Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (27 page)

Upon awakening, the first thing Torg noticed was the pervasive smell of sweat. Bard still sat at the table, but the side of his face was plastered against the splintered wood. Ugga had fallen out of his chair and lay flat on his back on the dirt floor, his massive chest—and even larger stomach—rising and falling. The fire had burned low, but the interior of the hut remained warm. Torg yawned, stretched and sat up. At least, he alone among the three of them had had the sense to crawl over to the bed of leaves, though he had no memory of doing it.

The Silver Sword rested against the wall near the door. Torg walked to it and grasped the black-leather hilt. He noticed for the first time that the asthenolith had damaged it a bit. But for reasons he could not understand, it had not disintegrated entirely. He touched the blade with his left hand, expecting it to be about the same temperature as the room; instead it was freezing cold. Heat had no effect on the supernal alloys. He vaguely remembered grasping the blade while in the agony of the asthenolith; even there it had been cool.

He put down the sword, opened the door and stepped outside. More snow had fallen during the night, and the morning sky had remained gloomy. The fire that had roasted the possum and hares was lifeless.

The downturn in the weather did not surprise him. As winter approached, storms would be frequent, and there would be snow on the ground for at least four months. Most of the people who dwelled this near to the northern mountains would spend the majority of their time indoors, wandering out only to replenish water supplies and to hunt for game.

Speaking of game, lying in a split-cane basket near the hut were the carcasses of two wild turkeys and a che-ra. In a second basket were purple berries, hickory nuts and three bloated skins. A wooden spear at least two cubits longer than Torg was tall had been thrust into the ground between the baskets. White and brown feathers attached to the staff hung lifeless in the dead air.

Torg had the feeling he was being watched, but when he scanned the surrounding landscape, he saw no movement. Whoever was out there knew these woods as well as he knew the Great Desert.

He understood one thing that Bard and Ugga did not. The Svakarans, along with the other native people of the mountains, were not “savages.” Some of their actions appeared brutal—especially where the Mogols were concerned—but their ability to live in harmony with their surroundings surpassed most of the “civilized” cultures found on Triken. Only the Tugars, who thrived on the blazing sands of Tējo, were as well-adapted to their environment as the so-called savages of Mahaggata.

Regardless of their reputation, the Svakarans were formidable. If they sensed weakness, they would take advantage. They cared most for their own people and tolerated others only if they feared or respected them.

Torg decided to reinforce the fear aspect.

He removed his heavy cloak and laid it on the surface of the snow. Wearing only his thin gray robes so that his movements would not be restricted, Torg drew the spear from the frozen ground and grasped the center of its well-balanced shaft, admiring its sharp tip made of chiseled obsidian. He hoisted it above his shoulder and drew it back. With a hidden surge of power from the palm of his hand he engulfed the spear in blue-green flame, but just enough to strengthen it without making it too obvious. Then he let out a howl and heaved the spear with the might and precision of a Tugar warrior. It hurtled through the air like a bolt of lightning and struck the trunk of a dead oak more than one hundred cubits away. There was a booming sound, and shards of wood sprayed outward. The spear pierced the trunk, burst out the other side, and buried itself in a living tree several paces farther away.

Ugga and Bard stumbled through the doorway, tripping over each other.

“Here we come, Master Hah-nah,” the crossbreed shouted. “Do not fear!”

Ugga brought his axe, and Bard carried Jord’s bow and arrows. The pair scrambled next to Torg and stood ready, their haggard breaths coming in large white bursts. They scanned the edge of the clearing, looking this way and that. A long time passed before Bard finally spoke.

“What is it, Hah-nah? We see nothing but the trees. Were ya accosted by savages?”

“Someone or something is out there,” Torg said. “They left us a gift and then withdrew.”

Bard’s cheeks went red. “Are ya trying to end our lives with your wicked shouting? Next time, give Ugga and me some warning before ya go ’round hooting like an animal.”

Ugga, ever the opportunist when it came to food and drink, already was investigating the baskets. “We eat well today,” he said, with a smile that exposed his sharp teeth. “I likes having ya around, Master Hah-nah. Wherever ya go, food appears like mah-gick.”

