Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (21 page)

However, Torg found one injury he could not heal. The trauma had weakened one of the chambers of the monkey’s heart. Mending it would require too much precision, even for his abilities. She would have to lie very still for several days and let her body do the rest.

But Torg believed she would survive. As did the cave monkeys. They came to him—now more than seventy in all—and clung to him like bees on a honeycomb.

They appeared to weep with joy. Torg wept, too.

The injured female slept peacefully, her breathing slow and steady.

Torg felt drained. He returned to his bed in the adjoining cavern, ate another large bowlful of soup, relieved himself in the privacy of a back chamber, and then slept for what seemed like an entire night. When he finally stirred again he felt groggy—but otherwise wonderful. He was amazed by how quickly his mind had been able to overcome trauma. In the past few weeks he had endured a lethal combination of physical and mental anguish. But his mind had refused to dwell on it. Instead Torg sat up, stretched and belched.

The sudden noise startled several of the monkeys, and they leaped upward and almost crashed against the stone ceiling. The others chittered, a sound that resembled laughter.

One of the monkeys imitated Torg’s belch. Soon they all were laughing, chittering, burping and coughing. In the dim underground chamber they made quite a racket. Torg watched them, smiling all the while.

Several days passed. Torg wandered among the caverns, learning his way, step-by-step. What he saw fascinated him. The monkeys were unendingly clever. They were adept at using fire—always positioning the flames beneath vents in the rock—but they also had other abilities. They cooked, cleaned and bathed themselves. They used knives, spoons and pottery. They even had a kind of school. The youngsters watched the elders perform various skills, including the ultra-dangerous method of collecting their main source of food—the chunks of tentacle meat.

Their artistic abilities were what most astounded Torg. By blending mineral extracts and worm fat, the monkeys created multicolored pigments. Using their fingers as primitive paintbrushes, they adorned the passageways and chambers with images of the other animals that populated their underground world, including many Torg did not recognize. The worm monster played a dominant role in most of the drawings. On a wall in one of the largest caverns, the monster extended from floor to ceiling, its tentacles roaming hungrily through a myriad of winding tunnels. The monkeys portrayed themselves as brave warriors in the illustration, taking on a beast ten thousand times their size.

Torg applauded this depiction—literally. The monkeys clapped along with him.

One day they led him to a well-lit chamber. Its smooth walls were untouched, except for one painting: a life-size image of the wizard—with a huge smile on his face—standing over a pot of soup. For the first time, Torg got to see what he now looked like. At first he was horrified, but then he laughed until tears sprang from his eyes.

Torg stayed with the monkeys more than a week. They led him through dozens of caves and passageways, some brightly lit by torches, others as black as the Realm of the Undead. Occasionally they passed an ominous hole—and the creatures taught him how to duck under or scoot around the opening. Several times a tentacle emerged. The monkeys reacted almost nonchalantly to these sudden appearances.

It took Torg awhile to realize the cave monkeys did not hate or fear the worm monster. For one thing, it single-handedly kept the underground free of vermin. But that was merely a side benefit. In reality the monkeys were utterly dependent on the monster for their survival. If it were destroyed, they also would perish. Without the worm’s precious flesh, there wasn’t enough food in the lower depths to support their colony. They were ill-equipped to hunt close to the surface and appeared unable to bear the brutality of sunlight. They were—and probably always had been—creatures of the underworld.

On the sixth day of Torg’s stay, the monkeys took him on a hunt. He brought the Silver Sword and the monkeys their stone daggers. They returned to the large cavern where Torg originally had met them. The great wall stood before them, full of empty holes.

Before scampering to preassigned positions, the monkeys lit dozens of torches. Then they began to pound the handles of their daggers against the wall, in perfect rhythm. Within a few moments hundreds of tentacles emerged from the holes. The monkeys danced from limb to limb, hacking and slicing and barely avoiding death.

Torg strode forward, holding the sword in both hands. With one lightning-quick stroke he hacked off the ends of five tentacles. Under these conditions, the worm monster was no match for him. It sensed its peril and withdrew.

Torg held his arms aloft like a hero, the severed tentacles wriggling at his feet. But the cave monkeys were not pleased. He had upset their delicate balance and had shamed them in the process. As soon as he understood his mistake, he felt embarrassed and ignorant.

The monkeys eventually forgave him, but they never trusted the sword again. In their minds, it seemed to endanger their symbiotic relationship with the worm, and they wanted nothing to do with it. At one point Torg had considered giving the sword to them as a gift. Now he knew better. So he buried it beneath the sand of his bed and left it hidden there.

On the eighth day, the old woman reappeared and spoke to Torg.

“Lovely one, I must ask
 . . .
how long will thou stayest?”

Torg paused. Then he sighed. “Those far away depend on me. I am one who commands. I am needed above.”

“I
 . . .
we
 . . .
understand. Then the old woman sighed, and tears fell from her eyes. “We will prepare, but we will be highly sorrowful.”

“Oh, my wonderful friend, so will I
 . . .
so will I.”

On the morning of the tenth day, Torg knew it was time to depart. The monkeys gave him a cloth bag containing dried worm meat and raw mushrooms. To find the mushrooms, they probably must have journeyed much closer to the surface than they would have preferred, but providing Torg with food had become an honor. They seemed to love him as much as he loved them.

