Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles

by Jim Melvin

  “If they are half as strong as they appear, they will not die. Ugga will wake up first. Bard won’t open his eyes until late tonight or early tomorrow, but when he does he’ll feel strong and rested.”

  “Ya have performed these fantastical deeds before? Where did ya learn such trickery? Ya felled Ugga with a slap of your hands. And ya made Bard sleep with smoke belched from your stomach. I would not have believed it possible. Ugga and Bard have never been bested, at least whilst I was watching. Even the blows of wicked savages do not injure them.”

  “I’ve received proper training.”

  “Ya do not fool me. Ya persist in saying ya not be Demon. But I believes ya not be Man. Ya must be a great Conjurer of Magic, arisen from the bowels of the mountains to haunt this world. What is your name, Master Ogre? Can ya tell me that?”

  Torg laughed again. “In some ways, you speak the truth. I did come from the bowels of the mountains, though not by choice. I’m not a man, at least not in the way I take you to mean. And I am able to conjure magic, though there have been times in my life when I’ve been more capable than now. As for my name, I choose not to reveal it. Please do not take offense. I’d make a dangerous ally. Knowing who I am could be perilous.”

  Jord sighed. “We must call ya something.”

  “Very well. Call me . . . Hana. That name is as good as any.”

  Torg retrieved his bag of food and offered Jord a mushroom. To his surprise, she took it without protest. After tasting it, her eyes opened wide with delight.

  “Hah-nah, do ya have great quantities of these mushrooms? They are better than any I has ever tasted. I begs to know—from where did they come?”

  “As for quantity, I have only what you see,” Torg said, opening the bag for her perusal. “As for where, let me just say that the world beneath our feet is not lifeless.”

  “I hopes to never find out,” said Jord, who reached back into the bag, pulled out another mushroom, and chomped hungrily. Torg envied her full set of teeth.

  “Wait, Hah-nah! I changes my mind. I wants to go into the cavern and get some more. Will ya show me?”

  Torg sighed. He suspected she was exaggerating her pleasure for his benefit. “One day I’ll return to the cave, if my karma allows. But for now, my errands are too urgent.”

  Then he handed the bag to Jord and knelt between the two unconscious men. The woman gasped when Torg threw Ugga over one shoulder and Bard over the other. When he stood, Jord almost swooned.

  “Can ya carry Buffelos with your bare hands?”

  “I must admit, these two are heavier than I thought,” Torg said, trying not to grunt too much. “But I’ll manage. Lead the way, Jord. The quicker we get to your camp, the quicker I can put them down. Their stink is worse than their bulk.”

  Jord found that quite amusing, bending over and slapping her knee. The woman started off through the woods. After a few hundred paces the land sloped downward into a hollow. The footing was treacherous, especially considering Torg was lugging more than forty stones of dead weight. Plus, he was walking barefoot, and his feet were already numb. But his dense flesh was otherwise impervious. Rocks or roots could inflict minor pain, but they could not cause cuts or bruises of any consequence.

  They soon came upon a clear-running stream. Torg set down his burden, buried his face in the icy water, and drank deeply despite the cold. Jord joined him, getting down on hands and knees and burying her face in the water, but when he lingered too long by the water, she became annoyed.

  “Come. It is yet a far ways.”

  The white-haired woman traveled much lighter than Torg. All she carried was her bow and arrows, Bard’s spear and Torg’s small bag of food. She had been forced to leave Ugga’s immense axe, though she had hid it under some leaves before they departed.

  Jord sprinted as fast as one of his Tugars. Torg wondered suspiciously how he had been able to catch her so easily back at the cave. Gasping for breath and sweating profusely, he was forced to halt several times and drop the men on the ground less gently than he should have.

  “Must ya wander along so slowly?” Jord said. “We’ve gone less than a hectare. Almost a league still lies betwixt here and our neighborhood. Would ya like me to carry the sword? Ya keep trippin’ over it.”

  “If you had any idea what I’ve been through in the past few weeks, you would be amazed that I could walk on my own, much less carry these brutes. And no, I don’t want you to carry the sword. But if your wildness demands it, go on ahead. I’ll follow your footprints.”

