Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (19 page)

Gulah laughed again. The cave troll slapped its massive knee. This time the witch could not hold back her rage. Her flawless pale skin seemed to catch fire, her long auburn hair wrinkled and turned gray, and her perfect breasts flopped against her suddenly bulbous stomach. Reeking like rotten flesh, Chal reached for Torg with clawed hands.

Gulah stepped in front of the witch and held her back. “As amusing as this is, I have heard enough,” he said, shoving Chal out of the way. Though Gulah was shorter than Chal, it was obvious that he was far stronger. “Vedana, I vowed to deliver the Death-Knower to you, and I have kept my promise. Now keep yours. Get on with your business. And then leave him to me.”

“On this, we agree. There is no reason to delay any longer,” Vedana said. “Too much is at stake. Prepare him for me. Gulah, you can watch, if you like. And Chal, I
know
that you like to watch.”

“Misssstress, you honor me,” the ugly witch said with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

“I will watch,” Gulah said. “But only to make sure he doesn’t escape.”

Vedana cackled. “Come then, my
friends.
Come and watch our
 . . .
business
.”

The cave troll thundered over, grabbed the ends of the litter and dragged Torg toward another dark tunnel. Gulah, flanked by several Stone-Eaters, led the way. Vedana and Chal walked on either side of Torg. More Stone-Eaters and witches followed behind. The tunnel, lit sporadically by flickering torches, dropped steeply. The farther they descended, the warmer the air became. Torg felt himself beginning to sweat—an unusual sensation, after so many days of torturous cold.

As they traveled deep into the bowels of Asubha, Torg could sense the immense weight of the stone. All of them were minuscule when compared to the might of the mountain; even in its broken state, it would exist long beyond their short, bitter lives.

They marched for what seemed like half a day. After a while, torches were no longer needed. A blazing light rose beneath them, heating the air like a cauldron. Torg found it difficult to breathe.

The Asava had given Torg vigor, and he tested the straps that bound him to the litter, believing now that he was strong enough to break them. It would take weeks of rest and healing to return to anywhere near the fullness of his former strength, but at least he now could put up a fight. However, Peta’s words haunted his consciousness:
You must not thwart her
. Torg trusted the little girl. He would do as she said—even though he felt disgust rising in his throat like bile.

They finally entered a cavern of immense proportions. Stalactites hung perilously from the ceiling, and the floor was littered with stalagmites as tall and thick as trees. In several places the stone growths met, forming thick towers that helped support the high ceiling. There were no torches in the cavern, but it was as bright as the desert under a noon sun—and much hotter.

Torg soon saw why. A circular pool of bubbling magma dominated the center of the cavern floor.

“Welcome, Death-Knower, to the asthenolith,” Gulah said, his voice sounding prideful.

The asthenolith was at least twenty paces across, and it radiated an intense, skin-searing heat. Torg believed no ordinary beings could have stood nearer than ten paces, but everyone in the party was extraordinary, in some sense. Gulah strode within a few spans of the pool, but even he could go no closer. The magma was hot enough to liquefy metal.

A pair of enormous granite slabs flanked each side of the pool. They appeared ancient, yet still strong. U-shaped grooves had been chiseled into the top of each slab, and a rounded column of stone—about six cubits in diameter—had been placed on top of the slabs, fitting securely into the grooves. The column spanning the pool of magma reminded Torg of an oversized spit. A massive crank was attached to one side. Only something monstrously strong could turn something that size.

“Give him my potion,” Vedana ordered.

With a hand as large as a tortoise shell, the troll grasped Torg’s head and held it securely in place. Chal came forward with a steaming stone cup and pinched Torg’s nostrils, forcing open his mouth and pouring a nocuous brew down his throat that tasted like a grotesque mixture of honey and blood.

If he had been at full strength, Torg could have incinerated the potion before it entered his bloodstream. But he had neither the strength nor the desire. Instead he heeded Peta’s warning:
Do not thwart her
.

As the potion overtook him, a pleasant drunkenness saturated Torg’s awareness, causing him to smile. Suddenly this situation didn’t seem so bad. In fact he became quite pleased with everything. He hadn’t felt this good for as long as he could remember.

“It’s working, misssstress,” he heard Chal say. “Look at him. He’s an assss. And sssso ugly. No teeth. No hair. And he stinks. Why, he makes Gulah look almost attractive.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gulah said. “I’ve seen you both ways.”

Still in her ugly state, Chal snorted.

“Quiet, both of you,” Vedana said. “I’ll be the one to decide if my potion is working. Watch this
 . . .
” The demon took Torg’s penis in her hand and stroked it.

Chal gasped, and then sighed, wantonly. The five other witches in the cavern put their hands to their mouths. Gulah rolled his eyes. The cave troll grunted and looked between his own legs.

