Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (3 page)

For a moment everyone appeared unable to move. Evoking the name of Mala had stunned the gathering into silence. But in place of the monster, the Warlish witch stepped into view, and a noise far more unpleasant and painful than any scream Podhana could have conjured disrupted the eerie quiet.

In Torg’s perception it began as a low growl, like that of a large feline sighting prey, though it was interspersed with tiny cackles and high-pitched profanities. The bizarre mixture of sounds was designed to breed despair, as if confirming the worst fears of all living beings: Hell was the only true reality and eternal suffering the fate of all. The effect on the gathering was widespread. Several of the noble ones, temporarily freed from the grasp of their captors, bent over and vomited. Sōbhana and the other Asēkhas spat and reflexively drew their curved swords. Kusala bared his teeth and growled in return, one dangerous beast squaring off with another. But Torg held up his hand, as if to stay them all.

When he spoke, the spell was broken—at least enough to relax the Asēkhas. “I did not come all this way ‘with sand in my boots’ to deal with the likes of you,” Torg said to the witch. “Let your master show himself. He is the only one here worthy of my regard.”

Despite Torg’s bold words, the witch did not appear dismayed. Mucus squirted from her nostrils and fell to the stone at her feet, smoking and sizzling. She stomped to the edge of the balcony and kicked the captain’s headless body off the platform. It flew sideways and tumbled halfway down the stairs before crumpling in a bloody heap. Those nearby backed away in disgust.

“Youuuu,” she purred, pointing a finger at Torg. “I come for youuuu.”

To Torg, the words themselves were harmless, even comical. But there was a madness in the way she uttered them that seemed to cause nervousness and trembling among most in attendance. The witch’s eye sockets were empty, but they blazed with rancid light. Her scraggly hair was gray, and it danced on her head like a tangle of snakes. Worst of all she stank, as if long decayed. Torg could smell her even from where he stood. The soldiers could not abide her, and they fled the balcony and scrunched together on the lower stairs. Only the witch remained—with Sister Tathagata lying beneath her on the wooden bench.

The hideous thing put a gnarled hand on one of the nun’s small breasts and squeezed. Tathagata made no sound. If she was afraid she did not show it.

“Are you rrrready?” the witch said to Torg. “Are you rrrready for me? It’s time for some fun.”

Though Torg did not move or blink, the witch began to laugh. Sōbhana lifted her hand, as if to throw her dagger again. But the witch was too quick. When she raised her skinny arms there was a flash, followed by a violent boom and a cloud of black smoke. The air cleared slowly. Where a monster had once stood, there now was a woman of incalculable beauty. She still wore a ragged dress, but on her it looked, even to Torg, like a priceless gown. Intoxicating green eyes filled the once-empty sockets, and waist-length auburn hair replaced the tangled gray. A perfume as sweet as spring spread outward in waves, enriching the air and making the fear and hopelessness of a few moments ago feel like a foolish misunderstanding. The soldiers, now entranced, raced back to the balcony and bowed low.

Chal-Abhinno, queen of whores, stood before the gathering. Like all her kind, Chal had two forms: one hideous, the other excruciatingly beautiful. The far-more pleasant version now stared down at Torg. When Chal smiled, hearts raced, and men began to sweat. Her allure appeared to weaken even the Asēkhas. Sōbhana covered her face. Torg wondered if she felt ugly in comparison. Kusala seemed puzzled and looked at Torg as if seeking guidance.

Torg clenched his left hand in a fist. His right held his walking staff in a death grip. Obhasa’s white ivory glowed, causing the air to crackle.

The next move belonged to Torg. All others waited and wondered.

Torg turned to Kusala
and then to the rest of the Asēkhas. “I have forgiven Sōbhana, for now,” he said softly enough so that his words were barely audible to anyone not standing nearby. “If you wish to mistake that for weakness, so be it. But starting now, I will forgive nothing. Any of you who disobey me will suffer at
my
hands. The stakes are high. Do you doubt it?”

