Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  Tomorrow he would go in search of food and clothing. Although he had the ability to kill game and tan hides, he’d have to stay in one place for a week or more to accomplish it. That was not acceptable. Regardless, he believed he could find warmer clothing. The wilderness was vast but not barren, and it was likely that others wandered these woods. In return for a cloak and boots, he would barter his services. And if he ran into any uncooperative sorts, he would convince them that it was not wise to make a Death-Knower angry.

  Soon he would take the first steps on his long journey toward vengeance. But he would have to be patient. There were many leagues to travel, many plans to make. And eventually, many battles to wage. Torg tossed more logs onto the fire. Then he sat cross-legged and meditated for two hundred slow breaths before allowing himself to sleep.

  He dreamt of his dead father.

  In the fiery heat of midsummer, Torg, who had seen just eighteen summers, and Asēkha-Jhana stood on an escarpment overlooking a dry lake bed. Beyond the mile-wide playa, a series of sand dunes tumbled toward the horizon like frozen waves. Though it was just an hour past dawn, it was more than one hundred and ten degrees in the heart of the Great Desert, and the crusty surface of the lake bed was a good deal hotter. But that didn’t stop the Vasi masters from beginning that day’s training session with their Tugar novices. Fifty masters wore black jackets and breeches; a thousand novices wore white.

  Jhana pressed against his tall, young son. “Today’s lesson is called Aarakaa Himsaa,” he said to Torg. “In the ancient tongue, Aarakaa Himsaa means away from harm, though the masters prefer to call it ‘keeping a safe distance.’ The idea is simple: If you stay far enough away from your adversary, he, she or it will not be able to harm you. This does not mean that you should run away. It only means that you should always remain at least a hair’s width from your adversary’s longest strike.”

  Torg watched the novices begin their training with one hundred slow breaths of mindful meditation and follow that with a carefully orchestrated bow in honor of their masters. The bow contained seven separate movements, each performed with meticulous precision to the rhythm of the Bheri, a thunderous drum.

  After the ceremony was completed, the students lined up in fifty parallel columns, with a master at the head of each. The first student in every column was given a bo, a wooden stave that was five cubits long. Then the novices were instructed to attack the masters with their bo, thrusting and stroking in a series of sporadic movements. With simplistic ease the masters stayed just out of range, jumping backward, sliding sideways, stepping forward. Torg was fascinated. When the students struck quickly, the masters reacted slowly. When the students slowed their attacks, the masters sped up their defense, constantly changing rhythm but never varying distance.

  As far as Torg could tell, not a single instructor was touched.

  Jhana laughed. “The masters enjoy Aarakaa Himsaa. It gives them yet another chance to show off. But it’s clearly valuable. During my fifty years of training I spent more than one thousand hours practicing various forms of these movements. As you can imagine, the more you practice the better you get.”

  “Fifty years is such a long time, father. I don’t know if I have the patience. I want to be a warrior now.”

  “Think of it as eighteen thousand days, Torg. That way it won’t seem so long.” Then he laughed heartily. “All youngsters feel the same. And some do not have the patience—and they fail. But a time will come in your training when your resistance will snap. That will be a painful day. But the training becomes easier and far more pleasurable afterward. Besides, if you train hard enough and long enough, a day will come when you can teach your master a lesson. That is a joyful day.”

  “You could defeat a Vasi master? I thought they were invincible.”

  “I am Asēkha—beyond the masters and all others. One day you’ll become an Asēkha. For me, that will be a very joyful day. But I’m already proud of you. You have no idea how much talent you possess. If only your mother were here with us. She was an even better fighter than I, you know.”

  “You have told me that every day of my life,” Torg said. “But I never grow tired of hearing it. I didn’t know her, yet I miss her so much.”

  “Aaaah, Torg, do not despair. She wouldn’t allow either of us to mourn. Dying while giving birth to you was her karma, just as continuing without her was yours and mine. But she lives on . . . in you. Your face looks just like her, my beautiful son.”

  Then Jhana began to wander backward.

  “Father, where are you going?”

