Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (16 page)

The Chain Man had not yet seen Torg, but a much smaller creature, less than a third Mala’s height, ran toward him, waving its stubby arms.

“Here! Here!” it said. “Don’t you see him? The wizard is free.
HERE
!”

Torg watched the creature approach. He recognized it as an ancient enemy. He had defeated its father’s army in a great war many centuries before.

“A Stone-Eater.” Torg sighed. “And I am already weary.”

“Here! Here!” Gulah said. “The wizard is free.
HERE
!”

Another immense reverberation jolted Asubha, almost knocking the Stone-Eater off his feet. After regaining his balance, he saw Torg squirming toward the edge of the cliff. Somehow the Death-Knower knew where to find the quickest escape route, which puzzled Gulah but also secretly delighted him. The mountain did not blow itself up every day. This opportunity would never come again. Now he just needed to find a way to keep Torg alive long enough to meet the doom he had devised for his ancient enemy.

Asubha continued to rock and sway, yet Mala—the wretched bastard!—was lumbering toward Torg with surprising quickness. None of the pathetic sentries could stop the Death-Knower, even in his weakened state. But the Chain Man was more than capable of ruining Gulah’s vengeful plans.

Gulah had to do something fast, while not looking too suspicious, so he stepped in front of Mala and clumsily fell against his stocky legs. Though he was only a third Mala’s size, he still was able to knock him sideways. The Chain Man slipped and crashed against the stone floor, cursing wildly. When he tried to stand, Gulah tripped him again.

“You puny fool. You pathetic
ass,
” Mala said. “If you can’t help, at least get out of my way.”

From the raging darkness Gulah watched as a wild Sampati swooped down and attempted to grasp the Chain Man in its talons. In an extraordinary feat of strength, Mala grabbed one of its clawed feet and flipped the beast over his back. It struck the stone floor and blew apart. Feathers, scales, flesh and bone splattered in all directions, and a steaming chunk of gore struck Gulah in the face. When he cleared his eyes, his worst fears were realized. The Chain Man was closing in on the wizard, who was just a stride or two from the edge of the cliff. Would Mala catch him at the last moment?

Perhaps not. A slab of granite tore itself from the mountaintop, rising between Torg and Mala like a tidal wave. The stone screamed, as if in pain. It towered above Mala, teetered momentarily, and then fell. The Chain Man scrambled backward, barely avoiding the shattering collapse. When the debris cleared, Mala remained standing, waving his arms. But Torg was gone.

The Death-Knower had made it over the cliff.

Gulah smiled, regained his footing and worked his way through the tempest to a secret exit, leaving Mala and the doomed prison on the peak of Asubha behind forever. Gulah knew the ways better than any other. Even a cave troll could not have kept up with him.

He beamed.

So much had gone right. If fate allowed, he would encounter the wizard one final time. And when he did, he would rip Torg’s heart from his chest and devour it raw to avenge the long-ago murder of Slag, his beloved father.

Whom he missed
 . . .

. . . so very desperately.

The mountain had become
a symbol of impermanence, tearing itself apart like a man ripping off his own head.

Torg crept to the edge and peered over the side. The icy stone was as slippery as a demon’s tongue, and he couldn’t judge the depth of the abyss. The precipice dove downward into a morass of tornadic winds, fist-sized hail, and jagged lightning. In the last breath of darkness before the arrival of dawn, he could see less than a stone’s throw. He believed that if he fell, he would not strike bottom for a long time.

Torg could sense the Stone-Eater behind him, closing fast. He knew the beast well, but it had been many centuries since their last encounter. Besides, Torg had many enemies, and right now it was Mala who was his main concern. If the Chain Man caught him in his current state, Torg would be doomed.

Behind him came a whining roar, and the rooftop of the mountain vomited a titanic slab of granite. Torg was cast over the edge of the cliff and would have fallen to his death had he not thrust out his right hand and caught a tiny lip of stone with his fingers. Precariously he hung there by one hand before finally grasping hold with his other.

The mountain trembled again. Torg searched for footing with his bare toes, but the cliff wall was too smooth and slippery. He had hoped his rock-climbing skills would be sufficient to get him down, but he now feared he could not go much farther without falling, especially in such gusty winds and poor visibility.

