Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (31 page)

“I meant no offense,” Torg said. “If it were just one black wolf against you, I’ve no doubt you would prevail. But if I’m correct, we’ll be severely outnumbered. And where there are black wolves, there can be other creatures, some of which are even deadlier. If my attention is diverted, you’d be easy prey. Your familiarity with this land is needed more than your strength.”

“Maybe Rathburt and Elu should hide in the cave while you great men do all the fighting,” the Svakaran said angrily.

“For Anna’s sake, Elu. None of us doubts your courage,” Rathburt snapped. “But for once,
Torgon
is right. Rather than complain, help us find a better place to fight than these trees.”

Elu stomped his foot and spat. Finally he pointed toward the mountains. “Up there, the land rises sharply. Beyond is a narrow path with great stone walls.”

“Good idea, little guy,” Ugga said. “Show us the way.”

Then the crossbreed swept Elu onto his shoulders. To quicken their pace, Torg melted a long trench in the snow. Bard took control of the litter, and Rathburt, surprisingly, lent a hand, bending over and shoving it from behind.

“If the wolves get too close, we’ll have to abandon this,” Rathburt said.

“I’ll die before I do that,” Bard said. “I wouldn’t give up the skins to a thousand of them.”

“You’ve been spending too much time around
Torgon
,” Rathburt said. “You’re picking up his stubbornness.”

As the howling intensified, their hopes of escaping undetected diminished, though they could not yet see the wolves. The land rolled and swayed like a stormy sea, restricting their visibility. The wolves could have been just a stone’s throw away and still be hidden from view.

“How far, Elu?” Torg said.

“Less than five hundred paces.”

“We have to give up the skins,” Torg said. “They’re slowing us down too much.”

Bard started to protest, but Torg cut him off. “It’s not what they’re after. We’ll come back for them when the fight is finished.”

They shoved the litter into a dense area of trees and continued their flight. Bard was dismayed—and for a moment it appeared he might stay with the skins rather than follow his companions—but Ugga grabbed his arm and yanked him forward.

“Master Hah-nah is right. What good are they to us if we’re dead?”

The terrain became treacherous. Even without snow and ice it would have been difficult to traverse, but in the wintry conditions it was tough on all of them. Rathburt, as it turned out, slowed them down almost as much as the litter, frequently tripping and sliding down the slope ten paces or more each time he fell. Torg and Bard were forced to drag him along.

At the same time the narrow path came into view above, the lead wolves appeared below. At first there were just four, and when they caught sight of the men, they rushed toward them at a full run. They were as large and fast as horses, but far more dangerous. Their fangs and claws were as sharp as the point of a Tugarian dagger.

Bard loosed an arrow that caught the lead wolf between the eyes. It tumbled and lay still.

The second wolf leaped over its fallen brother. Torg shifted to his left and then whipped the Silver Sword in a high arc over his right shoulder. The blade cut through hide, bone and sinew. Blood as black as tar splashed onto Torg’s face.

The third went for Ugga, but the crossbreed dealt a death blow with his axe.

The fourth got past the three men and lunged for Rathburt, who tried to smite it with his staff but slipped instead, falling awkwardly onto his rump. The wolf went for his throat, but Elu pounced onto its back and plunged his dagger between the bones of its spine, killing it with one stab. Then the tiny Svakaran pounded his chest.

“The little guy is tougher than he looks,” Ugga said.

“Hurry!” Torg said. “The others will soon be upon us. We must reach the narrow way.”

They darted upward, dragging Rathburt toward the wall of stone, within which was a crevice just wide enough for the largest of them to enter. It was a perfect place for their defense. Rathburt and Elu squeezed through the opening just as the main strength of the wolves rushed forward, growling and slavering, anxious for the kill. But something held them back. Rather than attack in uncontrolled rage, they approached slowly, side by side, heads down.

“There are too many,” Rathburt shouted. “Come with us. We can escape on the other side of the path.”

“It would be useless to run,” Torg said. “Stay where you are. Elu will protect you.”

Torg was flanked by Bard and Ugga, who appeared alert but unafraid.

“The wolves are not alone,” Torg said softly. “Something commands them. I can sense its power. Whatever it is, you must leave it to me. It is beyond any of you.”

Just then the line of wolves parted, and the woods grew eerily silent. A dip at the base of the slope concealed what approached. But its footsteps boomed.

Suddenly Rathburt screamed, “A Kojin comes!”

The wolves were intimidated and enraged at the same time, the hair on their napes bristling. They tore at the ground with their claws, but it was clear the ogress was their master.

“If I fall, you must flee,” Torg said.

The Kojin crawled up the slope like a sister of Dukkhatu, using her six muscled arms to propel herself. When she reached the wolves, she rose on two legs to her full height, twice as tall as Torg or Ugga and almost three times as heavy.

The ogresses were massively strong, yet also agile, and they possessed ancient magic that shielded their flesh. Eons before, when Java was five times its current size, hundreds of Kojins were believed to have roamed the forest, terrorizing any who dared enter. But Java succumbed to the onslaught of a thousand wars and was reduced in scope. Now fewer than a dozen ogresses were thought to survive. But that did not make this one any less dangerous. Torg could see a purplish glow emanating from the beast’s scaly hide. An ordinary sword, no matter how skillfully wielded, could not pierce the supernatural buffer.