Then the crossbreed picked up one of the skins and sniffed its contents. “Beer! Beer!
Beeeeeeeer
!” He danced about absurdly.

Torg could not help but laugh. “Ugga
 . . .
my friend.
Ya
 . . .
you
 . . .
are a joy.”

“Thank ya, Master Hah-nah.”

But then the crossbreed’s smile faded. “No sign of the Bitch?”

“I cannot sense her presence. Whatever the reason, I believe she is far away—by her own choice or need. Perhaps she has been called by her superiors.”

As if in response to Torg’s words, there was movement in the woods. Bard strung an arrow to the bow, and Ugga hoisted his axe. Torg scanned the trees with well-practiced precision.

“Someone hunts us, after all,” Bard whispered.

Then a raspy voice came from somewhere outside the clearing. “It
is
you, isn’t it? If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t believe it, the way you look now.”

“Show yourself,” Torg commanded.

“Isn’t that just like you,” the voice said. “Always showing off and bossing people around. For the sake of Anna, will you never stop?”

Torg finally recognized the voice. “Rathburt? How came you here? Where have you been all these long years?”

A man emerged from behind a tree. Like Torg he had black hair and blue eyes, but he was stooped and appeared frail beneath his bear-skin cloak. He leaned against an oaken staff.

Ugga seemed to distrust him. “Who is the interloper? I doesn’t like the way he looks.”

Bard agreed, aiming an arrow at the man’s chest.

“My, my
 . . .
Torgon
,” the man said in response, slowly approaching the clearing. “Is this how you would treat an old friend?”

With one hand Torg gripped the underside of the arrowhead and pulled it toward the ground. With the other he grasped the handle of Ugga’s axe.

“There’s no need for your weapons. He is, indeed, my friend, though I haven’t seen him in many years. His name is Rathburt—and trust me when I say that he is the only other Death-Knower alive in the world but me.”

Ugga and Bard appeared unconvinced the “interloper” was a friend, but they lowered their weapons as instructed. Meanwhile, Rathburt strolled over and stared at Torg’s face. Because of his poor posture, he was at least a span shorter than Torg and Ugga, while about the same height as Bard.

Up close, Rathburt looked much older than Torg remembered. His face was lined and weathered, which was unusual for an ordinary Tugar, much less a Death-Knower. Conversely Torg must have looked far different to Rathburt. The hunched man was puzzled.

“
Torgon
, what’s happened to you? You look
 . . .
terrible.”

“Have you not heard? Have you lost touch with our people?”

Rathburt’s expression soured. “They’re no longer my people, and you know it. Besides, Tugars rarely travel this far north. They prefer to keep their noses buried in the sand, where they belong.”

Bard interrupted. “Are ya sure this
occooahawa
(old fool) is your friend? His words are full of the venom of snakes.”

Amusement replaced Rathburt’s sour expression. “And what would your name be, sir? I would dearly like to know.”

“My name is my own biz-nuss. I only gives it to polite peoples.”

Rathburt laughed and pounded his staff into the snow. Ugga raised his axe.

“Not even a friend of Master Hah-nah can laugh at Bard that way,” the crossbreed said. “Be quiet, rude person, or I will teach ya some manners.”

Torg had heard enough. “
Silence
!”

A sudden gale swept through the clearing, causing the snow to swirl at their feet. Bard and Ugga retreated several steps. Rathburt stayed put, but lowered his gaze.

Torg glared at all of them. “As I said, Rathburt is my friend. I did not say he was friend
ly
. In fact, few among our people can tolerate his presence. He’s irritating, insulting and sarcastic. But I’ve always believed there’s more to him than meets the eye. And a Death-Knower should never be underestimated, regardless of his or her appearance. This man has left his body—and returned to speak of it. More need not be said.”

Bard’s cheeks went pale. Tears welled in Ugga’s eyes. But Rathburt was not so easily cowed. He walked to the crossbreed and wrapped his skinny arm around the giant’s massive shoulders. “Don’t worry, he’s always showing off, demanding this and commanding that. He says our people can’t tolerate my presence, but the same goes for him. They act nice to his face but grumble behind his back. He was always the fastest, the strongest, the smartest—and he was the first to let you know. It annoyed everyone. For Anna’s sake,
Torgon
, will you never change?”