The slab of stone above him collapsed, shattering ferociously. A disgusting barrage of screams and curses from Mala soon followed.

With his face pressed against the wall, Torg began to move horizontally along the cliff’s edge, hand by hand, hoping to find some sort of foothold. As if his predicament weren’t bad enough, a wild Sampati chose that moment to emerge from the broiling darkness and hover behind him, reaching out with its talons. Forced to call on his draining energy, Torg turned and sent a blue flame from his eyes toward the creature, striking its leg. Squawking in pain, it swerved away from the cliff. Half a dozen wild condors—a third of the Sampati’s size but still very dangerous—sensed the crossbreed’s distress and attacked, tearing at feather and scale.

Above the confusion rose Mala’s obnoxious voice.

“Help me find the Death-Knower, you slimy worms. Where is Gulah? If the coward has deserted, I’ll squash his little head.”

Doing his best to ignore Mala’s ranting, Torg continued to creep along the wall. His arms ached, and his bare toes could not find the slightest indentation. If he lost his grip, he would fall a thousand fathoms.

Dawn continued to push against the darkness in an apparent attempt to overthrow the night. But Torg held little hope that visibility would improve with the arrival of daylight. The storm was too intense.

Before hope faded entirely, Torg discovered a tiny fissure just large enough to contain the big toe of his left foot. The farther he moved to his left, the wider the crack became. Soon, both his feet were rooted in the rock, and he was able to hold on with only his right hand while he felt along the wall with his left.

At waist level, he discovered a knob of stone and gripped it with his left hand, which freed his right. Then he thrust out his buttocks and squatted. It was a precarious position, but at least it was a start.

The fissure descended, and he slid his left foot a few inches along the crack, followed by his right. Then he released the knob with his left hand and grasped it with his right. This enabled him to feel along the wall with his left hand, and he finally was able to grab a protruding flake and use it as leverage to traverse several more inches along the face of the cliff. Now his head was five cubits below the edge. But his progress was agonizingly slow. And he was so weak. If the mountain shook again, he probably would fall.

“There you are, you ugly rat!” Mala yelled from above. “Where are you
going
?”

The Chain Man peered over the edge. His eyes glowed red, and not even the surging winds could disperse the stink of his breath.

A bolt of lightning crashed nearby, momentarily illuminating the night.

“Look at you,” said Mala, laughing in the manner Torg had grown to despise. “You’re as ugly as a toothless monkey. How did you get down there without falling?
Everyone
falls. Unless the spider gets them.”

Torg hung on five cubits below the edge of the cliff, but Mala’s arms were at least six cubits long. The Chain Man dropped to his chest and reached down, trying to grab Torg by the scruff of his neck. With his free hand Torg swatted Mala’s arm, knocking it away. The Chain Man shouted in frustration and lunged for him again.

Torg didn’t have much strength left, but he managed to conjure a weak blast of blue fire. It leapt from his eyes and singed Mala’s face, but it lacked the potency to do much damage. Still, the Chain Man snarled and drew away.

Suddenly Torg’s left foot was yanked from the fissure. Something huge and powerful ensnared his ankle. He looked down and saw a dreadful black shape clinging to the sheer wall beneath him. He scrambled for any kind of hold, but he was torn free of the rock. As he fell he heard Mala’s desperate shrieks: “No
 . . .
no
 . . .
no
! He is not for
you
!”

Whatever grasped Torg’s ankle had no problem negotiating the precipice. It descended the wall with an agility that far surpassed the snow giants or any other great climbers. It dragged Torg a long distance in just a few moments, his body slamming against the lumpy stone as they descended.

Torg tried desperately to free his ankle, but the black beast drew him into a hole in the side of the cliff. His head banged against the cold stone.

The rigidity of the stone gave way to spongy silk, softer but more insidious. The silk clung to the surfaces of the tunnel. Torg felt fresh threads fall upon him in gobs, encasing first his arms and then his legs. He was trapped in putrid darkness and could not move.