Only Sōbhana answered. “It is I who faltered, lord. We
 . . .
I
 . . .
will not fail you again. We
 . . .
I
 . . .
do not doubt you.”

“That remains to be seen,” Torg said. “But I say this only once more. Stay where you are until it becomes clear that I need you. You may defend yourselves, if you are attacked. And if I’m destroyed, you may kill any and all that you choose. Otherwise, do not act, other than to shield innocents from harm.”

Not even Kusala protested. Torg’s tone had achieved its desired effect. He’d tried to lead with respect, rather than intimidation. This was different—and not open for debate.

Torg turned back to the stairs. “May I come up?” he said to the witch.

Chal smiled, exposing teeth white as milk. She spread her arms wide. With the coming of dusk an enchanting breeze had arisen, causing her now-lovely hair to swirl enticingly about her slim shoulders.

“Of coursssse,
Torgon.
You and I need to get to know each other. Let the others bide their time while we discuss matters that are beyond them. If you are reasonable, all of thissss (she waved a hand at Tathagata) will become unnecessary.”

“Very well,” Torg said.

He bounded up the steps five at a time, and soon stood face to face with Chal. His quickness stunned several guards, who rumbled forward to contest him, but the witch ordered them off.

“Back!” Chal said, and her voice temporarily took on its former hideousness. Then she regained her composure and became sweetly seductive. “
The Torgon
is our guesssst. Give him room to stand.”

Torg still held Obhasa. The staff vibrated wildly, as if struggling to contain a bolt of lightning within its dense fibers. Torg leaned down so that his nose was just a finger-length from hers. Her physical beauty was the greater, Torg knew, but it was artificial.

“I find it tedious to repeat myself,” Torg said, slowly enunciating each word. “But if I must, I must. I did not come here to bandy words with a witless whore. Invite your master to show himself.”

The smile on Chal’s face was replaced by a snarl of such vehemence, even
her
beauty was scarred. Black smoke oozed from the pores of her skin. Her green eyes faded to gray and then white. Her transformation from hideousness to beauty had come with fire and smoke, but this transformation—from beauty back to hideousness—was slow and cruel.

Her skin bubbled and popped. Strand after strand of auburn hair curled and turned gray. The lithe muscles of her tanned arms became lumpy and gruesome. The perfume grew sour, bitter and rotten. The golden soldiers fled her presence.

Torg did not flee.

Chal growled and swept a clawed hand at his face. The force of the blow could have shattered a pillar, but he easily caught her wrist and twisted her arm downward.

The witch yelped and dropped to her knees. Acidic tears fell from her eyes, hissing on the stone.

While continuing to grip her arm, Torg knelt and whispered in her ear. “You are not my match, but at the moment you are also not my concern. Despite what you have done to Sister Tathagata, I will give you one chance. Submit now and live. You and I will cross paths again, I believe.”

“Bastard,” she said. “Basssstard!”

Torg pressed Obhasa’s rounded head against the small of her back. Where it touched her, blue flames arose.

“Submit. Or I will end your life. Not even your master will be able to save you.”

“I
 . . .
will
 . . .
not.”

Torg stood and lifted her by her arm. Then he flung her in the air. Chal spun off the balcony and appeared headed to her death, but Torg knew it would not be that easy. The witch landed with the deftness of a cat about fifteen steps below the upper platform. There she crouched on all fours—a vile beast full of hate—and glowered at him. Crimson beams sprang from her empty eye sockets, scorching the stone at his feet. Red flames spat from her mouth and swirled about the wooden bench that held Tathagata. Before the flames could take hold, Torg touched the bench with his staff. Blue liquid spilled over the wood, extinguishing the fire.

“I will kill youuuu
 . . .
” Chal screamed. And then she scrambled down the rest of the steps with the speed of a hunted animal, rushing past the Asēkhas in a torrent of smoke.

