting with merriment.

“Tell him to
walk,”
she said, over and over.

The skeleton made poor progress, banging into anything in its path. Large chunks of bone broke off and clattered on the stone roadways. Torg feared that Peta’s father would fall apart before they could reach their destination.

“Are we close?” Torg asked, his breath smoking in the frozen air.

“I do not remember. I am no longer. I am gone.” But it continued its slow march.

They came at last to a strange tower that stood alone in a cobbled courtyard. Though the tower was just ten cubits in diameter, it was at least fifty cubits tall. An elaborate bas-relief wound upward from its base, and near its pinnacle was a small window where an eerie light shone from inside.

The skeleton had had enough. It collapsed into pieces and said no more.

“Goodbye, father,” Peta said, without apparent sorrow.

There was a single door at the base of the tower. Torg pushed against it, but found that it was barred. He raised his staff and smote the ancient wood, which splintered and gave way. Then he stepped inside.