Torg sighed. “I’m too hungry and irritable for such silliness. Much has occurred since you and I last spoke.” He pointed toward the baskets. “In the meantime, I thank you for your gifts.”

“These gifts aren’t really from me,” Rathburt said. “They’re from my trusty associate. I’d like to introduce him, if the three of you don’t mind. I believe you’ll like him. He works hard and is an excellent cook.”

“I’m very hungry,” Ugga said, his good humor suddenly returning. “If your ah-soh-see-it can make food taste good, then it is all right with me if he joins us.”

“Why,
thank you
,” Rathburt said. Then he yelled toward the woods: “Elu
 . . .
show yourself!”

A small head peeked out from behind the trunk of a yellow poplar.

“There you are,” Rathburt called. “Get over here. It’s time you earned your keep.” Then he turned and whispered to Ugga. “I speak to him harshly, but he’s a worthy companion. He loves me like a papa.”

Elu sprang through the woods, entering the clearing at a dead run.

“Come to papa!”

But instead of going to Rathburt, Elu ran to Torg and bowed at his feet. “Elu is at your command,” he said to Torg. “Speak, and Elu will obey.”

Rathburt looked annoyed. “Show off.”

“Rise,” Torg said. “That is my command.”

Elu was less than half Torg’s height, but his face was manly and his body heavily muscled. He dressed in the winter garb of a Svakaran tribesman—a beaver-skin coat threaded with the sinews of a deer. But the Svakaran males were relatively tall. Torg was puzzled.

“Who are your people?” he said to Elu.

Rathburt answered for him, his words sounding rehearsed. “He’s a Svakaran. But he was poisoned as a child by a Mogol shaman, and it stunted his growth. His parents were embarrassed and abandoned him, deeming him a blight to their community. But I was kind enough to take him in.” Then Rathburt became more animated. “Despite his demure stature, he’s not helpless. As I said, he can hunt and cook. And he fights well for someone so small. Why, I daresay he could give even big men like you a tussle. While you’re not looking, he’ll bite you on the leg.”

The crossbreed laughed. “I hopes not to fight ya, little guy. Are ya as good a cook as Master Rad-burt claims?”

“Elu cooks very good,” he said in the common tongue. “He will cook for the friendly giant. And for the others.” He gestured toward Torg. “Elu will do whatever the
great one
says.”

“Well, then, get started, you little booger,” Rathburt said. “The ‘great one’ is hungry. And so is the poor excuse for a man standing next to him. Will you lower yourself to cook for him, too?”

“Elu does what he is told.”

“Don’t worry, little guy,” Ugga said. “I’ll help ya.”

“I’ll help, too,” Bard said.

“If the friendly giants will start the fire, Elu will do the rest. Do you have a pot for a nice stew?” He motioned toward the baskets. “The hickories thicken the broth, and the berries add sweetness.”

“I found our pot yester-eve,” Ugga said. “I’ll get it for ya, little guy.”

Torg was relieved. “Rathburt and I have much to discuss,” he said to the others, and then he grasped the fellow Death-Knower by the arm and guided him toward the hut. “Call us when dinner is ready. And we’ll take one of the skins of beer, as well.”

Ugga didn’t like that idea so much. “Just one, I hopes, Master Hah-nah.”

“Why does he call you Hana?” Rathburt said.

“It’s a long story. Come inside, and I’ll tell you what has happened to me since you and I last crossed paths. And you’ll do the same.”

“My tale will be less interesting, I’m sure. But then, I’ve always been less interesting than you.”

“Like I said, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“But you still love me, right?”

Torg held open the door. “I love my people. And I still consider you one of them. Do not convince me otherwise.”

“There you go with your threats.”

Inside the hut the fire had burned out. Torg threw more logs into the hearth and placed his right hand on top of the thickest piece of timber. Blue-green flame surged into the dry wood.

Rathburt claimed one of the chairs next to the table. “It smells like the insides of an Asēkha’s boots in here.”

