Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (17 page)

Torg peered over the edge of the cliff and saw the spider clinging to the wall. A trick of perspective made Dukkhatu look larger from a distance than she had close up. He pounded a fist against the stone. The spider scampered farther downward and disappeared beneath a ledge.

“Dammit. I was not fast enough,” he said in a nasal voice. “I should have killed her when I had the chance.”

“It’s my fault, beloved,” he said this time with Sōbhana’s voice and mannerisms. “I distracted you with my silly romantic talk. I’m sorry.”

“It was both of our faults, then,” he thought, attempting an internal laugh. “But now we have to find a way to get down. That would be difficult enough, even if she weren’t out there somewhere.”

“We’ll find a way.” She spoke within his mind, but already her voice was fading.

The air was calm but wintry. The storm that had wracked Asubha during Torg’s escape had since relinquished its fury. Snow still fell, but softly. Torg was naked, and he shivered in the morning chill. On top of everything else, he would have to make the descent with little hope of finding warmth.

Out of curiosity, Torg rolled onto his back on the icy stone and took a moment to look upward at the peak of the mountain. From this vantage point he could see a fraction of the previous night’s destruction. He wondered what it might look like from a dragon’s perspective. He supposed it would be blown apart. But from where Torg lay, there was little to observe other than several large scars along the wall that probably had been caused by falling boulders.

He rolled back onto his stomach and searched for signs of Dukkhatu. He could not see her, but he knew she was down there somewhere. What were her intentions? Perhaps he had injured her sufficiently to scare her off for good.

“You don’t believe that, and neither do I,” he said in Sōbhana’s voice. “Dukkhatu will not depart without a fight.”

To emphasize this point, Sōbhana replayed her memory of Bhayatupa’s description of the spider. Torg became enraged at the dragon for using Sōbhana to get to him, but he didn’t blame Sōbhana for not resisting. It was an unusual partnership, but they had needed each other. Torg wondered if he would ever meet Bhayatupa again.

“I believe you will,” Sōbhana whispered in his thoughts. “But I now understand that the answers he seeks from you will not succor him.”

“His cravings have no merit,” Torg spoke in his own voice. “His lore is great and his experiences many, but his wisdom has failed to flourish. His ego is so strong he fails to comprehend that ego doesn’t truly exist.”

“I know, my lord,” Sōbhana said silently. “I’m a part of you now, don’t you remember?”

“And I’m treasuring every moment.”

“I know that, too.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I won’t
 . . .
not yet.”

Still on his stomach and now facing the opening of the tunnel, Torg dropped his legs over the ledge. He was forced to hold the sword in his mouth. The frozen blade burned his toothless gums.

“I must be quite the sight,” he said, his voice muffled.

“You look terrible, to be honest,” she said. “You have no hair, your skin is covered with sores, and you sound like an old man who has misplaced his wooden teeth. Compared to you, Mala is handsome. But I love you, nonetheless.”

Torg laughed so hard the sword fell out of his mouth and clattered on the ledge. The sound was a strange mixture of male and female tones.

Then Sōbhana said, “A wild Sampati comes. I’ll keep quiet, until we dispose of it.”

“How do you know? I don’t see it.”

“I am fading, beloved. I exist in both worlds and can sense things beyond your awareness. This might prove useful to you—until I am no longer.”

Sure enough, the Sampati appeared a moment later from around a bend in the mountain. When it saw Torg, it dove toward him like a hawk attacking a pigeon.

Torg, however, was no pigeon. He hauled himself back onto the ledge, picked up the sword and stood to meet the hybrid monster. As the Sampati made its first pass, Torg hid the sword behind his back, not wanting the beast to sense its power.

The Sampati circled and came for him again, this time intending to strike. Torg waited until the last moment before bounding off the ledge. With the sword again in his mouth, he somersaulted and fell onto the creature. Then he dug his fingers and toes between the feathers and scales, and held tight.

The Sampati veered away from the mountain, twisting and shaking like an angry stallion—but failing to throw him. When Torg drove the sword into the thick of its back, the Sampati shrieked and tumbled out of control, slamming into the mountainside and bursting asunder.

Torg struck the stone and was knocked unconsciousness. His limp body slid down the wall and came to rest on a flattened outcrop.

The sword clattered beside him.

Both lay still.

Torg dreamed sweetly
of a tender woman. Together they stood holding hands beneath the largest and brightest moon he’d ever seen. Torg assumed he was with Sōbhana, but when he turned to look more closely he saw someone else. The woman’s hair was the first thing to attract his attention. It was blond and hung past her waist—unlike Sōbhana’s, which was black and shoulder-length.

The pale stranger was taller than Sōbhana, but less muscular and more voluptuous. Her blue-gray eyes contained a sparkling power that Torg found both intimidating and enticing. He had seen her before, but could not remember when or where.

Was she a Warlish witch? Despite the flawlessness of her beauty, he did not think so.

Was she a sorceress? That seemed closer to the truth.