“I would have to say that your potion is working, misssstress,” Chal said.

Vedana cackled, obviously pleased. “Yes. Be quick now. Strap him to the spit.”

Two Stone-Eaters released Torg from the litter and carried his naked body up a set of stone stairs on the opposite side of the crank. Though the column was rounded, it was wide enough to walk on without slipping. The Stone-Eaters hauled him to the middle of the pillar, where four iron cuffs had been pounded into the granite. Then they laid him on his back and locked his wrists and ankles into the cuffs.

The witches and Stone-Eaters encircled the pool, as close to the magma as they could bear. Chal and her sisters began to sing and chant. Gulah and the other Stone-Eaters stood with arms crossed at their chests. The cave troll walked over to the crank. Torg lay helplessly on the column, his erection resembling the stalagmites that rose from the stone floor.

Vedana removed her robes. Like the witches, the demon was a shape-shifter, but she was more versatile, able to appear as almost anyone or anything relatively close to her physical size. When Torg turned his head to look at her, he saw Sōbhana’s naked body, tanned and erotically muscled. He quivered with passion.

Vedana, in the form of Sōbhana, glided alluringly up the stairs and across the pillar. The demon stood above him, straddling his prone body with her athletic legs. The witches’ strange mantra filled the chamber, increasing in volume, and their bodies changed from beautiful to ugly, ugly to beautiful—over and over. Gray smoke, emanating from their transformations, choked the air.

Slowly Sōbhana lowered herself onto Torg’s rigidity. He succumbed to bliss, moaning as he writhed. Sōbhana moaned too, and the witches sang louder. Even Gulah’s Stone-Eaters became entranced, and the troll’s drooling tongue lolled from its mouth.

Blood-red tendrils from the asthenolith leapt from its surface and licked the sides of the spit. Miniature bursts of lightning crackled between the tendrils, followed by snapping claps of thunder. The cavern was as hot as an oven.

Sōbhana’s well-built warrior body rode Torg deliciously. She growled and screamed, digging her nails into the thick muscles of his chest. Torg began to scream as well, his head jerking backward and his eyes clamping shut. At one point he opened them again to look at Sōbhana, and he saw that Vedana had lost control of her illusion and become her true physical incarnation, a translucent being with visible bones and internal organs. To avoid further disgust, Torg turned his head and watched the others.

The witches succumbed to frenzy, flinging their heads wildly and transforming back and forth so quickly that no single appearance held sway. They were beautiful and ugly, at the same moment. The cavern was ablaze with perverted sexual energy.

Torg’s approaching orgasm surged out of the depths of his frustration. It had been more than nine hundred years since he had been with a woman, and the abysmal aftermath of that encounter had left a permanent scar on his psyche. His supernaturally vibrant body burned for intimacy, but he had been forced into a centuries-long celibacy that tormented his every waking moment—as well as his dreams.

Now Torg howled uncontrollably, and his back arched ferociously, almost casting Vedana into the pool. But with a demon’s agility, she held on tight. The pair climaxed simultaneously.

Cathartic energy erupted from every pore of Torg’s body, and the cavern filled with blue fire. Next came a concussive blast of sound, which boomed inside the chamber. Though his mind was lost in the throes of lust, Torg still was able to see fissures forming in the surrounding stone, racing this way and that like cracks in a weakening sheet of ice.

First to die was Gulah. His eyes popped from his skull and ruptured. His stony hide burst into flame and incinerated. His skeleton cracked apart and clattered to the floor. The sword, released from its sheath, bounced on the stone and slipped into the broiling magma.

The other Stone-Eaters suffered similar fates. They were no match for such power. The troll ran toward the tunnel, but his enormous backside caught fire, and he split in half along his spine. Then his body blew apart, splattering fiery chunks of flesh onto the cavern walls. His bare skull tumbled through the air and landed on top of a stalagmite. It stuck there, jaw sprung open as if pleased to find a less-fragile body.

The conflagration also swept away the witches. Even Chal-Abhinno was consumed, screaming in wild-eyed horror as she realized, too late, how she had been betrayed. Her revenge would not be sweet. Nor would Gulah’s. Apparently Vedana had wanted no witnesses. Was this a secret she chose not to share? If so, the loss of a few underlings would be a small price to pay.

Torg’s orgasmic fury sluiced through Vedana’s undead flesh like a torrent, but it did not destroy her. After she was sure of his completion, the demon leapt into the air and somersaulted over the pool. Fast as a spider she fled on all fours, skittering past the carnage into the safety of the passageway. Torg heard her wicked cackles echoing long after she disappeared.

As if in response, the stone column shattered into a thousand shards.

Torg tumbled toward the asthenolith and then sank into its blistering depths.