The huge creature hovered by his feet, but then squeezed past him toward the opening of the hole. Torg felt the disgusting folds of its thorny hide press against his face. His attacker stopped at the breach and paused there, as if guarding a newly won prize.

Torg strained against the silk. The threads were dreadfully strong, and his strength was fading beyond resistance.
Death Energy
kept him alive, but his ordeal in the pit had weakened him too much. All he could do was lie there, miserable and hopeless.
So, this is how it ends. As breakfast for a spider?
It was absurd enough to make him laugh.

At the opening of its lair, the beast shuffled angrily. Something passed close by—probably one of the wild condors—and the spider took a swipe at it. Torg watched with disinterest. He made one final attempt to break free and failed. Now there was nothing more he could do. He was defeated. Unconsciousness crept ever closer, like a hungry predator. But he could not allow darkness to overcome him.

Torg sensed movement even deeper in the hole. Then he heard a moaning sound. The intricate assemblage of silk trembled in response. Torg could not see, but he strained to figure out what lay near.

Someone else was trapped with him—one of Asubha’s prisoners or sentries? The poor fool sounded even worse than Torg felt. What hell was this? It was not as bad as the pit. But it was close.

The moaning intensified.

And then the spider returned. Was it ready to eat?

Torg waited. And listened.

The spider advanced until its horrific mouth drew within a finger-length of Torg’s face and neck, the only parts of his body not encased by silk threads. A pair of curved fangs, each as long as one of his arms, snapped upon his upper torso, easily piercing the silk but failing to puncture his flesh. Torg’s body remained impenetrable, even in his crippled state.

The spider hissed and chomped on him again—with the same result. It crept backward several steps, then dove forward and drove the poisoned fangs against him. Even then, the fangs and their toxins were ineffective.

“Begone, foul beast,” Torg muttered. “I am not for the likes of you.”

But there still was a lisp in his speech, and his words felt impotent.

And then to his horror, something responded—from deeper in the hole. “My king, have you come to rescue me?”

Instantly the spider reacted, bounding over Torg in the direction of the voice. He heard a scream and recognized his fellow prisoner. Sōbhana. But how did she come to be here? Confusion and sorrow made him nauseous.

She screamed again.

Torg could not bear it and fought to escape his silk prison. His panicked anger flooded through him, and his magic became wildly dangerous. Blue flame erupted from every pore in an orgasm of anguish. The silk threads caught fire like dry grass, turning the passageway into a conflagration. The spider exited the hole in a panic.

Torg was free of his bonds, but the flames roared on. With every shred of his remaining strength he willed the blaze to diminish, but it still sizzled in pockets throughout the tunnel. When most of the smoke cleared, enough light remained from the glowing embers to provide visibility.

Sōbhana lay close by, her naked body mutilated. Torg’s flames had burned off her hair and scorched her skin, but it was obvious that worse damage already had occurred before his fiery outburst. Large portions of her ears were gone, disintegrated by the spider’s persistent attempts to feed, and her right arm and right leg displayed gruesome patches of exposed bone. Her right shoulder was mangled and diseased. The warrior looked like a flesh-and-blood body slowly transforming into a skeleton. How long had she been here? A day? A week? Longer?

Torg cried out. Anger and sorrow grasped his heart and squeezed. Tears gushed from his eyes. He crawled over to her and cradled her in his arms. He had never experienced such bitterness.

Sōbhana looked at him, and her eyes widened. “I feared how I might look to you, if you ever found me. But you have not fared much better, my lord.” She managed a tattered giggle.

Torg was mortified. “Sōbhana. Brave one
 . . .
loyal one. How came you here?”

“I could never forsake my king,” she said weakly. “You are my life.” Then she took a long breath and sighed. “I have never told you—or anyone—but there is no reason to hide my feelings any longer. I love you,
Torgon
. I always have and always will. I would have made you an excellent wife.”

Torg’s tears drenched her face and dripped into her mouth. Though she was disfigured, he recognized her true beauty for the first time. Then he hugged her so hard she moaned.

Torg heard a noise near the opening of the hole. In his despair he had forgotten the spider. It stood close by, glaring at them, torn between fear and desire.

