Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (33 page)

“It’s his mother,” Rathburt said from behind. “After Elu returned, she never accepted him, claiming he was a devil and banishing him from their home. But he never stopped loving her.”

“I’m sorry, little guy,” Ugga said. “But we will take care of ya, won’t we Bard?”

“That’s very right. Ya are our good friend.”

Torg slid his hand beneath Elu’s cloak, caressing the red-brown skin with glowing fingers. The Svakaran’s tensed muscles relaxed, and he gently released his mother’s ravaged body.

“All are dead. Should Elu not mourn?” There was no sarcasm in his voice, only desperation.

Torg stared hard into his eyes. “In this lifetime their suffering is no longer. But your pain remains. You must find the strength to overcome it.”

“And Sōbhana?” Rathburt said sharply. “Did you not mourn for her?”

“I mourned for myself.”

Torg turned back to Elu. “We must do for your mother and the rest of your people what we did for the others. A slaughter of this magnitude must be countered. The insanity of such merciless behavior strains the balance of karma. But it will take far too long to burn their bodies in traditional fashion. For this task I must risk another display of magic. But first let us search for signs of life.”

The men moved slowly through the rubble. In every face, Torg saw remnants of terror. None had been spared. Despite Torg’s attempts to calm Elu, the Svakaran’s agitation intensified. Torg finally told Rathburt to escort Elu to the far side of the hill. He, Ugga and Bard would do the rest.

The trio searched until late afternoon but did not find a single person alive. If any had survived, they had fled far away. However, the assault had left plenty of food and supplies untouched. They even found a four-wheeled cart—probably stolen from villagers who dwelled along the Ogha River—and a pair of robust oxen to haul it. The Kojin and the wolves had been intent on mayhem and murder. Apparently the animals and supplies had not held their interest.

Torg, Ugga and Bard overloaded the cart with carrots, peas and beans; dried apples, pears and figs; venison and pork; cheeses and butter; salt and herbs; and hay for the oxen. And of course, as many kegs of corn beer and apple wine as they could manage. They were not in the mood for it now, but the winter would be long, and their sadness would fade. Life is for the living, Vasi masters liked to say.

“Those who desire to watch should do so from the hilltop,” Torg said. “Do not stray too near.”

“
Torgon
the Showoff
is about to perform another act of derring-do,” Rathburt sneered.

“Why don’t ya be
quiet,
” Ugga said. “Master Hah-nah is only doing what’s right for those poor peoples.”

“Yes, be quiet,” Elu said.

“Hmmph!” Rathburt said.

While the others climbed to the safety of the hilltop, Torg walked to the center of what remained of the village. He stood there silently, counting fifty inhales and fifty exhales without permitting a single other thought. Then he raised his arms toward the sky. Once again, his eyes glowed blue-green, and tendrils of fire danced along his fingertips, earlobes and nostrils. When he opened his mouth, a ball of smoke puffed out.

“
Aggi dahanti, te aamantemi
! (The fire that consumes, I summon thee!)”

There came a low rumble, as if an earthquake were working up the urge to wreak havoc. Torg became engulfed in red fire, but his blue-green power blended with it, turning the flames a tempestuous shade of purple. The fire whirled, slowly at first, but ever faster and more violently, expanding outward and upward, hungry and potent. Bolts of lightning leapt from it, hurtling angrily into the firmament.

The others watched from the hilltop. Torg imagined that even Rathburt would be left speechless. Everything the fire touched was consumed. Buildings, bodies and bones turned to ash. Without warning, a wave of super-heated air blew across the hilltop. A concussive, five times as loud as thunder, followed.

When it was over, the village had been consumed. The flames receded and the smoke dissipated, leaving nothing but white ash that swirled in the air and coated the ground.

Torg stood in the middle of it all—and he remained there, motionless, for a long time. Finally he dusted himself off. His cloak and boots were unharmed, except for the fringes of his sleeves, which were singed. He had protected himself, even his clothing, with a cocoon of magic. The Silver Sword hung from his belt, cold and disinterested. As Torg walked to the top of the hill, flakes of ash still clung to him.

“It’s done,” he said to the others, all of whom faced him with mouths agape. “I am weary. But we must leave this place.”

The quarter moon had set by the time Torg and the others made it back to the longhouse. Even with the help of the oxen, the cart had slowed them down, and they barely had enough strength to unpack the supplies and guide the beasts into the stable. The goats and chickens seemed unhappy with their new companions—especially ones that weighed more than one hundred and fifty stones apiece—but Torg knelt and whispered to each of them. After that, the animals got along splendidly.

Rathburt smacked his own forehead with the palm of his hand. “What next,
Torgon
? Will you part the Salt Sea and stroll among the flopping fishes?”

Torg chuckled. “I’ve considered it.”

The exertion at the Svakaran village had taken its toll on him. Before casting himself onto a bed of straw in the main room, he ate a small meal hastily prepared by Bard. Usually Elu was in charge of the food, but the Svakaran had been disconsolate since they had departed what remained of the village, and he went to sleep without eating. While Ugga and Bard built a fire, a storm brewed outside. It had a nasty feel. The weather had been calm for more than three days, which was unusual this far north at this time of year. Now it was time to show the tiny creatures that wandered on Triken’s surface what really was in charge.

The storm howled for two full days, piling another three cubits of snow onto an already thick cover. The men drank tea in the mornings, wine in the afternoons and beer at night. They only left the longhouse for quick and shivering sessions of relief. Rathburt finally took it upon himself to heat some water and order each man to bathe.