Few beings in Triken’s history could have withstood the fury of the asthenolith. All but the mightiest would have been consumed—flesh, bones, and sinew—in just a few dreadful moments. But the aftermath of Torg’s orgasmic firestorm still clung to his dense flesh, protecting him from the molten stone. He sank deeper and deeper into the viscous magma, tumbling slowly head over heels.

The pain was unbearable, and he could not breathe. As the blue fire that encompassed his body diminished, the agony intensified.

Yet he continued to live.

The asthenolith’s hard walls tapered like a funnel. Torg finally struck bottom and lay on his side in the superheated goo. Although his iron cuffs had already melted, he now pressed against something else metallic—and still cold. It was the sword. Its supernal alloys were impervious.

As if guided by an invisible will, a current of magma lifted and carried him into a passageway that ran through the surrounding wall. Torg was drawn into the tunnel head-first, his broad shoulders barely squeezing through. He could not see, but somehow he managed to grab the sword before he was swept away.

The tunnel ran straight for several paces before bending sharply upward. Torg ascended slowly, lifted by the bubbling surge. At first his body was limp and unresisting, his blue fire nearly gone. The grime and disease in his flesh sizzled away. Soon the pain reached new levels of anguish. Torg began to writhe and scream, praying for some form of mercy.

Then, suddenly, his head was free of the fire. And his hands. And arms. With the final remnants of his strength, he pulled his body and the sword out of the magma and up into a small chamber.

The room was aglow, enabling Torg to see for several paces. He slithered away from the molten rock as far as his strength allowed, finally collapsing on hot stone.

He lay still, fading in and out of consciousness, his body a screaming bundle of misery. Each time he awoke, he sobbed and moaned, then fainted again. This went on for a long while.

When he finally regained full consciousness, Torg lay face-down and listened to the magma as it bubbled near his feet. It had the sound of hunger and desire, as if beckoning him to return to the depths and be devoured. He heard another noise—or imagined one, at least—coming from the other direction. It sounded like trickling water, and it drove him mad. He had gone without water for almost a month.

The enormity of his thirst inspired him to move. Otherwise he might have lain there and succumbed to the lure of death. Bit by bit, he dragged himself away from the magma, away from the dim light and into the darkness of the tunnel. It soon descended, making it easier for Torg to move forward. But the farther he journeyed the darker it became. The fading blue glow that emanated from his flesh provided scant visibility. He clung to the sword, as if it were a comrade.

The trickling grew louder. Torg crept toward it. The walls of the tunnel became smooth and slippery, and he half-crawled, half-slid, endlessly downward, into the bowels of the mountain.

Into places where there was no light and no life.

His grave, he feared, would never be discovered. His corpse would decay slowly, and his bones would lie alone, with the sword at their side, lost and forgotten in the great depths of the mountain.

A droplet of water struck his forehead, and he reached upward with his hands. The roof of the tunnel was moist. Torg screamed out of joy and relief, and an infinite series of echoes raced through the tunnel. He pressed his face against the stone and licked. Then he scrambled forward several more paces and found the main source, a tiny but steady trickle of water issuing from a prick in the ceiling. The water was lukewarm and metallic in flavor, but to Torg it tasted as sweet as nectar. He drank for what seemed like forever, until his stomach was too bloated to hold any more.

After that, he slept fitfully. Peta did not visit his dreams, but Sōbhana was there, naked and alluring. Or was it Vedana?

Torg jerked awake. It was utterly dark. The blue glow of his skin had faded to nothing.

For the first time in weeks, he urinated. It burned his flaccid shaft as it drizzled onto the floor of the tunnel. When he finished he was thirsty again, and he drank his fill of the precious water. Slowly, hydration worked its way into his cells. With it came vitality. His body still needed food, but it had needed water more. With his thirst quenched, his mind opened to the possibility of survival.

“
Eso aham idha
(Here I am),” Torg said out loud.

Eso aham idha
 . . .
Eso aham idha
 . . .
Eso aham idha
 . . .
Eso aham idha
 . . .

How deep
was
this tunnel? Did it ever end? And would it become too narrow for Torg to navigate? He could barely squeeze through it now.

In a sudden burst of awareness Torg felt the weight of the mountain all around him. Panic crept into his thoughts, threatening to suffocate his sanity. There was nowhere to escape. If he backtracked, the magma would trap him. If he continued forward, he would descend farther into uncharted territory, ensnared in the fatal grip of a trillion tons of bedrock. He began to sweat profusely. His heart thundered in his chest. He could not catch his breath. The air was so stale. His body trembled. He became dizzy and nauseated. He felt an irresistible urge to pound his way free, to smash his fists against the underbelly of the mountain until it collapsed around him.

Torg shrieked in childish terror. It echoed along the never-ending length of his cramped prison, alerting all who might listen to his despair. He scrambled downward in a mad rush, scraping his elbows and knees on the smooth stone, dragging the clattering sword alongside. His panicked shouts outraced him, piercing the darkness. He went on this way for a long time.

