Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (12 page)

Lightning stroked the air, followed by a concussive blast of thunder. Mala sat upright. Maybe he should go out and have a look around. Wind and hail tearing at his flesh would clear his mind.

Ten days down. Twenty to go. Would this torture ever end? The things he did for his king.

Carrying the rope and plank
on her back, Sōbhana slithered over the low wall that encircled the pit. Occasional bursts of lightning threatened to reveal her position, but she moved so slowly and so close to the ground she was all but invisible.

Before she could see the pit, she could sense it and recognize it as pure evil. Poison, decay, sickness, despair
 . . .
the pit contained them all
 . . .
she experienced the same kind of desperation she’d felt when she first saw Invictus. She wanted to flee.

But of course she would not. She had come too far and fought too hard, and she would rescue her beloved—or die trying. Despite the enormity of her fear, no other scenario was possible.

Buoyed by her immense stubbornness, Sōbhana crept closer. She found it difficult to imagine how the sentries were able to guard the pit; either they were partially immune to its wickedness or she was more susceptible. When she had crawled within an arm’s length of the opening, her eyes began to water, her ears rang, and her tongue swelled. Surely the sentry had lied.
The Torgon
must be long dead. Not even one as great as he could have survived inside this monstrosity for a single day, much less ten.

Then she heard a shriek, and it almost stopped her heart. Her beloved was down there, enduring horrors beyond her comprehension. But he was alive.

And she was his last hope.

The perfect circle glared at her. It had its own mind, its own voice, and it challenged her to proceed.

Come inside and play with me, little one. You look so sweet and tasty.

Forcing herself to crawl to the lip of the abyss, Sōbhana peered down into the blackness. Instantly her face was ablaze with pain, and the muscles in her cheeks quivered. Mucus gushed from her nostrils, freezing as it fell toward the mouth of the pit, but sizzling and bursting into steam as it entered. What kind of hell was this?

“I’m coming, my love,” she whispered. “I will not forsake you.”

A low moan rose, as if in reply.

Sōbhana laid the narrow plank across the opening and looped one end of the rope around it, securing it with a sturdy knot. The cord was three finger-lengths thick and well made. She hoped it could survive the pit’s virulence long enough for her to climb down and bring Torg up. If she fell, all would be lost.

First though, she drew the Silver Sword and lowered it partway into the pit, expecting it to melt or wither. But the sword was not affected, and its blade remained cool. Perhaps it would protect her. At the least, it might bolster her resolve.

Reluctantly she returned it to its sheath, needing both hands for the descent. She lowered the rope into the darkness while estimating the distance. Five cubits. Ten. Fifty. One hundred. Two hundred. Did it touch bottom? She couldn’t quite tell.

For a moment she imagined Torg reaching for the rope and climbing out on his own, relieving her of the burden of entering the pit. But then she realized this was a false hope. She had to go down—and she had to do it now.

Sōbhana sat down on the plank, which bowed slightly but held her weight, and then lowered her feet into the darkness. Even though she wore heavy boots and tight-fitting pants, her feet, ankles and calves instantly burned like frostbitten flesh submerged in steaming water. She left them there for several seconds, testing her ability to tolerate the pain. It hurt terribly, but at least it seemed to level out. She could not have withstood anything worse.

Summoning her strength, she slid the rest of her body into the hole. To stop from crying out she bit her lip. Blood dripped down her chin and smoked like burning oil.

She was submerged into agony, except where the sheath of the sword touched her leg. So she focused her mind along the length of the blade. It did provide comfort. And strength. In some ways the sword was greater than the pit.

Hand by hand she descended. The agony remained without intensifying, but her stomach soured, and she vomited. Now her entire body was sweating profusely, and she believed she might die of dehydration before anything else.

How was Torg still alive?

Sōbhana coughed. One of her teeth spit out of her mouth and impaled itself in the side of the pit, where it caught fire and shattered, casting blazing shards that provided a tiny circle of light—just enough for her to see a portion of the wall. Black things wiggled and squirmed, like the flesh of a devil.

Down she went, farther and farther. The air was so foul she could barely breathe. Blood replaced the mucus that had gushed from her nostrils. Warmth oozed from her ears and eyes. Liquids poured from her vagina and anus. If she did somehow rescue Torg and return to the surface, she wouldn’t be a pretty sight. But then, she imagined, neither would he.

She had to be getting close. It felt as if she had been descending for days. Just when she was about to give up hope, her foot touched an object beneath her. She reached down with her free hand and grasped something solid. It was his shoulder—his wonderful, muscular shoulder.