  A mist swirled about the Asēkha. He floated toward the blazing sky and was swept away by the hot desert breeze.

  “Father, wait! Don’t go. Not yet.”

  Torg bolted upright. The first thing he saw was the Silver Sword, pale and lifeless at his side. The sun had risen, but the sky was thick with ugly clouds, and a chill breeze swept across his brow. The fire he’d built the night before still smoldered, but it emitted little warmth.

  Torg sighed.

  He wasn’t eighteen years old.

  He was more than a thousand.

  And his beloved father was centuries dead, reduced to just a memory that grew dimmer with each day.

  It had been a dream, no more.

  But the two grizzled men and the white-haired woman who approached from the trees were all too real.

  One of the men was huge—tall as Torg and as thick around the belly as an oak—and the hair on his head, face and neck grew together into one grimy tangle. He had small eyes, but his nose was long and oddly shaped. Torg studied him carefully, and soon there was no doubt. This one was a crossbreed—part man, part animal. From the looks of it, the animal portion was a bear.

  Throughout the land there were a select few with magic powerful enough to conjure such a creature: Invictus, Vedana, Bhayatupa, the Warlish witches. But whoever had made this one no longer controlled him. He roamed freely, and by the looks of him, was dangerous. In addition to his intimidating height and girth, he carried an axe so heavy few could have lifted it from the ground, much less wielded it.

  The second man was dwarfed by the first, even though he was large by ordinary standards. He also had long dark hair and a thick beard, but he was better groomed—and startlingly handsome, his wily blue eyes intelligent and alert. This one was not a crossbreed, but that made him no less dangerous. He held a spear in one hand and had a dagger in his belt.

  The woman was the smallest of the three. Her hair was white as snow, accentuating her green eyes, and she wielded a fancy wood bow, probably stolen, that was already nocked and drawn with a flint-tipped arrow aimed at Torg’s heart.

  “Friend, I says to ya, we wish for no trouble,” the smaller man said, his eyes fixed on Torg’s every movement. “We miserable wretches are tortured enough, as is. Rest assured, we will leave ya in peace once ya meet our slight demand.”

  “Let me shoot him dead and be done with him,” the woman snarled. “Why waste our time with foolish words?”

  The leader glared at the woman. Then he turned back to Torg and smiled. “Don’t listen to the Bitch. If it were my choice, I would stay awhiles and make lots of friendly talk. But we have travelled far, and our feet are lamed. We must be moving along.”

  The crossbreed stomped forward, his breath bursting from his mouth. “The Bitch is right. No more talking is what I wants. Give me the sword, Master Ogre, or I will remove your foul noggin’.”

  The smaller man shook his head. “Ya heard them,” he said, as if resigned to an unwelcome fate. “My friends have not a speck of good humor in their bones. Angry words give me a belly-ache, but what is I to do? I dares not try to control the whims of such frightful peoples.”

  Torg rose to his feet, the Silver Sword at his side. “You have traveled far, but not as far as I,” he said in a voice that sounded almost normal to him, now that his teeth were growing back. “And I’m exhausted and lack my usual grace. In better times I might find the three of
you amusing. But today I have no patience. Besides, your demand is unacceptable. The sword is precious to me, and I would not abandon it, even under threat from an army of enemies. But I have demands of my own, and I counsel you to obey them. I am in dire need of warm clothing. Take me to your camp and show me what you possess. Be quick, and I’ll reward you. Defy me, and I’ll strip the clothes off your backs.”

  Torg’s bold words dumbfounded all three of them. The crossbreed’s mouth sprang open. The leader clapped his hand against his forehead and chuckled. But the woman reacted without hesitation, letting the arrow fly.

  Despite her quickness, Torg was not caught unaware. He could have knocked the arrow out of the air with his sword, but he wanted to impress them, so he allowed it to strike his chest. The arrow bounced off, as if his flesh were made of stone.

  “He is Demon Spawn,” the woman said. “Me arrow would’ve killed a Buffelo.”