Torg still wore the gray robes and sandals they had given him. He turned to the leader and asked her where they had gotten the robes and the bag, and also where they had found the wood to make the torches and their eating utensils. There was no way to weave fabrics in a world of stone, and there was no wood so deep beneath the surface.

She answered, telepathically.
We find things down here that shouldn’t be here. Something leaves things for us. We don’t know who or what. Sometimes, we see a white-haired lady.

Torg wondered what else they had discovered. Did they have a stash of hidden treasure? He hoped they did—and that it brought them pleasure. But who was the mysterious being or beings that helped his little friends? Perhaps one day he could return and find out.

The reddish-brown monkey who sometimes appeared to him as the old woman came forward and took his hand, leading him toward the middle of the chamber. The colony spread apart, making a path.

Tears flooded Torg’s eyes. The monkey who had been injured stood before him, leaning on a small staff. Torg knelt in front of her and bowed, positioning his face just a finger-length above the sand floor. When he lifted his head he recognized gratitude in her expression. She came to him, placed her small hands on his cheeks, leaned forward and licked him on the tip of his nose.

Torg continued to cry. Tears came far too easily these days—especially for one who claimed to be a warrior—but he didn’t care. Using his powers to heal a living being, rather than destroy one, pleased him beyond words. He had done far too much killing during his long life. And there would be so much more.

He rose to his full height, towering above the monkeys. The tallest of them did not reach his knees. He started to speak, but what he saw stopped him cold. Every member of the colony had imitated him, bowing with their faces a finger-length from the sand.

Torg was astonished.

Finally he said,
“Sahaayaa me, titthatha. Tumhe ariyaani sattamaani. Tumhe na koci puujetha.
(My friends, please rise. You are the highest quality. You bow to no one.)”

One by one they came to him and clung to him. Some hugged his legs. Others climbed onto his broad back and shoulders. Each one lifted his robes and licked a portion of his skin. Then they left the chamber, wearing expressions of sorrow.

Torg was devastated. The sadness he felt re-awoke his grief over Sōbhana’s death. He stood alone in the chamber for a long time.

His friend—their leader—waited patiently in the entryway. Finally Torg composed himself, picked up the cloth bag and the Silver Sword, and followed her along a familiar tunnel. For his benefit she carried a single torch to light their way. As they walked through the winding passageways, Torg caught occasional glimpses of wide, glowing eyes just out of range of the torchlight. Many of the monkeys were following him. They still weren’t ready to say their final goodbyes. Torg was grateful for their company.

Torg never could have found his way out on his own. The gallery zigzagged numerous times, opening into countless tunnels and chambers. His guide knew which paths to choose and which to ignore.

The temperatures varied widely. When they came near pockets of magma, the air grew unbearably hot. At other times it was bitterly cold. For much of their journey Torg was able to walk upright, but several times the ceiling lowered and he was forced to hunch over. Sometimes he had to crawl.

All told, they traveled more than three leagues, though they had probably ascended less than a thousand vertical paces. Boulders and stagnant pools of water hindered their progress. Finally they entered an enormous cavern that was well-lit—not by magma or torchlight, but by sunlight creeping down from above. Torg looked at his friend. She already was in pain, her eyes squinting. He understood she could go no farther.

Out loud, Torg said, “I will miss you, precious one. Thank you for saving my life.”

She responded, telepathically.
And I will miss you, lovely one. Thank you for saving my sister’s life.

The monkey retreated into the semi-darkness and then waved her thin arm. Torg could sense the sadness in her eyes. He felt the same, and more. She gestured toward a small passageway that exited the cavern. Torg nodded. He walked toward the light.

He couldn’t resist turning around one last time. At the edge of the darkness, the old woman had reappeared. As always she was smiling.

Then she vanished.

Torg sat down on a flat stone, disconsolate. To take his mind off his sadness he ate some of the dried meat and raw mushrooms. The upper parts of his teeth had broken through the surface of his gums, and he finally was able to chew, which made the food taste even more delicious. Near his feet was a clear pool of water, and he drank his fill. Part of him wanted to forsake the surface world and return to his primate friends, but he knew he would not be able to find them on his own. Once again he vowed to return one day—if Invictus were defeated and peace returned to Triken—and try to reconnect with the precious colony.

Until that time, if it ever came, he would mourn their absence.

Torg sighed. It was now or never. He stood, picked up his belongings—a simple bag of food and an ancient sword—and ascended the difficult passageway. It was steep and slippery. He soon found himself gasping for breath. But the higher he climbed, the brighter it became, motivating him.

The quality of the air began to change. During his stay underground Torg had grown too used to mustiness. This air was crisp, cold and dry—and engorged with oxygen. The richness of it overwhelmed his lungs, but at the same time it filled them with sweetness and vitality. Torg was a creature of the surface. And it was to there, after his long suffering, that he would now return.

When he stepped from the mouth of the cave, it was near dusk in the southern foothills of Mount Asubha. Though it was still only late autumn, the temperature was well below freezing, and there were scattered patches of snow on the ground. Most of the trees, except a few hemlocks and pines, had dropped their leaves. The darkening sky was clear and deep-blue; almost everything else was white, brown, or gray.