Kusala or Sōbhana could have struck her with their swords, but Torg knew they dared not move, more fearful of his wrath than hers. Chal was a formidable creature, the greatest of all the Warlish witches. But as Torg had said, she was not his match. Chal would have to bide her time.

The golden soldiers and the Asēkhas remained still as stones. The brief struggle between Torg and Chal seemed to have engrossed all who watched—even the noble ones, who had not tried to escape though their captors were temporarily preoccupied. Torg reached down and with one bulky hand broke the leather straps that pinned Tathagata to the bench. He gently removed the funnel from her mouth. With a mere fraction of effort he lifted the tiny woman—who was barely a third his weight—up and away from the precariously balanced cauldron, then set her carefully on her feet. The High Nun staggered briefly before regaining her balance.

Tathagata smiled and started to speak, but then her tongue froze in her mouth, and her eyes grew wide. Torg had never seen her react so strongly to anything. He turned around ever so slowly and faced the dark entrance of the shrine’s upper chamber. The figure that had long lurked there, watching the proceedings from the shadows, slowly emerged.

Finally, Mala deigned to make an appearance.

On the rooftop of Bakheng, twilight changed to darkness in just a few breaths. Torches, already lit, were joined by the glowing moon and stars, and the balcony on which Torg and Tathagata stood shone brightly, as if on fire.

Mala emerged from the dark opening of the upper shrine, squeezing through the entryway and unfolding his enormous body. Though he was more than twice Torg’s height and weighed more than seventy stones, he was limber and quick. Few but Torg matched his strength.

Before Invictus had ruined him with sorcery, Mala had been a peaceful snow giant, one of the most wondrous creatures on all of Triken. Torg even knew his previous name: Yama-Deva. The only beauty Mala had retained from his previous existence was his silky white mane, which ran down his spine to his waist. Everything else was hideous to behold. His eyes were now red and swollen; vile liquid oozed from their sockets. Two blood-stained fangs hung over his lower lip; venom dripped from their pointed tips. His tongue was long and black; it probed and fluttered like a snake’s.

Yet Torg believed few who dared look directly at Mala would notice much about his face. What would captivate their attention was something even more sinister. The Chain Man lived up to his name. A single chain wrapped around his shoulders, crisscrossed at his waist and lower back, rode down his hips and looped around his bulky thighs. The chain had six-inch-thick links of gold blended with magical alloys, making it supernaturally strong. It glowed incessantly with a golden fire that appeared as hot as magma, burning Mala’s thick hide and causing a stink that was reminiscent of rotten meat cooked over an open fire. Was his pain constant and hideous? Torg could not believe otherwise. But Mala’s madness seemed to ignore the pain. It just made him angrier and more dangerous.

The monster loomed over Torg like a fully grown man staring down at a ten-year-old boy. Tathagata covered her face and staggered backward. She gagged and collapsed to her knees.

“I’m sorry,
Torgon
,” she managed to say. “I’ve spent so many years harping on your spiritual weaknesses, yet I see now that I am far weaker than you. I could abide the witch, but in this creature’s presence I am pathetic.”

Urine slid down her thighs.

Torg placed himself between the sister and the monster.

“Dear one,” he said, still staring at Mala but speaking to Tathagata, “do not mistake disgust for weakness. This one is an affront beyond all others, save Invictus himself. I have fought many battles and seen many gruesome things and am more used to such horror, that is all. I would never presume to question your courage.”

“My lord, you embolden me. I shall stand and face my doom with dignity.”

Mala watched this exchange with a smirk on his hideous face. The Chain Man did not appear to doubt his superiority.

“The one who called you ‘Desert Peasant’ now lacks his head,” the monster said. Then he laughed. It felt like poison to Torg’s ears. “Yet I dare to call you something worse.
The Torgon
is a fool and a coward, worth less than the filth on the soles of my feet. Tell me, little one, will one of your Asēkha rats come up and try to take
my
head?”