  “None of you wields a weapon capable of harming me,” Torg said. “I’m beyond you. Do you doubt it?” Then he willed his eyes to glow with a deep-blue intensity. “I’m no ogre or demon,” he continued in a booming voice. “I’m far greater! If you test my patience too severely, you’ll do so at your peril.”

  Whether frightened or enraged, the crossbreed could stand no more, and he rushed at Torg with his axe held high, swinging a mighty blow. Torg avoided it easily. One thousand hours of Aarakaa Himsaa were more than a match for such a crude attack.

  The smaller man flung his dagger. This time Torg didn’t allow himself to be struck. He flicked the Silver Sword, knocking the blade out of the air.

  Torg believed he was capable of killing all three with ease. But he preferred not to kill unless it was absolutely necessary, and his instincts told him that these odd companions might be of use to him. They were ruthless but not evil. Still, he needed to disable them, at least temporarily, until he could earn their confidence. They were too feisty to be trusted just yet.

  The crossbreed dropped his axe and slung his arms around Torg’s torso in an attempt to crush him. Torg dropped the sword, placed his palms on the sides of the giant’s neck and compressed the main arteries, temporarily cutting off the flow of blood to the brain. During his warrior training, he had practiced this move only a few dozen times, but it was simple to learn and always effective.

  The crossbreed’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. Then he let go of Torg, took a step back, and said “Huh!” before collapsing into unconsciousness.

  “Ya have killed Ugga, ya Bastud!” The smaller man sprinted toward Torg and threw the spear.

  Torg ducked as the spear zipped past, clattering against a boulder. The man continued forward at full speed. But in Torg’s perception of time, the attacker moved in slow motion.

  Torg caught the man by his wrists, rotated on his hips, and flung him face-first into the smoldering remains of the fire. His adversary squealed like a pig and rolled off the embers, brushing himself frenetically.

  “Bard, me dears. I comes to save ya!” The white-haired woman leapt at Torg, snarling like a lioness protecting her cubs. But Torg punched her in the solar plexus—lightly, by his standards—and then tossed her aside. She landed awkwardly on the hard stone by the mouth of the cave and lay still.

  The one she called Bard stood up warily, bits of charred debris still smoking in his beard. Without the dagger and spear he had no visible weapons, though Torg suspected he had more hidden beneath his cloak.

  “Will ya kill us all?” Bard said. “We deserve it, I supposes. But Master Ogre, ya could do me a great favor if ya killed just me and let the others go. I loves them and would hate to witness their endings.”

  “Put your hands by your side and come to me.”

  “If I does, ya will skewer me with that blade,” said Bard, motioning toward the sword that lay at Torg’s feet.

  “If you do as I say, I promise not to kill any of you. My word is worth much.”

  Bard looked down at Ugga, who lay flat on his back, eyes closed, breathing slowly, as if taking a nap. The woman lay still as well, though she was moaning.

  “And what of Jord?” Bard said, pointing at the woman. “Will ya defile the Bitch? I could not bear it.”

  “I’m no rapist,” Torg said. “If you could see me as I truly am, you would find my words more believable. Still, you have no choice but to trust me. You cannot defeat me in battle. I say it again, put your hands by your side and come to me.”

  Bard remained unconvinced. “Ya could not best me again, so easy.”

  Torg sighed. “If you do not come to me, I will come to you. And we shall see what we shall see.”

  Bard reached inside his coat and drew out another dagger.

  Torg closed the gap between them and grasped the man’s hand with his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed wickedly, contorting the wrist.

  Bard cried out and dropped the weapon.

  Torg drew the man’s face close. “Niddaayahi!” Blue smoke burst from his mouth and swirled into Bard’s nostrils. The trapper instantly fell into a deep sleep, and Torg lowered him gently to the ground.

  Next, he walked over to the woman by the mouth of the cave. Scattered patches of ice clung to the stone floor, and he struggled to keep his footing in his flimsy sandals. Jord held her abdomen, groaning and coughing. Torg knew he hadn’t struck her hard enough to do serious damage, but he leaned down to get a closer look.

