Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (34 page)

Oh so gradually, the days lengthened. Oh so gradually, the banks of snow receded. Like a tired old man losing the will to live, winter released its grip. There was rain instead of sleet, followed by delicious wisps of midday warmth.

Even as patches of snow lingered on the ground, a weeping willow growing near a stream about three hundred paces from the longhouse was the first of the deciduous trees to go green. The stream roared again, chunks of ice tumbling down its long throat.

“When do we leave, Master Hah-nah?” Ugga said to Torg one morning, while the men stood together beneath a crystal sky in the late morning. “Now that the snow is melting, Elu says we can reach the Whore City in three days. Our food’s low, and we’re almost out of beer.”

“I’m waiting for a sign,” Torg said.

“Don’t listen to his nonsense,” Rathburt said. “He’s always saying things like that.
I’m waiting for a sign
. Ooooooo. He won’t be satisfied until the sun and moon perform a waltz for his benefit.”

Torg was unperturbed. “Something strange is in the air. Do you not feel it?”

“The only thing strange is you,” Rathburt said.

But the Svakaran agreed with Torg. “Elu feels it, too. The birds have stopped singing, and the chipmunks no longer chitter. Something frightens them.”

“The little guy is right,” Bard said. “Where
have
the birds gone, anyways? And there is no breeze.”

Torg raised his head, shielded his eyes with his hand, and gazed toward the sun. The others did the same.

“We are about to find out,” he proclaimed. “Behold!”

“What are you babbling about?” Rathburt said.

“Be patient. And shield your eyes. Even a Tugar can be blinded if he stares too long at the sun.”

“I sees something,” Ugga said excitedly. “Look, a sliver of darkness.”

“I sees it too,” Bard said.

“You’ve gone mad,” Rathburt said. But then, even he couldn’t deny it. “Wait
 . . .
I do see something.
Torgon
, how did you know?”

“I am a Death-Knower. I know many things others do not. Besides, I’ve witnessed this event before, and I remember how everything felt just before it began. All of us who live long lives will see the moon become enshrouded in shadow many times. But when it happens to the sun, it is a far rarer and more powerful occurrence. The noble ones say that the sun and the moon circle the skies like birds, and sometimes the moon passes in front of the sun and blocks its light.”

“The Svakaran legends say the sun and moon take turns eating each other,” Elu said. “And afterward, they’re so full they rest for a long time before their next meal.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve seen this too,” Rathburt said. “But it was so long ago.”

They stood silently and watched the eclipse develop. At first a shadow appeared on the western edge of the sun. Then over the course of two hundred slow breaths it widened until the sun was half covered. The sky remained clear, but the blue was less vivid, and the light at ground level was noticeably dimmer.

From there, things happened quickly. The western sky darkened, as if a great storm was creeping over the horizon, and the rest of the sky changed from blue to violet. Now the sun resembled a crescent moon, no longer bright.

“Behold the rising shadow,” Torg said, gesturing toward the west.

The shadow rose and widened, resembling the arrival of a winter storm from Nirodha. But there was no snow, lightning, or thunder. Only darkness. The sun shrank to just a sliver. And then, as if in surrender, the delicate crescent sparkled and winked out, becoming a black disk surrounded by an irregular circle of quivering light. Stars were visible in the twilight. The far edge of the horizon glowed like the final moments of sunset. Gusts of cool air stroked their faces. A cluster of bats, believing night had arrived, burst from a nearby cave.

The sun remained dark for twenty-five slow breaths before finally emerging from the shadow. Soon after, it was blazing as before. The bats returned to their hideout. The brightness of day resumed.

“I have my sign,” Torg announced. “We leave for Kamupadana tomorrow morning. Beginning now, my name is Hana—to
all
of you. One slip of the tongue could expose our conspiracy. Thus far, our encounter with the wolves was our only misstep. But wolves cannot talk, so their masters will remain confused over who or what defeated them. We must all be like Ugga and Bard: common wood folk looking to trade skins for food, drink, coins and luxuries.”

“Brounettos!” Ugga shouted.

Rathburt rolled his eyes, but the others laughed. Afterward Elu took Torg’s hand.

“Will we be away for a long time,
great one
?”

“If you join me, it will be many months before you return
 . . .
if
you return. But as I’ve often said, I will force none of you to accompany me. The road I travel will be wrought with peril.”

“Ah
 . . .
I might as well come, anyway,” Rathburt said. “Without Elu around, who will do all the chores? And besides, I’ve stayed in one place for too long. The soil of my garden needs a rest. A little adventure might suit me. Think of all the plants, flowers and trees we’ll see as we wander.”

“Tonight we should have a celebration,” the Svakaran said. “Elu will prepare roasted goat with mushroom gravy and chicken soup with carrots, onions and wild potatoes. Even Ugga will have a full stomach.”