Mala laughed again. With each spasm of his gigantic midsection, gobs of liquid fire blurted from the chain, smiting the stone stairs. Flames engulfed several golden soldiers, who vaulted off the pyramid, howling as they died. The noble ones dropped to their knees and covered their faces. But the Asēkhas easily stepped out of the way of the scorching liquid that reached the bottom steps—and there they held their ground, continuing to watch their leader’s every move.

“Call me what you like,” Torg said. “But I name you Yama-Deva, for you were once a snow giant, and it is still possible for you to return to your former glory. I can help you, if you will take me into your heart. Yama-Deva can live again.”

Mala clenched his teeth and bit his lower lip, spewing blood. The chain seemed to glow even hotter, black smoke rising from its links. “Fool
 . . .
fool
!” The booming power of his voice carried far into the deepening night. “Braggart.
Idiot
! You are nothing compared to me.
Nothing
! And you dare
 . . .
you
dare
 . . .
to offer your aid to me? I am Mala, you little worm.”

“Nonetheless, I do offer my aid. Your anger and hatred are an illusion burned into your mind by your master. But I can see the real you, trapped behind the ruin of your eyes.”

The Chain Man seemed beside himself with rage. He sucked in a huge gulp of air and spit a gob of rancid liquid onto Torg’s face. Few could have survived this assault. Blindness would follow disfigurement. But the foul acid did not harm Torg, sizzling and then evaporating soon after it touched his skin. However, a few droplets slipped past Torg and fell onto Tathagata’s cheeks. Torg spun around, faster than the eye could follow. Then he willed precise beams of blue light to spurt from the head of his staff and incinerate the poison before it could do any damage.

The High Nun smiled.

Torg turned back to Mala. “I am not one of the noble ones. I have neither their patience nor their dignity. I am who I am. But for now, that is enough.”

Torg took a step toward Mala, pointed Obhasa at the Chain Man’s chest and then swung full circle, smashing the ancient ivory against the chain that wrapped around the giant’s torso. A conflagration of flame—Torg’s blue and Mala’s golden—exploded at the point of impact, and for a moment the two dueling colors blended into a brilliant green. Despite the enormity of the collision, Torg’s power proved greater, and blue prevailed. The Chain Man staggered backward, flailing his arms before falling flat on his back and smiting the balcony with the force of a fallen pillar. The entire pyramid seemed to quiver.

Torg shouted words from the ancient tongue. “
Kaalakaala! (Deep darkness!)
 . . .
Santharaahi! (Spread!) . . . Bandha! (Bind!)
 . . .
” Thick blue fumes swirled from his staff and rose into the night sky. “
Mano! (Mind!)
 . . .
Paccosakkaahi! (Retreat!)
 . . .
Niddaayahi! Niddaayahi! Niddaayahi! (Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!)
”

Smoke spun like a tornado, expanding and encompassing first the balcony, then the temple, and finally what appeared to be all of Dibbu-Loka. It grew as large as a thunderhead. The Chain Man rose up on his haunches, staring at the broiling sky. The golden soldiers raised their swords and prepared to charge, but then froze in place as the blue smoke fell upon them, seeking their mouths and nostrils. Even if some of the more alert soldiers tried to hold their breaths, it would not matter. The fumes would find their way into their lungs. In a show of trust, Tathagata breathed deeply. One by one the captors and captives began to sag. A sudden and irresistible exhaustion overcame them. Within a few moments all but Torg, the Asēkhas and Mala were sleeping like children who had been kept up long past their bedtimes.

A frisky breeze whisked away the smoke. Soon after, Torg sank to his knees. He had never performed this feat on such a grand scale, and he was weary from the extravagant expenditure of energy. The Asēkhas charged up the steep steps and encircled him,
uttaras
drawn.

Torg’s chin rested on his chest, his breath coming in short gasps. But his eyes remained alert.

Mala took a long time to stand. His chain glowed less brightly, but his anger now seemed more calculated. “Aaaaah,
Torgon
 . . .
I have underestimated you. You were outnumbered and overpowered, but you have managed to even the odds somewhat with this cute little trick.”