  “An excellent idea, Hah-nah. I’ll start the fires. Beyond this hollow, ya will find a splendorous wood where the pines rise to vast bigness. Our house lies beyond the great trees.”

  “Whatever you say. But in the time it takes me to catch up to you, please try to learn a proper language.”

  “Hmmph! Your speech is the one lacking, Master Ogre.”

  “You will lack your head, if you’re not careful.”

  She responded with another hmmph! Then she ran off, fast as a filly.

  Torg watched Jord sprint along the base of the hollow, scramble up the side of a hill, and disappear into the trees. Despite the presence of Ugga and Bard, who lay at his feet like a pair of logs, Torg felt alone. He fantasized about leaving them and jogging after Jord, ridding himself of his annoying burdens.

  But he knew if he ever did something so selfish, his karma would haunt him. Nothing good ever came from such an act of cruelty.

  Torg sighed. For better or worse, Ugga and Bard were in his care. He hoisted both men onto his shoulders, slipped a little on the icy ground, uttered some ancient profanities and started forward. His toes were numb. He was in no danger of frostbite, but he was not immune to discomfort.

  “Must ya wander along so slowly?” Torg said, mimicking Jord’s annoying pattern of speech. “Let’s see how fast you could wander with these two Buffelos on your back, ya bitch.”

  Torg walked clumsily along the floor of the hollow, which was littered with fallen trees and crumbled boulders. Compared to Jord’s joyous trot through the bowl-shaped depression, he moved as slowly as a snail. When he reached the hill that she had ascended so easily, Torg looked up with dread. How could he possibly carry these two lugs up there and have the strength to go any farther? He was hungrier than he was thirsty, and he remembered—with renewed annoyance—that he hadn’t eaten since the night before. To make matters worse, Jord had taken what little food he had left.

  Torg’s legs were wobbly. His sojourn with the cave monkeys had strengthened him somewhat, but he was not even close to being fully recovered from his ordeal in the pit. A journey this physically stressful was the last thing he needed. But disabling Ugga and Bard had been his choice, so he subdued his internal whining.

  The hill was steep, but not high—no more than fifty paces to its peak. Still, scaling it turned out to be even more difficult than Torg had feared. About halfway up he had to put Bard down, hoist Ugga to the top and return to his smaller companion. By the time all three were out of the hollow, it was almost noon. Torg sprawled on the ground next to the two men, wheezing like a weary old man.

  As he lay on his back, he was surprised to hear Ugga moaning. Torg didn’t believe it possible that the crossbreed could awaken this quickly. Maybe the bear part of him had better recuperative powers than an ordinary person’s. Torg watched Ugga closely, curious to see if he would move.

  Suddenly the crossbreed sat up, let out a roar and struggled to his feet. But he didn’t stay upright for long. Instead he fell forward onto his face and lay still for a few seconds before rising to his knees. Then he made a strange face—and vomited. The stink was terrible.

  Torg stood up and backed away.

  “How did I get here?” Ugga said. “Where are ya, Bard? Where are ya, Bitch? My head hurts terrible. And I has lost me axe!”

  “Are you able to walk?” Torg said, from behind the crossbreed’s back. “I surely hope so. Carrying you has been most unpleasant. You’re as heav
y as a camel.”

  Still on his knees, the crossbreed spun around in reaction to the voice. He stood up again, lost his balance and tumbled backward, landing roughly on his rump. Then he sat there with a quizzical expression, staring at Torg with a sort of awe.

  “Do ya mean to kill me, Master Ogre? Without me axe, I knows I can’t stop ya from ending me days. Have ya murdered Bard and the Bitch? Did ya swallow them while I sleeped?”

  Torg rolled his eyes. “Let me answer your questions one at a time. Do I mean to kill you? Not if you behave yourself and do what you’re told. Have I murdered Bard and the Bitch? Bard, as you can see, is sleeping soundly just a few paces away, and ‘the Bitch’ is already back at your camp, preparing a meal. Or she’d damn well better be. Have I eaten your companions while you slept? I’m not that hungry yet, but if I don’t get some normal food soon, I might eat all three of you . . . raw.”

  Ugga began to cry. It was an unusual sound, coming from someone so large and dangerous. “Please, Master Ogre. Don’t kill poor, ugly Ugga . . . or his two nicey friends. Bard and the Bitch have treated me kindly. I will behave, I promises.” He covered his face with his hands.