Torg moaned again. Sōbhana felt around as best she could and determined that he was curled naked on his side. The warrior hated to do it, but she had to relieve the pressure on her other arm, so she gently placed her boots onto his thick ribs and crouched down onto his body. If only he would wake up, they could escape together. But he seemed incapable of movement. She would have to lift him, and it wouldn’t be easy. He was almost twice her weight—and dead weight, at that.

No, don’t use that word.

“I am here, my beloved,” she whispered. “I have come. I will save you. Do not fear.”

He groaned, but did not move.

Then to her horror, the rope began to jiggle. Something was yanking on it from above. Someone had discovered her, and if he severed the rope, both she and Torg were doomed.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “I promise you.”

Sōbhana climbed with terrific speed, expecting the rope to go slack and dump her into the abyss at any second. Instead it began to sway violently, throwing her against the wall. Her black coat burst into flame and then disintegrated. The skin on her right shoulder bubbled and blistered. Ignoring the pain, she continued to climb.

When she arrived at the top and reached for the plank, something huge and powerful grasped her wrist and lifted her from the pit. Sōbhana dangled in front of Mala, barely a third his height.

“An Asēkha!” he said, his voice puzzled. “How
 . . .
how did you get here? Are you alone?”

With her free hand, Sōbhana drew the sword from its sheath and whipped it at Mala’s neck, but he bent his head back just enough to avoid decapitation. The sword dug into a portion of the chain that was burned into his breast, and there was an outburst of golden flame. The Chain Man was cast backward, dropping Sōbhana as he fell. She landed awkwardly on her side next to the mouth of the pit, momentarily stunned.

When she regained her senses, the Chain Man still was dazed. Sōbhana watched his every move. Almost too late she detected a whisper in the air, and she flipped the sword behind her back. Another sword clashed against hers and burst asunder. Sōbhana rose to her feet, spun around, and cut her attacker—this one man-sized—in half with a single swipe.

“What did she do to me?” Mala said, still confused. “What does she wield?”

More sentries arrived, carrying hissing torches. Though Sōbhana had managed to kill the first attacker, she remained dizzy and disoriented, and her shoulder felt as if it had been shredded by poisoned blades. But rage gave her strength. She had been so close. She had
touched
her king. And at the worst possible moment, the monster she’d grown to despise had thwarted her.

Her screams of frustration echoed in the night. The sentries retreated.

Mala became infuriated. “Get her, you cowards! Slice her up.”

Sōbhana regained her wits. Killing was what she did best, and when she faced superior numbers, she eliminated the most dangerous first. With an anger that had fermented over weeks and weeks, she charged at the Chain Man, intent on making him pay for his cruelty.

Her sudden ferocity seemed to awaken Mala. The monster bellowed, and golden liquid, as hot as dragon fire, spurted from his chain. Sōbhana grunted and leapt to the side, barely avoiding the profusion. She fell at the feet of a sentry, rolled to her knees, and swept off both his legs at mid-thigh. Then she stood up, whipping the blade around. Three more fell. The sword cut through anything it touched with ridiculous ease.

The Chain Man picked up a stone statue almost his size and heaved it at her. Sōbhana sidestepped the massive missile and watched it crush a cave troll who’d emerged from the darkness. Another statue, one of a series that lined the outer court, tumbled by, bowling over several approaching sentries.

The storm joined the fight. A blast of lightning, more powerful than Sōbhana had ever witnessed, blew into the mouth of the pit. A blob of electrical energy spewed upward and exploded like fireworks, casting a blanket of dazzling light that illuminated the entire courtyard and revealed the locations of at least one hundred well-armed men.

Despite the threat of the sword, Mala dared to approach her. Sōbhana believed she could kill him with it, but she had to get close enough to strike, and that wouldn’t be easy. His powers were formidable, and she had no magic of her own to counter them.

The Chain Man rushed forward, liquid fire spurting from his chain. Even for an Asēkha the scathing flames were difficult to avoid, and she was forced to duck and run while at the same time slaying any sentry that strayed within her vision. Most feared her wrath and stayed back. But Mala continued his pursuit, and now he held the advantage. He could destroy her from a distance, but she needed to get within the length of the sword to harm him. She began to fear she could not prevail.

Gasping and panting, Sōbhana moved reluctantly away from the pit. More sentries fell beneath her blade, but fighting them and avoiding Mala was exhausting. She already had been pushed beyond her limits, and her damaged shoulder felt as if it were dissolving. A fist-sized brick—hurled from her blindside—ricocheted off her cheek, and her mouth filled with blood. A golden soldier could not have thrown with such force. This one must have come from another troll.