Finally, he fell on his face.

Shivering. Moaning. Whimpering.

The passageway echoed his suffering.

All that he had been taught was a lie.

There was no beginning.

No middle.

No end.

There was only fear. Now and forever.

But this time, exhaustion—long his enemy—came to his rescue, and he succumbed to sleep.

Peta remained noticeably absent in his dreams, as if Torg had delved too deeply even for her to follow. Instead nightmares made an unpleasant visit. The tunnel closed around him, attempting to digest him. Worms chewed on his immobile flesh, and he could not escape their hunger. They devoured his nose, ears and tongue. They ate his fingers and toes. His screams sounded like Sōbhana’s.

Torg sprang awake, banging his head against the low stone roof. When his brain cleared he found that—for whatever reason—his madness had receded. He had never been particularly claustrophobic before, but his confinement in the pit had given birth to that fear. Now he shut that door with a bang. He probably would die here, but it would not be of fright.

He was
The Torgon
. Or at least, what remained of him.

“
Natthi me maranabhayam
(For me there is no fear of death),” he shouted with as much conviction as he could muster.

Natthi me maranabhayam
 . . .
Natthi me maranabhayam
 . . .
Natthi me maranabhayam
 . . .

“But I don’t want to die,” he whispered.

That echoed, too.

Again he crawled forward, bringing the sword along with him, though it made it more difficult. He was able to loop his right pinky finger around the crossguard and drag it along without losing too much dexterity. He was amazed to feel that even the leather grip had survived the heat of the lava. Was it warded by ancient magic? He wasn’t sure why he continued to carry the weapon, anyway. It wouldn’t do him much good down here in this enclosed space. But out of respect for Sōbhana, he kept it with him.

After blindly feeling his way in the darkness for a long time, Torg came upon a fork where the tunnel split in two directions. He had no idea which opening to choose. Both appeared to continue downward, but the one on the right felt larger and cooler. Torg had no desire to encounter any more magma, so he went that way.

As he descended along the new tunnel, it quickly became very cold, and Torg began to shiver. He hadn’t felt this cold since Gulah had captured him, but he soon became re-accustomed to the discomfort. He certainly had experienced enough of it in the pit.

After a while the tunnel split again. Torg felt around with his hands and discovered at least three different openings. This time, the left tunnel was the largest and coolest, so he went that way.

However, this passageway soon tightened, and he was forced to press his shoulders together just to squeeze through. He put the sword in front of him, sliding it forward, afraid that if he continued to drag it and then lost his grip he wouldn’t have the will to back up and retrieve it.

Eventually the tunnel split in several more directions. Torg realized he was hopelessly lost, then laughed aloud. Since this journey had begun, when had he not been lost? His laughter bounced off countless walls. He was trapped in a maze of passageways that wove in a thousand directions. Even if the tunnels were lighted, he could not hope to escape a labyrinth of such scope.

From then on, whenever there was an option he chose the middle path. As Sister Tathagata always said, “The middle path leads to enlightenment.” Luckily, he found more trickling water—cooler and clearer than before. He drank his fill and slept again. What other pleasures were left to him? Quenching his thirst and sleeping had become the extent of his entertainment. And, of course, the nightmares. In one, Vedana came toward him holding a squalling baby. When she held it up, Torg saw that it had a human head and torso but legs like black worms. Torg recoiled, then reached out with his right hand and broke its neck. The thing turned to dust.

Torg shrieked and bumped his sore head on the ceiling of the passageway yet again. A cacophony of his own echoing screams taunted his awakening.

When silence returned, he lay still and began to watch his breath. It was his first attempt at meditation since his escape from the pit. He had no intention of achieving
Sammaasamaadhi
; his broken body was incapable of surviving another
Death Visit
. But the benefits of meditation were many and varied. At the very least it would calm him. He doubted there was any way he could escape this predicament, but a clear mind was always superior to a clouded one, no matter the precariousness of the situation.

The darkness and quiet aided his concentration. He felt his breath whistling in and out of his nostrils. The skin on the tip of his nose tingled ever so slightly. After several inhalations and exhalations, a thought entered his mind: Where was Vedana now? Was she pregnant with his child? He acknowledged the thought and gently pushed it aside, returning his focus to the skin surrounding his nostrils. Inhale. Exhale. Peaceful mind.

Why had Peta believed it was so important not to resist the demon? Why would a child with Vedana be able to provide him with the weapon to destroy Invictus?

Return to focus. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Peaceful mind. Quiet mind. Clear mind.

Abruptly, his concentration was interrupted.

He heard something.

Scraping and slurping on the stone.

And it appeared to be headed his way. Fast.