  “All right,” Torg said. “I believe you, Ugga. As I said before, you and the others have nothing to fear from me.” Then Torg held out his hand. “Trust me. If I meant to kill you, would I have waited until you woke up? And would I have carried you all the way here on my back? I need food, drink and clothing—not murder and mayhem. And I’d relish some friendly talk by a warm fire after I’ve filled my stomach.”

  Ugga’s small eyes opened wide, apparently stunned by the strength of Torg’s grip. He stood and faced him. They were almost the same height.

  “I trusts ya, Master Ogre,” Ugga said, bowing his head. “I will do as ya say.” Then the crossbreed looked at his smaller companion, who lay on his back on the frozen ground, with a grin on his face. “Will Bard ever wake up?”

  “Probably not before next morning. But he won’t be sick like you were. Still, we do need to get him to a warm place soon. Is her house—as Jord calls it—comfortable?”

  “Her house is small, but it’s very nice, I thinks. I takes ya there now, Master Ogre. Would it make ya mad if I carried Bard?”

  “Ugga, if you’ll carry Bard, I promise to be your friend for as long as we both live. But there’s one other thing you must do for me, regardless.”

  “What’s that, Master Ogre?”

  “Please . . . please . . . call me Hana!”

  As they started out, Torg shivered in his thin robes, and his bare feet were now numb past his ankles. Otherwise he felt like he was in paradise. He had forgotten how pleasant it was just to walk on his own, without lugging forty stones of odoriferous weight. Ugga now carried Bard, and the muscular crossbreed appeared to be having an easy time of it.

  “I smell smoke,” Torg said. “Do you think Jord is cooking something? I can’t remember ever being this hungry.”

  “It’s not far, Master Ogre . . . errr . . . Hah-nah,” Ugga said, shifting Bard to his other shoulder. “I smells smoke and food, too, I thinks.”

  “Jord didn’t mention anything about fresh game,” Torg said, “but I swear I smell venison.”

  “Knowing the Bitch, she got a deer after she left ya,” Ugga said, breathing hard but moving at a steady pace. “There are many in these woods. With her bow, she can slay a Buffelo from a furlong away. With her help, Bard and I kill lots of beasties and tan the hides—and we sell them to the merchants in Kamupadana for gold coins. But the whores tempt us with their pretty bodies. I likes the Brounettos best of all. Bard goes for the Blondies. The Bitch gets angry if we don’t bring back more than a smile.”

  “Does Jord get jealous?” Torg said. “It seems she and Bard are a couple.”

  Suddenly Ugga dropped Bard to the ground and collapsed, as if he had been struck in the back with an arrow. Torg drew his sword and looked quickly around, searching for signs of an ambush.

  Ugga’s face reddened, his eyes filled with tears, and he appeared to be in terrible pain. Baffled, Torg started toward the crossbreed to see what he could do. But then he sighed in relief. Ugga wasn’t injured. Instead, a titanic fit of laughter had rendered him helpless.

  The crossbreed rolled onto his side and held his thick stomach, thrashing his legs and pounding his fists on the ground. Bizarre grunts and squeals came from his mouth. He belched and farted before succumbing to a fit of coughing. A good time later he managed to compose himself, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

  “Master Ogre . . . Hah-nah, I means . . . if ya do not intend to kill me, ya won’t say such a thing again. In all my life, I has never heard anything so funny. Bard and the Bitch, a Cup-pull?”

  Ugga lost control again. As he laughed, gobs of sputum froze on his beard. It went on for so long, Torg finally sat cross-legged on the ground and waited for it to stop.

  “Sorry . . . sorry . . . Hah-nah,” Ugga said. “After we have eaten, we will tell ya the story of Bard and the Bitch. Then ya will better understand the reasons for my crazy giggling.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard this kind of laughter. To be honest, it warms my heart. And after you tell me about Bard and the Bitch, I’d like to hear the story of Ugga.”