Another bolt of lightning struck somewhere in the courtyard. She glanced behind her and realized she was just a span from the edge of a terrible cliff.

Turning back to her attackers, she held the sword in front of her, grinning crookedly. “Come and get me, you bastards. Every one of you will die. I swear it.”

Emboldened by Mala, they approached close enough for the torchlight to reveal their grim faces. Sōbhana saw anger, but then fear. Suddenly they stopped. Even Mala.

She didn’t see—or sense—what rose behind her until it was too late.

Silk threads from the spider’s spinnerets wove around her, pinning her forearms against her torso and encasing her entire body from her shoulders down. As if by magic, the threads tore the sword from her grasp and wrapped it in a separate cocoon. Then she was yanked into space.

“No
 . . .
no!” she wailed. “Please save me
 . . .
my lovvvvvvvvvvve!”

But there was no response as the spider took her—from one hell to another.

As he had told Kusala that late-summer night on the outskirts of Barranca, Torg had died a thousand times. Each
Death Visit
, which lasted fewer than thirty long breaths, enriched Torg with magical powers. In that short time Torg fed on supernatural energy, and when he returned to life, he felt paradoxically more alive than most could imagine.

Torg’s first
Death Visit
had
occurred more than nine centuries ago. Ever since that amazing breakthrough, he had planned the time and place of each “temporary suicide” in precise detail, preferring to wait about a year between visits, though a few times in his life—depending on his needs—he had done so with slightly more frequency.

Now it was mid autumn and well below freezing in the mountain prison on the peak of Asubha. The air was bitter and useless, failing to nourish Torg’s lungs. His breaths came in raspy gasps and moans, and he shivered as if in a constant state of illness.

Dehydrated and starving, Torg was no longer able to accurately gauge the passage of time. He spent most of it in various states of unconsciousness, but when he was awake every second felt like a week.

Even Torg could not bear much more. The insidious magic and acidic poisons imbued in the walls of the pit had ravaged his naked flesh. The hair on his body had dissolved, and his teeth had fallen out and been consumed. He could feel his immense strength leaking out of him, like blood draining from a gaping wound.

Torg’s lone hope, he knew, was a
Death Visit.
He needed to feed on death’s abundant might. But something in the pit prevented him from achieving the required level of concentration.

If I cannot die
,
I will go insane. I must find a way past the barrier Invictus has erected.

And so, he attempted to meditate, again.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale
 
.
 . .

Even before the completion of the first exhalation, he lost control of his concentration, and his mind wandered aimlessly, still puzzled by the sensual lure of the full moon. His long years of mindfulness training had taught him to recognize these inevitable drifts and gently return to the breath. So he discarded the thought and continued to
 . . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

An itch tormented the tip of his nose. Torg knew that this, too, could be used as an object of concentration. Without judgment or prejudice he watched the itch rise and fall of its own accord, studying its beginning, middle and ending. He observed how it affected the workings of his body and mind. When the prickle abated, he returned to
 . . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

Torg was making progress, but the mysterious barrier continued to thwart his concentration. The walls of the pit made strange sizzling sounds, occasionally spurting blobs of caustic liquid that burned his bare skin like dragon fire. But the pain alone did not prevent him from emptying his mind or managing his thoughts. There was something else—a madness like no other.

Despite all this, he continued to try.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale
 . . .

Invictus toys with me.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

I will go insane.

Inhale
 . . .

I must find a way.

Exhale
 . . .

I will find a way.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

Watch the breath. Eliminate movement. Watch the breath. Eliminate thought.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

No movement. No thought. Quiet mind. Peaceful mind. Only the breath.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

As the torment of the pit further eroded his sanity, Torg struggled one last time to enter the Realm of Death, where he could feed on its power and absorb enough strength to survive a few more days. A successful
Death Visit
was never easy for Torg, even in the best of circumstances, requiring a magnificently intense form of meditation, even greater than that practiced by the noble ones of Dibbu-Loka. Torg’s mind had to be emptied of all thought—not just for a few breaths, or a series of breaths, but for hundreds of breaths.

A wise Vasi master had taught Torg the art of meditation when he was a young warrior just beginning his training. Concentration creates a state of extreme relaxation. If performed at a deep enough level, meditation can slow the rise and fall of the breath and the beating of the heart to undetectable levels. But it has nothing in common with sleepiness or daydreaming. The meditator is supremely awake. Every thought, emotion, sensation, and occurrence is monitored with ultimate awareness.