Kojins were incapable of speech, but they were not stupid. They communicated telepathically, much like the cave monkeys but with not nearly the delicacy. As the ogress strode to meet him, Torg felt the beast’s will beat upon his brow like the heat from a furnace. In a posture of challenge the Kojin pounded her fists together, causing the wolves to yip and snarl, maddened by her bravado.

The ogress wielded no weapons other than her club-like arms and the poisoned claws on the tips of her fingers and toes. Torg wielded the Silver Sword
.
As he confronted the Kojin, the creature seemed to sense his confidence and was puzzled. It was possible that she had never before stood face to face with so bold an opponent.

The wolves sensed the ogress’ confusion. As the will that drove them wavered, they rushed forward. But the Kojin let out a high-pitched screech, freezing the beasts in their tracks. Then she seemed to regain her composure and return her focus to the being that approached her.

Wielding the Silver Sword, Torg continued toward the monster, closing within three paces. With long-practiced precision, he grasped the dull portion of the blade near the hilt with his left hand and lowered the sword to his left hip, its point facing behind him, its pommel facing forward. Then he knelt on his left knee.

The Kojin towered above him, seeming to mistake his movement as an act of submission, and she pounded her hairy chest and screeched again. The wolves could barely tolerate the intensity, shaking their heads wildly. Bard, Ugga, Rathburt and Elu made smacking sounds as they clasped their ears. But Torg was unaffected.

What happened next took less time than a single long breath.

Torg grasped the black-leather grip with his right hand, lunged forward on his right foot, and leaped high into the air, whipping the blade left-to-right across the front of his body. The tip gashed the Kojin’s throat, and purple light exploded from the wound.

Torg landed at the Kojin’s feet and knelt again. From this position, he again swung the blade across the front of his body, this time right-to-left, and cut off the Kojin’s left foot above the ankle.

The ogress cried out and collapsed to her knees.

Once Torg had completed the swing, the sword again pointed straight back on his left side. With barely a pause he leapt upward, raised the blade over his head, and drove the edge into the Kojin’s skull. A blinding explosion of purple erupted from the gory wound, scattering the wolves and setting nearby trees aflame.

Almost nonchalantly, Torg flicked blood off the blade.

The Kojin collapsed onto its shattered face. It would never again haunt the Dark Forest or any land. It was no longer.

Torg stared down at her ruin. The Silver Sword remained lifeless and cold, as if totally disinterested in its role in the carnage.

Though the ogress was dead, her body still writhed, and the ancient magic erupting from her skull, neck and leg scorched whatever it touched. The wolves went wild, attacking anything that moved, including each other. By the time they calmed enough to turn on their intended prey, fully a third of their own were dead or maimed. But that left more than sixty still capable of wreaking havoc, and these fell upon Bard, Ugga and Torg in a frothy rage. Bard dropped the bow and fought bravely with his spear, skewering two before being driven back against the wall. Ugga killed half a dozen with his axe, but he was forced to retreat to help Bard. Without Torg, they would have been lost. He entered into
frenzy
, butchering two dozen wolves with a variety of cuts, hacks and thrusts refined over a thousand years of practice. The surviving wolves—fewer than thirty in all—finally lost their courage and rushed down the slope with their tails between their legs, yelping as they fled.

But five alpha males remained, still focused on Ugga and Bard. The crossbreed had a deep gash across his forehead that was dumping blood into his eyes. Bard was cut and bruised, and his spear had been sundered. He held just a pair of daggers. But now Elu had joined the fray, and he stood between the men like a boy come of age, waving his own dagger as if daring the wolves to attack.

Still in the
frenzy
, Torg pierced the nearest wolf through its heart. The others turned to face him, but they were no match. A second fell, its legs cut out from under. Ugga swung his axe and beheaded a third. Elu stabbed the largest of the wolves between its ribs before Torg finished it with a thrust to the throat. The final survivor turned and ran, following the others into the forest.

Bard sagged to his knees. Elu and Ugga knelt near their friend. Torg stood motionless, watching his breath until his rage subsided. Finally he motioned for Rathburt to come out of hiding.

“The fight is over, for now. The wolves are routed. Once we regain our strength, we can recover the skins and be on our way.”

“Is anyone badly hurt?” Rathburt managed to say.

As a group, they turned to Bard, but he was already on his feet. “Nothing that beer won’t cure.”

The others laughed—except for Rathburt, whose face was red with shame.

“I’m sorry,
Torgon.
I’m too weak to slay a single wolf, much less a Kojin. Once again I’ve failed you.”

But Torg only smiled. “Sister Tathagata once said something similar to me, and it was foolish coming from her, as well. I inflict death. You do not. Are you inferior? Accept your destiny. And take pride in your accomplishments. They’re not as minor as you believe.”

Rathburt glared at Torg. “Perhaps there will come a time when I will not fail you.”

“You’ve never failed me.”

“Just once
 . . .
hate me. Scream at me. Hit me. I can’t stomach your unconditional love. It makes me feel even more worthless.”

“I reserve hatred for a select few. And even then, I’m ashamed of it.”

“You don’t know the meaning of shame,” Rathburt said, before stomping off.

“You could not be more wrong,” Torg whispered.