“What a great idea, little guy,” Ugga said. “There’s just enough beer and wine to have one last party. Let’s get started.”

After their feast they went to bed late and got up early, feeling queasy and hung over—except for Torg, who never experienced ill effects from drinking. This time they had the cart and oxen to haul the skins and their supplies. The going would be easier, but still tedious. Though the terrain between the longhouse and the Whore City was traversable on foot, some areas would be difficult. But with Elu, Ugga, and Bard to guide them, it could be done.

As they prepared to leave, the oxen became especially docile, as if pleased to have survived the previous night’s feast. Torg carried the Silver Sword, but now it was strapped onto his back beneath his cloak. The others laid their weapons in the cart next to the skins. Elu packed cooking gear, bowls, cups and spoons along with what remained of their herbs and spices. By midmorning they were ready to depart.

“This was a good home,” the Svakaran said, tears in his eyes. “Elu will miss it.”

“So will I,” Rathburt said. “There are worse places to live.”

“There may come a time when you will return,” Torg said.

“I won’t return,” Rathburt said.

Torg raised an eyebrow. Then he turned, grabbed one of the oxen by its yoke, and pulled. The ox responded, and the cart lurched forward. The others followed on foot, with Elu the last to leave the longhouse behind.

By nightfall they had managed only four leagues. The oxen moved slowly, and the cart was crudely built. Several times they were forced to circle out of their way to avoid deep streams or dense stands of forest. Still, they were pleased. Anything was preferable to hauling the litter.

The first night was chilly. There was just the slightest sliver of moon, and the skies remained clear. They camped inside a cave several times larger than the longhouse, its ceiling towering twenty cubits above a floor covered with crumbled stone.

Ugga became obsessed with bear droppings he discovered deep in its interior, crawling around on his hands and knees and sniffing like an animal. Torg was more interested in drawings he found on the walls, some of which were brightly colored with amazing detail, while others were barely visible. In one scene a hunting party of long-haired men battled a wooly mammoth. The red and yellow ocher used by the artist had faded over the millennia, but large portions of the painting remained intact.

“Mammoths still live in the heart of Nirodha,” Torg said. “The great dragons have eaten most of them, but the decline of the dragons has enabled a few mammoths to survive. They are mighty beasts, twice as large as desert elephants—though not nearly as intelligent. Their hide is covered with shaggy hair, and the males have humps on their backs like camels.”

“And I suppose you’ve seen them and ridden them, and even taught them the ancient tongue,” Rathburt said.

“I wasn’t able to teach them the ancient tongue.”

Elu snorted.

They risked a fire, enjoying a hot meal and some of Rathburt’s excellent black tea. Soon after dark, they curled up and went to sleep. Torg saw no need to post a guard. His senses were such that it was nearly impossible to approach him undetected, even while he slept—although Jord had managed it in broad daylight, which still galled him.

“Where are you now, Jord?” Torg whispered to himself. “Are you watching over us, a bird perched high in the trees? Or a bear crouching in the bushes? Ugga would like that. Wherever and whoever you are, I thank you for removing Vedana’s poison. And I thank you for filling me with the magic of the great pines. I’ll need my strength in the coming months. I hope we’ll meet again, one day.”

Torg meditated for two hundred long breaths before closing his eyes and going to sleep. He dreamt that he straddled the crest of a fossil dune, somewhere deep in the heart of his beloved Tējo. On his right stood his father, Asēkha-Jhana. On his left was a beautiful woman with golden hair and flawless skin. It was midnight, and a full moon glowed as bright as the sun.

Jhana bent over and scooped up a handful of sand. “I have a lesson for you, my son.”

“Tell me, father.”

“The Great Desert extends more than a hundred leagues from where we stand. The grains of sand I hold in my hand represent what you’ve learned thus far in your life. What you still must learn lies beyond.”

Torg pondered the enormity of such words, and a slew of questions leapt to mind. But before he could ask any of them, Jhana transformed from flesh to black stone. This frightened Torg, and he turned to the woman for support.

“What happened to my father?” he asked her.

She did not speak, but her smile burned sweet holes in his heart. For a moment Torg’s fears receded, and he lost himself in the glory of her blue-gray eyes, which sparkled in the moonlight.

But the pleasant reverie was interrupted when—somewhere in the depths of the darkness—a baby began to wail.

Torg was horrified. Who could abandon an infant in such a dangerous place? Surely, only the worst kind of monster would be capable of such cruelty.

He clambered down the side of the dune and charged across the desert, running to and fro in a panic. But the infant was as invisible as a ghost, and try as he might he could not find her anywhere.

As suddenly as it had begun, the wailing stopped.

And was replaced by cackling laughter.

Torg stood still—lost and alone in a vast sea of sand.

So much to learn, he thought.

And so little time.

So
 . . .
little
 . . .
time.