Was she good or evil? To Torg, she felt mysterious but unthreatening.

The woman smiled at him, causing his heart to thump. An erection surged beneath his trousers, and he backed away. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know what I do to women who get too close?

The sorceress did not seem afraid. On the contrary, his presence seemed to please her. And yet she remained silent.

Then Torg heard a faraway voice and spun toward it. In the moonlight, he saw the glowing silhouette of a figure on a distant hill. It was waving, slowly.

“Farewell, my love,” Sōbhana called.

Her words caused him so much pain. He dropped to his knees.

“You and I were not meant to be,” she said. “A part of me will always love you, but I am no longer. I am gone.”

Then she leapt into darkness, but not before shouting an urgent warning: “Wake up now. The spider comes.”

Torg opened his eyes.
At first his vision was hazy. When he finally was able to focus, he saw Dukkhatu standing nimbly on the wall just a short distance above him. He sat up. The monstrous spider reacted to his sudden movement, rearing on her back legs, fangs snapping.

Torg looked about for the sword and saw it lying two paces to his left, on the flat ledge that had broken his fall. He lunged for it, but in his dazed condition the spider was too fast for him. She swatted the sword off the ledge with the tip of her damaged front leg, and the weapon tumbled off the ledge and spun downward, sparking as it struck the floor of the talus far below.

Dukkhatu retreated and reared again, her front legs stabbing at the air, hypersensitive to Torg’s slightest movement. He was surprised she didn’t attack right then. Perhaps her predator’s instincts were making her cautious; she hoped to stare down her prey until it panicked and fled, then ambush it from behind. But Dukkhatu had more reason to be afraid than she knew. Exhaustion made Torg vulnerable, but some of Sōbhana’s strength still surged in his body.

When he stood, the spider retreated a little farther, apparently sensing something in his manner that made her wary. Anger overwhelmed Torg, shoving his spiritual training aside. The High Nun of Dibbu-Loka would have admonished him:
Hate never dispels hate.
Some part of Torg knew his teacher was correct, but he was beyond caring. He missed Sōbhana too much, despising what had been done to her—and to him. He had grown to hate Invictus and Mala and the wicked creature that now trembled uncertainly above him. Revenge was ugly and ignorant, but it offered sweetness that Torg could not resist, especially on this miserable day.

Torg’s wrath demanded penance. This time, sword or no sword, he would not fail. He jumped toward the spider.

Dukkhatu attempted to skitter backward, but Torg grabbed a thick segment of her left front leg and held on tight. Her ancient exoskeleton began to crack. She leaned forward and tried to stab her fangs into his eyes, but he caught one massive tooth in his free hand and snapped it in half. Poison spurted from the break, sizzling on Torg’s bare chest, but he ignored the pain. The
frenzy
was upon him. He would settle for nothing less than her death.

Dukkhatu must have sensed the extent of his malice, because she drew back, trying to shake him. He defied her, scrambling up her leg and onto her back, pounding his great fists against her thorax. There were cracks and crunches and more black blood.

In a final attempt to escape, she curled into a defensive ball and rolled.

Torg dug his hands into the grotesque hair that sprang from her bloated abdomen.

The spider and the wizard rumbled toward the ledge, struck it hard, and bounced over the side. They fell in airy silence onto a knot of sharp stones. Torg landed on top of her, his fall cushioned just enough to keep him alive. Then he rolled off her shattered bulk and lost consciousness, again.

This time there were no dreams. When he opened his eyes the ruins of Dukkhatu were sprawled before him. The spider lay on her back, pierced in many places by prickly black rocks. Her hideous legs quivered, and a wet, whistling sound came from her mouth.

The same mouth that had tortured Sōbhana’s flesh.

The
frenzy
returned. Torg tore a chunk of obsidian from the ground, climbed onto the spider’s exposed belly, and stabbed the stone into her hide, perforating her long, tubular heart. Dukkhatu let out a final, ear-shattering scream—and went still. But Torg didn’t stop. He drove the stone into her again and again, punching huge holes in her carcass.

Her body shredded and tore apart.

Her entrails splashed in his face.

Hate and despair drove his madness. When he no longer had the strength to move, he collapsed face-first in Dukkhatu’s gore.

He didn’t remember standing. He wandered naked and shivering through and around the crumbled stone
 . . .
staggering, falling, crawling. Tears rinsed a little of the filth from his face, but his broken body reeked of the spider’s stink.

Heaps of razor-sharp obsidian were scattered among the jumble of smoother stones, as if planted there with tiny black seeds. It took all of Torg’s remaining will not to grasp another shard and drive it into his own heart, ending his pain.

His life had become nothing but pain. Why breathe any longer? His endurance was gone, his hopes destroyed. Who could blame him for giving up? Not even Sister Tathagata could ask any more of him.

What did it matter anyway? All things were impermanent—he, certainly, as much as anything else. The time of his ending had come. A future lifetime beckoned.

Perhaps he would live it in a better place than this.