  She was craftier than he had given her credit. She kicked at his left ankle, knocking his foot off the ground. His other foot was positioned on some ice, and it slid sideways. Torg fell on his face, amazed. He had never been bested in such a way before.

  The woman ran toward the trees. But Torg was up in an instant, kicking off the annoying sandals and chasing after her.

  “Wait . . . wait! I will harm you no further.”

  Even barefoot, Torg was quicker. She must have sensed his approach because she tried to run even faster, which caused her to stumble and fall. She scrambled to her knees just as he caught up.

  Torg grabbed one arm, but she spun around and bit him on the wrist. Her teeth were hard and flat but no match for his flesh. Her eyes flew open, as if she had chomped on a piece of wood, and when she felt the strength of his hand, she went limp.

  “Do not kill me, Master Ogre! Do not eat my heart or slurp my blood. I will do whatever ya ask. I will be your Concubeen, if I must. But please, don’t kill me. I doesn’t want to die so young.” Then she burst into tears and shivered on the ground at his feet.

  Torg wasn’t fooled. Her cowardly display was mostly for show, buying her time to think up another way to escape. Grasping a handful of her hair, he yanked her to her feet. She yelped like a dog that had been kicked in the ribs.

  Tugars knew more than fifty pressure points on the human body which, when stimulated, were capable of causing debilitating pain. Torg pressed his thick thumb into a spot just below her right elbow. Jord screamed so loudly her voice echoed in the trees.

  “I’m beginning to think that all three of you are deaf,” Torg said. “I’ll try to make my intentions clear, yet again. If you do as I say, I will not harm you. And I have no desire to make you my Concubeen, whatever that might be.”

  Through the long strands of white hair that had fallen over her eyes, Jord looked up at him with renewed anger. “Do ya think me ugly?”

  Torg couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed. “No, you’re not ugly. This has nothing to do with how you look, though you’re in more need of a bath than I.”

  She drew her breath in with a hiss.

  “Do not take offense,” Torg said. “For now, sex is the least of my concerns. What I need more than anything is warm clothing and a hot meal. I would love some bread. Vegetables. Roasted meat. A mug of beer or a cup of wine. Aaah . . . what I wouldn’t do for either.”

  The woman sat on her haunches and brushed the hair from her eyes. She looked at Bard and Ugga. “Are they dead?”

  Torg chuckled again. “The big one—Ugga, y
ou call him?—will have a bit of a headache when he wakes up, and Bard might be groggy. But otherwise they’ll be fine. I’m glad you care. You’ll be more likely to do as I say, if you fear for their safety.”

  “I ran like a coward,” Jord said. “I’m ashamed. But ya scared me so.”

  “Make it up to them. Do as I say, and I won’t hurt them any more. Do you have a camp nearby?”

  “We have a house, less than a league from here. It’s my house. We were hunting for our breakfast when we smelled your fire. We planned to make off with your sword, which has the look of value.”

  “It does have value. But it’s mine, and I plan to keep it. Do you have any food at the house?”

  “I has flour and yeast for bread, and plenty o’ hickory butter. There is a barrel with squashes and wild potatoes. And I has spices, too.”

  “Take me there. We’ll prepare a meal. Before this is over, you and I will be friends.”

  Jord motioned to Ugga and Bard. “Will ya leave them? The cold’ll kill them before just a short time passes.”

  “No, I won’t leave them.”

  “But they are too big to carry.”

  “Not for me.”

  2

  Torg offered his hand to Jord. The green-eyed woman allowed him to lift her to her feet. He turned away and walked back to the cave, where Ugga and Bard lay unconscious. He reached down, picked up the Silver Sword and slid it into the belt of his robes.

  Jord followed him.

  Torg imagined she must be tempted to pick up a stone and bash his skull. But she had seen how he fought, and probably didn’t dare. First he went to Bard and lifted the smaller man with little effort. Then he laid him alongside the giant crossbreed.

  Jord got on her hands and knees and put her ear against Bard’s chest—and did the same for Ugga. “Are ya sure they will live, Master Ogre? If they die, it will be the foulest torment to me.”