“Her name is Dukkhatu,” Sōbhana said. “She is almost as ancient as Bhayatupa. The dragon told me so.”

“Bhayatupa? What do you mean
 . . .
”

Sōbhana coughed. Greasy blood spewed from her mouth. She grimaced, struggling to breathe. An ordinary creature would have been long dead. And yet Sōbhana, with the strength of an Asēkha, had endured this torture for how long? Torg couldn’t bear to even think about it.

“My life is over,” she said. “My body will soon perish.” More coughing. “We both
 . . .
know what must be done.”

“No, Sōbhana. You will not perish. I will carry you down the side of the mountain. We will return to Anna together.”

“And I will become your wife?” she said. Despite her horrific appearance, her smile was beautiful. In the final moments of her life, Torg fell in love with her. But if they had ever become husband and wife, they would have been forced to live in celibacy, which would have been a greater torment than either could have borne—though she knew this naught.

“Yes, my love. You will become my wife, if you so desire.”

She coughed some more, the pain gnawing greedily on the remains of her consciousness. Still she managed to smile again, and the tenderness in her ravaged expression brought fresh tears to his eyes.

“When Mala took you, I followed despite your orders,” she said. “You vowed to kill any who pursued. Yet I still believed I would somehow rescue you. Now I see how both will occur. We must perform
Sivathika.
Nothing else remains
.
”

Sivathika
had existed among the Tugars from the beginnings of their history, though it remained a secret ritual, unknown to outsiders. When a desert warrior was mortally wounded in battle, another Tugar would approach and—if granted permission—press his or her mouth against the other’s. The dying warrior then breathed what remained of his or her
Life Essence
into the survivor’s lungs, where it was absorbed into the blood like psychic nourishment. The survivor became physically stronger and even possessed a dual personality for a short time afterward. It was a rare and high honor to give or receive
Sivathika
.

“Kiss me, my love,” Sōbhana said. “Do not deny me.”

The spider crept closer.

“Do it now, before it’s too late,” she said, her words barely recognizable. “I will be gone from this body, regardless. It will be my privilege to join your spirit. In that way I will become more than a wife; I will become a part of you.”

“No
 . . .
no
 . . .
I’m not ready. Your loss will cost too much. I would rather die here alongside you.”

“Do not dishonor me with such worthless speech,” she rasped, each word growing weaker. “Kiss me, my love
 . . .
and then avenge me. A weapon is near that can destroy Dukkhatu. When I become a part of you, you will know where to find it.”

Sōbhana reached up and wrapped her left arm around his neck, pressing her mouth against his lips. For a few moments they kissed like lovers. But Torg felt her body fail. At the last instant before her death, she blew her hot essence into his mouth. He inhaled with equal strength.

The Torgon
and Asēkha-Sōbhana became one.

At that moment she learned the truth about Torg’s perplexing celibacy. He had spent almost his entire existence learning how to bridle the savage might of Death Energy. For the most part he had succeeded, except in one crucial area—sex. When he achieved orgasm he lost control of his power. Nine centuries before, on the night after he had successfully returned from his very first Death Visit, Torg had made love to a Tugarian woman. During his climax he had incinerated the woman and the tent in which they lay, turning the sand beneath them to glass.

Torg was devastated, and he hastily arranged an assembly of Vasi masters to confess his crime. But as far as the Tugar elders knew, nothing like this had ever happened to any previous Death-Knower. Because there was no forewarning, Torg was vindicated. But he never forgave himself. Though Torg’s people—none of whom were as long-lived as he—had lost most knowledge of the incident, his guilt continued to haunt him.

Torg now shared his guilt with Sōbhana.

And he felt it dissolve.

As a Death-Knower,
Torg believed that nothing in life compared to the wonder of death. All other experiences paled. In his mind the fear of death was a waste of energy. Why dread something so magnificent and so inevitable?

But when Sōbhana’s psychic force entered his lungs and flowed into his blood, Torg was as tantalized and amazed as he had been during any
Death Visit
. A symphony of thoughts, emotions, and memories set his senses ablaze. The sizzling bundle of karmic energy once known as Sōbhana surged into every cell of his being, sharing residence with his mind and body.