Torg declined. “When the need arises, I can cleanse myself without the use of water.”

“There are merchants in Kamupadana who make their living selling soaps and perfumes,” Rathburt said. “I’m sure they’re pleased there’s only one of you,
Torgon
. Any more, and they would be out of business.”

“I am who I am,” Torg said, aggravating Rathburt even more.

When the storm finally relented, they went outside for a look around. New drifts of snow—some taller than Torg or Ugga—were haphazardly piled as far as they could see. They were “snowed in,” as Bard liked to say, but at least they had plenty of food and drink. Unless they came under attack, there was no need to do anything but pass the time as best they could until winter loosed its grip, which could take as long as three months this far north.

“The cold is dire,” Torg said to his friends. “But our enemies will find it unpleasant as well. I think we are safe, for now. If all goes well, we’ll be able to renew our journey at winter’s end. Eventually I must reach Kamupadana to learn news of the world, but it is well I remain hidden for a while longer.”

“And what of your precious Tugars?” Rathburt said. “Don’t you want to return to Anna?”

“Avici lies betwixt here and Anna. Besides, I have made Kusala aware that I live, and that is enough. The chieftain is more than capable of preparing the Tent City for whatever dangers might occur. I fear more for Nissaya and Jivita than I do for Anna—and Nissaya, especially. That is where Invictus will strike first. But when? Not before midsummer is my guess. I’ve seen his army. He has little need for surprise.”

“What are your plans after Kamupadana?” Rathburt said.

“My first plan is to remain free. I’ll be no good to anyone if I’m recaptured. I must avoid Avici, which means I will need to travel west before going south. The journey to Jivita—if that is where I choose to go—could take more than a month. Any who wish to join me are welcome.”

“I’ll come with ya,” Ugga said. “But I’m afraid what will happen when Bard and I travels too far from the trees. Will we grow old like Master Rad-Burt?”

Rathburt snorted. “You can only hope to look as good as I do at my age.”

“Bard and Ugga are not as young as they appear,” Torg said. “As for your question, Ugga, I don’t know the answer. The trees have played an important role in your longevity. But there’s one thing I know for certain: Wherever I go, danger will follow. None of you will be safe, as long as you are with me.”

“I’ll go wherever ya go, trees or no trees,” Bard said. “I doesn’t mind a little danger. I gets bored sitting around all day.”

“Elu will follow too, if you’ll have him,” the Svakaran said. “He is weak compared to you great men, but he knows the wild ways and the wild peoples. He might not be the most powerful, but he’s the best guide. And he needs to get away from here. This place makes him sad.”

“I’d be honored,” Torg said. “Your heart is large, my friend. And your strength, as well. Still, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It may be that what I learn in Kamupadana will change everything. And you never know who we’ll meet along the way.”

The five men went about the task of waiting out the winter. It was tedious, to say the least. When the days were calm, they allowed the oxen to forage for grasses beneath the snow, while the men hunted for game. Squirrels and hares were plentiful, as were possums. Several times they killed deer, and once an elk that was larger than a black wolf. Of course they avoided bears—Ugga would never allow one to be harmed—and they also didn’t harm otters. Torg loved them too much to kill them.

“I was an otter in a previous life. If we can’t kill bears because of Ugga, then we can’t kill otters because of me.”

“The Chaunoc are friendly creatures,” the Svakaran agreed. “Elu was an otter once, too.”

“And Master Radburt was a carrot,” Bard said, which sent them all into laughter, including the butt of the joke, who seemed pleased by the jest.

“Better a carrot than a polecat,” Rathburt said, slapping his leg.

Ugga found that even funnier.

Next to bouts of heavy drinking, their meals were the highlights of their days. All of them were adept at cooking, but Elu was the master, especially with sauces and gravies. Once after a big meal they walked outside for fresh air and found a Tyger the size of a Buffelo standing a few dozen paces away, sniffing the aromas that drifted from the smoke hole in the roof of the longhouse. Elu and Rathburt ran back inside. Ugga and Bard stayed close to the door. But Torg strode forward, unafraid, until he stood face-to-face with the beast. Vapors seeped from his mouth, and the Tyger became tame, falling on its side in the snow, as if wanting to play.

“Bring what’s left of the Che-ra,” Torg said to Ugga, but the crossbreed wanted no part of the massive feline. Bard managed to work up the courage, timidly approaching and tossing the roasted remains of the possum a few paces away. The Tyger leapt up and swallowed it whole, then crept to Torg and licked his face with its scratchy tongue.

“Showoff,” Rathburt muttered, while peeking from behind the door.

Time continued to pass. Torg and Rathburt meditated several times a day. The others took an interest and joined them. They also passed the time by telling stories. Rathburt enjoyed this as much as any of them, recounting humorous moments involving his failed attempts to become a Tugar warrior. Once, Torg laughed so hard, the inside of the longhouse started to superheat, and they had to rush him outside to cool him off and avoid burning their shelter to the ground.

Elu told many tales of the Svakarans and also of the hated Mogols. Bard and Ugga talked at length about Jord, and how much they missed her. They also bragged of their sexual exploits—paid for with “da skins”—in Kamupadana.

“I likes ya guys,” Ugga said one evening, after his tenth mug of beer. “But I
loves
the Brounettos. Will winter never end?”

“I second that,” Rathburt said.