Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (22 page)

The beauty of it smote Torg’s heart.

In response, he held his arms aloft.

Opened his mouth as wide as he could.

And howled.

The sound was deafening.

And frightening.

But he wanted his return to be made known.

To the Tugars. And to all.

Despair had done its best to destroy him.

And it had failed.

Do you understand what that means?

By now, you must.

He was
The Torgon
.

Still.

And he was
 . . .
free.

Torg stood at the mouth of a cave, his breath exploding in white puffs. Other than trees, he saw no living beings. It also was well below freezing, and the temperature continued to plunge. At least the sky was clear, and there was no immediate threat of a storm.

The thin gray robes given to him by the cave monkeys provided scant protection. Torg could venture no farther this night. A vast stretch of wilderness stood between him and the nearest city. Until he could find warmer clothing, he would be forced to travel during the day.

Though he had journeyed to many remote areas of Triken, he’d never been this far north on this side of the Mahaggata Mountains. Still, he had studied maps and knew the area well enough. He guessed that Kamupadana, home of the Warlish witches and their hag servants, was about fifteen leagues to the southwest. Avici, the stronghold of Invictus, was about sixty leagues due south. Tējo, the Great Desert, was more than two hundred leagues away.

Torg had some thinking to do, but it was too late to make any decisions tonight. For now what he needed more than anything was a fire. In such a remote location he doubted he had much to fear from prying eyes.

Looking for firewood, he wandered from the cave into the nearby woods. The oaks, birches, and maples were bare. The trees were widely spaced with little foliage beneath, and Torg was amazed to see that portions of the ground were coated with ash from the fallout of the destruction of Asubha. But he found plenty of dead wood and soon had a large-enough pile to burn through the night. Some of the logs were damp, so he used the Silver Sword to strip off the soaked bark. He returned to the cave and chose a flat area to build his fire, using several thick logs to construct a lean-to over a pile of kindling.

During his ordeal with Vedana, Torg had exhausted the majority of his
Death Energy
. With food and rest, a sizable portion might regenerate, though he would not regain full strength until he again achieved Sammaasamaadhi. But in order to escape the pit, he had been forced to perform a Death Visit just three months after his previous one, which was too soon. He preferred a year between visits—and at the least would have to wait several months before his next attempt. However, he wasn’t powerless . . . even now. Effortlessly he mustered a burst of blue flame from the tips of his fingers, and soon the lean-to was ablaze. In the night air the smoke would settle like a fog over the land, and anyone within half a league would be able to smell it. But he didn’t care. Even in his weakened condition he was more than capable of defending himself.

The fire sparked, crackled, and grew hot. Torg stood near, enjoying the much-needed warmth. He had leaned the sword against a nearby rock, and out of curiosity, he now picked it up and slid the blade into the hottest flames. Where the sword entered, a pocket of air formed around the supernal metal, as if the fire was unwilling to touch it. When he withdrew the sword, he pressed his fingers against the blade and found that it was as cold as if it had been lying in snow.

Torg stared at the weapon for a long time. The sight of it reminded him of his final moments with Sōbhana. Grief surged over him, and he plopped down on a flat rock, placed the sword at his feet and buried his face in his hands. When he sobbed, his entire body shook.

Afterward he felt a little better, the painful bout of tears purging a portion of his lament. He opened the bag of food given to him by the cave monkeys and investigated its contents. There was enough to last for about three days, if he rationed it. But he wasn’t overly concerned. He needed only enough for a meal now and a good breakfast in the morning. After that he would be able to find more food, even in late autumn. There would be plenty of nuts, and the woods were bursting with deer, possums, squirrels and rabbits.

As if sitting down to a feast, Torg ate half of what remained in the bag, pleased that his teeth had already grown in enough to chew. The dried worm meat and mushrooms tasted wonderful. Then he scooped up several handfuls of snow. For now, that was enough to quench his thirst. But in the morning he would need to find water, which also would not be difficult. It was probable that several active streams were within a thousand paces of where he stood.

Tomorrow he would go in search of food and clothing. Although he had the ability to kill game and tan hides, he’d have to stay in one place for a week or more to accomplish it. That was not acceptable. Regardless, he believed he could find warmer clothing. The wilderness was vast but not barren, and it was likely that others wandered these woods. In return for a cloak and boots, he would barter his services. And if he ran into any uncooperative sorts, he would convince them that it was not wise to make a Death-Knower angry.

Soon he would take the first steps on his long journey toward vengeance. But he would have to be patient. There were many leagues to travel, many plans to make. And eventually, many battles to wage. Torg tossed more logs onto the fire. Then he sat cross-legged and meditated for two hundred slow breaths before allowing himself to sleep.

He dreamt of his dead father.

In the fiery heat of midsummer, Torg, who had seen just eighteen summers, and Asēkha-Jhana stood on an escarpment overlooking a dry lake bed. Beyond the mile-wide playa, a series of sand dunes tumbled toward the horizon like frozen waves. Though it was just an hour past dawn, it was more than one hundred and ten degrees in the heart of the Great Desert, and the crusty surface of the lake bed was a good deal hotter. But that didn’t stop the Vasi masters from beginning that day’s training session with their Tugar novices. Fifty masters wore black jackets and breeches; a thousand novices wore white.

Jhana pressed against his tall, young son. “Today’s lesson is called
Aarakaa Himsaa,
” he said to Torg. “In the ancient tongue,
Aarakaa Himsaa
means away from harm, though the masters prefer to call it ‘keeping a safe distance.’ The idea is simple: If you stay far enough away from your adversary, he, she or it will not be able to harm you. This does not mean that you should run away. It only means that you should always remain at least a hair’s width from your adversary’s longest strike.”