Because of their genetics, Tugars enjoyed a remarkable asset. Their flesh was unusually dense, making it highly resistant to injury. This impregnability continued even after death. An ordinary body began to decay soon after it perished, but Tugar bodies remained relatively unchanged for more than a year, and it took centuries for them to deteriorate into skeletons. Torg was the ultimate Tugar. His physical strength was unrivaled for a creature of his size, but it paled in comparison to his supernatural puissance.

During his lifetime Torg averaged slightly more than one
Death Visit
per year. The act was too dangerous for more frequent attempts. Each episode required that he achieve a state called
Sammaasamaadhi
, the supreme concentration of mind. During Sammaasamaadhi, Torg’s heart rate progressively slowed until his body ceased to live. At that instant his karmic energy exited his flesh and entered the Realm of Death, where it fed and grew strong. But unlike an ordinary death, Torg was able to return to his body before the process became irreversible. His dense tissues—though temporarily deprived of life-giving oxygen—remained receptive to their host.

Now, imprisoned on the rooftop of Mount Asubha, Torg lay in the pit and continued his final attempt toward
Sammaasamaadhi
. If he had been stronger, he would have sat up in a comfortable position to begin his meditation. But he was too weak to twitch a finger.

Invictus’ magical barrier continued to wreak havoc within his mind. Torg searched for its source with single-minded determination. Since his first successful Death Visit more than nine centuries before, he had never experienced such difficulty in achieving
Sammaasamaadhi
.

Torg remembered words spoken to him by the Vasi master who was the first to recognize that he had the rare potential to become a Death-Knower. At the time, Torg was a juvenile approaching the middle years of his warrior training.

“Live in the present moment,” Dēsaka said. “Nothing exists but the present. All else is illusion. To live in the present moment, you must become the master of your mind.” The teacher tapped his temple with a long finger.
“Thought is the thinker.
To empty the mind of thought, do not think. It is that easy and that difficult. If you empty your mind of thought, you will become its master.”

Thought is the thinker
 . . .
that was the key.

For the first time since being lowered into the pit, Torg felt hope, though for a moment his mind drifted back to a distant time before even his first death when he was a forty-year-old youth who had not yet become a warrior. Ever curious, Torg had harassed his Vasi master with endless queries.

“What force could cause the world to fall into ruin?”

“Ignorance,” Dēsaka said.

“What is the greatest bliss?”

“Awakening is the greatest bliss.”

Dēsaka sat cross-legged in the sand at the base of a great dune. A cotton veil covered his head and face, revealing only his eyes. Torg wandered in circles around the Vasi master, waving his arms.

“Who holds the sharpest sword?” Torg said.

“A person who speaks out of wrath holds the sharpest sword,” Dēsaka said.

“My sword is sharpest.”

“Your sword is sharp, but your mind is dull. You can see beyond the dunes, but you cannot see what is in front of your eyes. Even worse, you blame your stupidity on others rather than take responsibility for it.”

“But you call me your greatest student.”

“I say that you
could
become great. That you
should
become great. But you are not yet great. You know your strengths, but you are blind to your weaknesses. Until you can see what is in front of your eyes, you will remain an apprentice.”

Torg smiled. His master’s insults did not have the feel of wrath. “What is the most precious treasure?” he asked.

“Enough! Enough!” Dēsaka said. “Now I have a question for you. Will you answer?”

“Yes, O Exalted One.”

“What is the greatest weapon?”

“Wisdom,” Torg said, without pause.

“Ah, child
 . . .
you are full of surprises. The only thing that can stop you is yourself. Your father says you are too smart for your own good. He is correct.”

Now, as Torg lay shivering in the darkness of the pit, he replayed this tête-à-tête several times before the answer he had long sought arose.

“You can see beyond the dunes, but you cannot see what is in front of your eyes.”

Torg finally understood what was in front of his eyes. Invictus had never intended to disrupt his concentration; the sorcerer was too confident to consider it a necessity. But Torg’s sensitivity to the insalubrities of Invictus’ power had
felt
like a barrier, effectively preventing him from emptying his mind. The magic that created the pit swirled like a filthy tornado. But Torg saw through it, and his sudden clarity gave him a chance
 . . .
which was better than none.

More of his master’s words, spoken in a time long past, entered his awareness:

“Breathe in. Know that you breathe in. Breathe out. Know that you breathe out.”

Torg felt chaos start to drain from his mind
 . . .

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

The wisdom of silence was his greatest weapon. It also carried a reward: the sweetness of empty mind. Awareness bloomed like a flower in morning’s first light.

Each breath has a beginning,
middle and end. The inhale has a beginning, middle and end. The pause in between has a beginning, middle and end. The exhale has a beginning, middle and end.