“There are worse smells.”

“
You
would think so.”

“Listen
 . . .
Rathburt. You commented about my strange appearance just a few moments ago. But now you seem to have lost your curiosity. Don’t you want to know what happened to me?”

“I knew you would tell me, without any prompting. You’ve always enjoyed talking about yourself.”

Torg sighed, an all-too-frequent occurrence whenever Rathburt was concerned.

“You seem to blame me for your predicament,” Torg said. “But why am I the cause? Your ascension pleased me even more than it did you. I was prepared to welcome you among the greats, and so were the rest of our people.”

“I didn’t desire to be among the greats,” Rathburt said. “My
ascension
was a fluke. I didn’t even make it past the first week of warrior training, much less deserve to become a Death-Knower. I’m a freak,
Torgon
, and you know it.”

Torg started to protest, but Rathburt waved his bony hands. “I’m five hundred years old. I know that’s not as old as
you
, but it’s older than any other Tugar, including Kusala. I have been a Death-Knower—if anyone can call me that without laughing—for more than four centuries. And do you know how many times I have achieved
Sammaasamaadhi
?”

“I’m unaware.”

“Humor me. Guess.”

Torg sighed again. “More than one hundred times.”

“More than one hundred? And how about you,
Torgon
? How many times for you?”

“More than one thousand.”

Rathburt snickered, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t you see,
Torgon
? This proves I’m a fraud. You guessed one hundred? I’d be proud of that number. Try
once
.”

Torg wasn’t shocked. “Once is one more time than anyone else in the world besides me. Once is one more time than the Vasi masters who terrorized you. Once is one more time than Kusala, who ranks among the greatest men I have ever known. Once is one more time than all but the rarest of Tugars in our long history. Why do you insist on demeaning yourself?”

“Because it was a fluke, as I said. I never even felt the urge of
Dakkhinā
.” Rathburt leaned forward and pounded his fist on the table. “I wasn’t destined to become a Death-Knower. I was born to be a gardener. Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard? A gardener who lives in the desert. But it’s all I’ve ever wanted, really—to tend trees, plants, and flowers
 . . .
to get to know them
 . . .
to treasure them
 . . .
to love them. Which is why I also happened to enjoy meditation. To get close to nature, you have to
think
like nature. Meditation helped me do that—by quieting my mind and raising my awareness. And one night without planning or preparation, my mind cleared, my breath and heartbeat slowed, and my concentration reached a deeper level than ever before. Suddenly there I was, in the
Death Realm
, where you have been so many times. But unlike you, it wasn’t talent, strength or courage that brought me back to my flesh. Do you know what it was? I missed my garden. It would have struggled without my care, and I wasn’t ready to abandon it. So I returned to my body, coughing and gagging.”

Rathburt buried his face in his hands. “I’ve never made the attempt again. And I never will. I’m a coward,
Torgon
. Our people—
your
people—wanted me to be like you, but I was incapable.”

Torg placed his hand on Rathburt’s stooped shoulder. “You torment yourself needlessly. You’re ashamed of your success as a gardener and your failure as a warrior. But what you don’t comprehend is that a gardener is the superior being. Nourishing life ranks among the highest states of wisdom, destroying life among the lowest. I’ve killed many times—with magic, sword, and bare hands—and each time I’ve fallen further away from the attainment of enlightenment. Don’t you understand? There’s
no
justification for violence. But it appears I’m destined to be a warrior, at least in this lifetime. If you’re destined to be a gardener, does that make you a freak? Perhaps I’m the freak.”

“It’s just one more thing I hate about you. You’re so
nice
. I deserve to be humiliated for my cowardice, not rewarded. And yet you refuse to discipline me. I abandoned Anna and fled into the wilderness, forsaking our people. Why can’t you hate me as much as I hate myself?”

“Because you’re the only person I’ve ever known who has seen what I’ve seen. It’s lonely, being a Death-Knower. Surely you understand that as well as I.”

“Yes,” Rathburt said, with a sigh of his own. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his narrow chest. “Let us trade stories, then. At least for today, we can put our loneliness aside and be joined as friends.”