  “Only if ya tell me about Hah-nah.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Ugga lifted Bard and started up the hill, Torg at his side. When they reached the crest, Torg stopped. The land descended toward a narrow creek and then rose again in a series of lumps and ledges before flattening into a high plain. Where the plain began, a row of pines towered like titans over the lesser trees that stood nearby. Each tree was twice as large as any pine Torg had seen—more than two hundred cubits tall with trunks eight cubits thick. There were trees in Dhutanga that were greater in size, but Torg had never witnessed any so majestic on this side of the mountains.

  “What makes them grow so mightily?” Torg said.

  “Not even the savages can tell us,” Ugga said. “Betwixt here and the mountains, there are none so grand. Aren’t they handsome, Master Hah-nah? I loves them, I does. I stands and stares at them until the snow freezes my beard. They love Ugga too. They hide Ugga and his friends from their enemies.”

  “They’re magnificent. But I can’t imagine why they’re here—and only here.”

  “I does not know. But the Bitch might. When she comes near, the trees sing.”

  They walked beneath the giant pines. Torg stopped again and counted the wondrous trees. There were exactly thirty side by side, and in a line so straight it resembled a palisade. He touched the trunk of the nearest tree and felt energy gush through his fingers into his arm.

  “Ya are brave,” the crossbreed whispered. “I dares not touch them. They are too strong for me.”

  Torg approached another tree until his nose was just a finger-length away. He could sense the life energy surging beneath the furrowed bark, and he took a deep breath. Tendrils of green light squeezed from between the fissures and oozed into his nostrils. The Silver Sword glowed in response.

  He stood in silence for a short while, feeling peaceful and safe. Then he gazed upward at row upon row of branches, which grew in circular patterns along the trunks like stacks of plates. The behemoths in the heart of Dhutanga were taller, reaching four hundred cubits tall and thirty thick. But the hearts of those trees were dark and dangerous. These majestic pines exuded wholesomeness, as if tended by a benevolent spirit.

  “When the Bitch is here, they sing,” Ugga repeated. “They don’t seem to mind your sword, but they don’t like my axe. I hides it when I’m near.” Then Ugga lowered his head. “Will someone steal it while I’m away?”

  “Don’t worry, your axe is well hidden. Besides, who would have the strength to lift it, much less carry it off?”

  Ugga’s face brightened. “Ya are right. But I misses it so much. I will go back for it later.”

  The high plain stretched as far as the eye could see. Bey
ond the pines, the forest became a traditional mixture of conifers and leafless hardwoods. The smell of smoke and roasting meat intensified. Torg’s mouth watered. He had become obsessed with the idea of eating. The cave monkeys had fed him well, but their worm soup—despite its excellent flavor—had grown monotonous. Torg wanted what his Vasi master liked to call a square meal: meat, bread, vegetables, fruit.

  “How far, Ugga? Will I die of hunger before we get there?”

  “A stream meanders down a ways. Do ya hear its bubblies? Beyond the stream, the timber becomes dense. The Bitch chose that spot, long ago. It is her house, ya know, but she lets us stay with her. I thinks she is clever. But the savages are scared of her. When she’s around, they act like she isn’t there.”

  Scared of her? Why that would be? But an increasingly intense aroma drove the puzzlement from Torg’s mind. Close to madness, he ran recklessly toward the shadowy area where the house was hidden.

  The stream was wide and lively, but Torg leapt over it as if it were a trickle. He charged into the woods, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet. He jumped over fallen logs and tore through tangled branches before reaching a clearing, within which was a small hut. Sweet-smelling smoke poured from a vent in the center of the angled roof, but that was not the main source of the wonderful odor. Jord stood outside, tending a blazing fire, and suspended above it on a sturdy spit was the carcass of a skinned and gutted deer. A metal pot containing a fragrant stew hung over another fire. Jord had been busy. Torg was amazed that she had accomplished so much in such little time, but he was too dazed to ponder it any further.

  “The bread is in the oven,” Jord said. “Go inside my house and get warm. The Bitch will take care of ya. Ya have earned a bit of rest, me dear.”

  Torg staggered through the door, and despite his hunger he collapsed onto a bed of leaves and saw no more.

  He slept for the rest of the afternoon. Finally loud snoring woke him. When he opened his eyes Bard lay beside him, still overcome by the effects of Torg’s spell. But the snoring was a good sign. It meant Bard was sleeping normally and could wake at any time. Apparently his recuperative powers were almost as strong as Ugga’s.