When he opened his eyes, Sōbhana’s flesh was dead, but her karma was very much alive. He gently laid her carcass upon the floor of the spider’s lair and then sat up to gather his wits. She already was conversing with him internally, disappointed to discover he had thought so little of her—at least in terms of her potential as a mate.

“I’m sorry, my beloved,” she said, within his mind. “But even without sex, I would have been a good wife. Just sharing ordinary life with you would have been enough.”

“I did not perceive your intentions,” he said. “You seemed so young. And I felt so old. But as you now know, I have long admired you for other reasons.”

“I know much that I did not know before. Such
wonder
. I can only hope to carry some of this wisdom to my next existence. If so, I will perform miracles.”

“That, you have already done. I will see to it that the Tugars rank you among the greats.”

“If you survive. There is still the matter of the spider,” Sōbhana said. “She is tensed and prepared for another attack. Now that we are joined, you know how to kill her.”

The Silver Sword lay a short distance from Torg (and Sōbhana). Apparently, the spider had chosen to hide it, rather than discard it. But Torg’s conflagration had revealed its location.

Torg (and Sōbhana) reached for the sword, causing Dukkhatu to hiss and retreat. Torg (and Sōbhana) grasped the Silver Sword in his right hand. Instantly he recognized aspects of it that Sōbhana had not—and now, she saw the sword through his perception and was amazed. It was not made of silver or any metal native to Triken. Instead, it had been forged in some ancient time using otherworldly ores. In and of itself the Silver Sword was lifeless; unlike Torg’s ivory staff, it harbored no internal magic. But nothing that it struck could withstand it. Mala had survived Sōbhana’s glancing blow only because it had not been a direct hit.

When Torg rose to his knees in the tunnel, his desire for vengeance melded with the Asēkha’s. Though still physically drained, Torg was as dangerous at that moment as he had ever been. His sudden burst of strength wouldn’t last forever—Sōbhana’s essence would fade, and Torg’s torture-induced exhaustion would return—but for the time being, he, she and the sword were a lethal combination.

The passageway was tall enough for Torg to stand upright, but it was not wide enough for Dukkhatu to fully extend her legs. Inside the hole, she probably was far less mobile than outside on the cliff wall. Her best chance to kill her prey would come in the vertiginous open.

“You are hideous,” Torg said to Dukkhatu. “You have destroyed much that is of value. But your reign of terror has come to an end. Prepare to meet your doom.”

The last five words
were spoken with the woman’s voice and facial expressions, which puzzled the spider. The great beast froze—paralyzed by uncertainty—as the larger man moved toward her. Dukkhatu’s compulsion to rend and devour was immense, but her dismay continued to expand. First the prey had unleashed a deadly fire in her lair, and now it wielded the strange weapon. Its eyes held no fear, but they burned with anger. Should she flee? The thought ate at her evil mind like noxious poison.

The man moved faster than she expected. Dukkhatu was forced to turn and run, but not before she felt the tip of the sword cut through several spans of her abdomen above her spinnerets. She leapt through the hole and dropped at least fifty cubits before catching hold of the craggy wall. When she looked upward she saw a blurry shape moving at the opening of her lair. The deadly thing was searching for her. She was enraged—and terrified. Her fangs clattered. Her wound dripped black blood. It was little more than a scratch, but it burned.

Never in her long life had Dukkhatu been so ably thwarted. And now this had happened
twice
in just a short time. The other food had resisted her as well. The meat of the first one was so tough she had had to work days and days just to drink a few drops. And this second one was even more difficult. She could not so much as scratch it.

Dukkhatu desired food, but now revenge had become her greater hunger. The female was dead—as far as Dukkhatu could tell—but the male still lived, and his very presence haunted her. She already felt the vibrations in the stone as he began his descent.

But this wasn’t over yet. She knew hundreds of places to hide. She would watch, wait and follow.

If she could attack him unawares, she could wrest away the weapon and have her way with him. Or at just the right moment, she could sneak up and knock him off the side of the cliff and watch with glee as he fell to his death.

Maybe after he splattered on the stone, he would be easier to eat.