Kusala spoke on Torg’s behalf. “Mala, I warn you to stay where you are.”

Mala paid no heed to Kusala, glaring at Torg instead. “Do you think these annoying mice can defeat me? And look at you
 . . .
so weak you cannot stand. As frail as a boy. As feeble as an old man. You believe you have won, but you are wrong. Do you think I cannot crush you?”

With a great effort Torg raised his head. “Before
 . . .
before you could
crush
me, you would have to deal with the Asēkhas. You might defeat them, but it would not come without cost. By the time you finished, you would be weaker than I am now.”

Mala growled and pounded his boulder-sized fists together. The Asēkhas surrounded the monster, their
uttaras
sparking in response to his chain. Each sword had taken more than a year to craft, and each curved blade was a thousand times sharper than the thickness of a human hair. Mala’s hide was far denser than ordinary flesh, but it was not impenetrable. The monster seemed to recognize at least some of the truth in Torg’s words, and he dropped his massive arms to his sides.

“What do you suggest, Death-Knower? It is obvious you have thought this through.”

Torg coughed and almost fell on his face, but Sōbhana sprang to his side and caught him. Torg smiled weakly at her, then returned his attention to the Chain Man.

“I
have
thought this through. My reason for coming here has always been the same.” More coughing. “I do not want the noble ones harmed. I came here to barter—to give you my freedom in exchange for theirs.”

Kusala’s eyes widened. “No, lord, this cannot be. We can crush this creature. Leave him to us. When he is vanquished we will save the noble ones and be on our way.”

Torg continued to focus on Mala. “I offer myself to you without further resistance. You and I will leave this place. While your soldiers sleep, the Asēkhas will remove the noble ones and take them to a safe place. I give you my word that your soldiers will not be harmed. We both win.”

Perhaps wary of a trap, Mala did not immediately respond. But then he shrugged, as if unconcerned by anything that might threaten him. “Very well,
Torgon
. But order your rats not to follow.”

Torg rose unsteadily to his feet. He turned to Kusala, Sōbhana, and the other Asēkhas and gazed from face to face. Mala loomed noisily behind him like a tower of malice.

The disbelief on the faces of his warriors was easily recognizable, and Torg understood why. They could not see inside his mind and know his thoughts. How could they possibly understand what drove him now?

He knew more about Invictus than he’d let on to anyone. He could sense the extent of the sorcerer’s power like a wildfire obscured by the crest of a hill. All others could see only smoke, but Torg could feel the fire’s heat.

Despite his relative youth and inexperience, Invictus had become the greatest threat the land had ever known. Ordinary means could not defeat him. Torg believed that in order to combat Invictus he would need to perform an act of virtue that would help to even the scales between good and evil. A selfless act on a stage of such magnitude would set larger forces into motion. To save the noble ones Torg was willing to sacrifice his own freedom. He did so, however, with an even grander vision. This war would be fought not just on the physical battlefield, but in an arena invisible to all but the wise.

“The soldiers will sleep for at least a day,” Torg said to the Asēkhas. “While they are helpless, transport the noble ones to our place of safe keeping. I will depart with Mala and permit him to bear me to Invictus.”

“Lord, this is impossible,” Kusala said. “If you—”

Blue light fired from Torg’s staff, pounding Kusala in the chest and knocking him off his feet. The other Asēkhas gasped.

“Do not
interrupt
,” Torg said, slamming Obhasa down hard enough to crack the marble at his feet. “Listen carefully, all of you. I will leave with Mala. You must not follow, not a single one of you. Carry the noble ones to safety and return to the defense of Anna. Do not harm any of Mala’s soldiers. If you are ambushed after I am gone, then you are free to kill any and all—and come after me, if you still can. Otherwise stay away from me, and alert all other Tugars to do the same. If and when this situation changes, I will make it known.”