Torg watched the novices begin their training with one hundred slow breaths of mindful meditation and follow that with a carefully orchestrated bow in honor of their masters. The bow contained seven separate movements, each performed with meticulous precision to the rhythm of the Bheri, a thunderous drum.

After the ceremony was completed, the students lined up in fifty parallel columns, with a master at the head of each. The first student in every column was given a bo, a wooden stave that was five cubits long. Then the novices were instructed to attack the masters with their bo, thrusting and stroking in a series of sporadic movements. With simplistic ease the masters stayed just out of range, jumping backward, sliding sideways, stepping forward. Torg was fascinated. When the students struck quickly, the masters reacted slowly. When the students slowed their attacks, the masters sped up their defense, constantly changing rhythm but never varying distance.

As far as Torg could tell, not a single instructor was touched.

Jhana laughed. “The masters enjoy
Aarakaa Himsaa
. It gives them yet another chance to show off. But it’s clearly valuable. During my fifty years of training I spent more than one thousand hours practicing various forms of these movements. As you can imagine, the more you practice the better you get.”

“Fifty years is such a long time, father. I don’t know if I have the patience. I want to be a warrior now.”

“Think of it as eighteen thousand days, Torg. That way it won’t seem so long.” Then he laughed heartily. “All youngsters feel the same. And some do
not
have the patience—and they fail. But a time will come in your training when your resistance will snap. That will be a painful day. But the training becomes easier and far more pleasurable afterward. Besides, if you train hard enough and long enough, a day will come when you can teach your master a lesson. That is a joyful day.”

“You could defeat a Vasi master? I thought they were invincible.”

“I am Asēkha—beyond the masters and all others. One day you’ll become an Asēkha. For me, that will be a very joyful day. But I’m already proud of you. You have no idea how much talent you possess. If only your mother were here with us. She was an even better fighter than I, you know.”

“You have told me that every day of my life,” Torg said. “But I never grow tired of hearing it. I didn’t know her, yet I miss her so much.”

“Aaaah, Torg, do not despair. She wouldn’t allow either of us to mourn. Dying while giving birth to you was her karma, just as continuing without her was yours and mine. But she lives on
 . . .
in you. Your face looks just like her, my beautiful son.”

Then Jhana began to wander backward.

“Father, where are you going?”

A mist swirled about the Asēkha. He floated toward the blazing sky and was swept away by the hot desert breeze.

“Father, wait! Don’t go. Not yet.”

Torg bolted upright. The first thing he saw was the Silver Sword, pale and lifeless at his side. The sun had risen, but the sky was thick with ugly clouds, and a chill breeze swept across his brow. The fire he’d built the night before still smoldered, but it emitted little warmth.

Torg sighed.

He wasn’t eighteen years old.

He was more than a thousand.

And his beloved father was centuries dead, reduced to just a memory that grew dimmer with each day.

It had been a dream, no more
.

But the two grizzled men and the white-haired woman who approached from the trees were all too real.

One of the men was huge
—tall as Torg and as thick around the belly as an oak—and the hair on his head, face and neck grew together into one grimy tangle. He had small eyes, but his nose was long and oddly shaped. Torg studied him carefully, and soon there was no doubt. This one was a crossbreed—part man, part animal. From the looks of it, the animal portion was a bear.

Throughout the land there were a select few with magic powerful enough to conjure such a creature: Invictus, Vedana, Bhayatupa, the Warlish witches. But whoever had made this one no longer controlled him. He roamed freely, and by the looks of him, was dangerous. In addition to his intimidating height and girth, he carried an axe so heavy few could have lifted it from the ground, much less wielded it.

The second man was dwarfed by the first, even though he was large by ordinary standards. He also had long dark hair and a thick beard, but he was better groomed—and startlingly handsome, his wily blue eyes intelligent and alert. This one was not a crossbreed, but that made him no less dangerous. He held a spear in one hand and had a dagger in his belt.

The woman was the smallest of the three. Her hair was white as snow, accentuating her green eyes, and she wielded a fancy wood bow, probably stolen, that was already nocked and drawn with a flint-tipped arrow aimed at Torg’s heart.

“Friend, I says to ya, we wish for no trouble,” the smaller man said, his eyes fixed on Torg’s every movement. “We miserable wretches are tortured enough, as is. Rest assured, we will leave ya in peace once ya meet our slight demand.”

“Let me shoot him dead and be done with him,” the woman snarled. “Why waste our time with foolish words?”

The leader glared at the woman. Then he turned back to Torg and smiled. “Don’t listen to the Bitch. If it were my choice, I would stay awhiles and make lots of friendly talk. But we have travelled far, and our feet are lamed. We must be moving along.”

The crossbreed stomped forward, his breath bursting from his mouth. “The Bitch is right. No more talking is what I wants. Give me the sword, Master Ogre, or I will remove your foul noggin’.”

The smaller man shook his head. “Ya heard them,” he said, as if resigned to an unwelcome fate. “My friends have not a speck of good humor in their bones. Angry words give me a belly-ache, but what is I to do? I dares not try to control the whims of such frightful peoples.”

Torg rose to his feet, the Silver Sword at his side. “You have traveled far, but not as far as I,” he said in a voice that sounded almost normal to him, now that his teeth were growing back. “And I’m exhausted and lack my usual grace. In better times I might find the three of you amusing. But today I have no patience. Besides, your demand is unacceptable. The sword is precious to me, and I would not abandon it, even under threat from an army of enemies. But I have demands of my own, and I counsel you to obey them. I am in dire need of warm clothing. Take me to your camp and show me what you possess. Be quick, and I’ll reward you. Defy me, and I’ll strip the clothes off your backs.”