Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (25 page)

Torg drank it in three big gulps. “Aaaaaahhhh,” was all Torg could manage.

The men proceeded to eat and drink like fiends. Torg felt as if he had been invited to a raucous party. For a brief stretch of time the suffering of the past three months seemed inconsequential. As the evening grew darker, colder and windier, he drank so much wine that even he felt its effects. Ugga and Bard became very drunk, blubbering like fools. But Jord stood quietly off to the side, watching with sober interest. Her eyes sparkled, but otherwise she remained calm. Torg noticed she ate just one bowl of the stew and drank a few sips of wine.

Ugga staggered into the hut and brought out another keg. “Here be more, Master Ogre
 . . .
er
 . . .
Hah-nah.”

“Fill my cup,” Torg said. “And bring me more bread.”

“Bread? Bread?” Bard shouted. “Forget the bread. Cut us some more juicy chops with your axe, Ugga.”

Torg lifted the keg over his head. The wine spilled over his face and chest, staining his new cloak. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had so much fun. Ugga and Bard could barely stand. Even so, they demanded he hand over the wine while there was still some left.

“Drink up, ya scoundrels,” Torg bellowed.

The storm snuck up on them and ruined their merriment. The wind was armed with ice crystals. Nearby trees shrugged and bent. The outside fires were blown out, and it became dark as death. Ugga and Bard crawled toward the hut on hands and knees, disappearing inside. Torg followed, but the vicious winds conspired against him. Then something yanked him backward.

“Come with me!” Jord shouted through the tumult.

She grasped his thick bicep and led him away from the hut. They ran together into the teeth of the blizzard, through the thick trees, over the rushing stream. Jord was supernaturally strong. Where her hand gripped his arm, it burned.

Suddenly they were beneath the giant pines. The power of the storm tantalized the great trees. Torg could hear their singing.

“Allow me do to this,” the white-haired woman shouted. “I will heal you. She has left her mark in you. If I do not remove it, her poison will weaken you.”

She shoved him roughly onto his back. The snow cushioned his fall.

“Allow me.”

“What?
 . . .
” Torg muttered. “I don’t
 . . .
understand.”

Jord tore open his cloak and lifted the thin robes beneath. “Allow me. Do not resist. I must remove the poison.”

And then she moved her face between his legs. To Torg, it felt as if liquid fire was consuming him.

“No!” he screamed. “You’re in danger. Please
 . . .
stop
!”

Torg tried to push her away, but she was too strong. He could not extract himself. “Please
 . . .
pleeaaaseeee
 . . .
I don’t want to hurt you!”

But Jord continued to caress him. She was not afraid.

“I will
 . . .
destroy you,” Torg stammered. “You don’t
 . . .
understand.”

She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. “I will not be harmed.”

The storm attacked the forest like an invading army. The magical pines danced. Jord returned to her business, her head bobbing up and down, faster and faster. Torg arched, and then howled in ecstasy. The power of his release surpassed the tempest, and his bed of snow melted, bubbled and boiled. Blue light burst from his body, raced up the trunks of the pines, and erupted into the angry sky. In response, green energy blasted downward and permeated his flesh. Just then, he spit up a crimson ball of pestilence, which hovered magically in the air, searching for a way to escape. But the green fire would not allow it. It leapt upon the poison and devoured it.

Jord was not injured. Instead she finished him, lovingly.

Torg lay on his back, still gasping, his body glowing blue-green. The trees towered over him like guardians. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm. Within the strands of howling wind, he heard drums. Or was it the pounding of hooves?

Then the crossbreed was there, somehow sober, and he buttoned Torg’s cloak and helped him to his feet. “The Bitch is gone. Ya must come where it is warm.”

“Where is Jord? Does she live?”

“She’s gone. I doesn’t know where.” He sounded sad.

Ugga hoisted Torg onto his back and carried him back to the house of Jord.

The second time Torg woke inside the hut, he was alone. The door was closed, and the room was dark except for a small fire that bristled in the hearth. At first he had no idea where he was. The memories of his encounter with Jord consumed his awareness, but they seemed unreal. He lay on the bed of leaves for a long time, trying to decide whether it had been just a dream.

But when he sat up, his body felt strong and his mind clear—as if his insides had been cleansed of putridity.

Was it the height of day or the middle of the night? In the dimness of the hut, he couldn’t tell. And where were Ugga and Bard
 . . .
and Jord? Was she standing outside the door, waiting for him to emerge? Though he was more than a thousand years old, Torg blushed.

He meditated for three hundred long breaths. When he finally stood up, his concerns vanished as if washed away by a surge of vitality. He felt like a person miraculously recovered from a dreadful illness. Power surged through his flesh and bones. His strength was back, physically and emotionally. The full extent of his magic also had returned. Somehow the green energy of the pines had restored him, and he felt as potent as ever.

The sword still leaned against the wall, its tip buried in the dirt. Apparently his three companions had lost their desire to steal it. Torg swung the door open and stepped outside, entering into a world of infinite alabaster. The ground, the trees, even the sky were white.

More than two cubits of snow had fallen during the storm. As far as Torg could guess, it now was late morning, but he couldn’t accurately judge the time of day because he couldn’t see the sun. The air was desperately cold, but the previous night’s winds had fled. All was quiet.

Abruptly the silence was broken.

“Master Hah-nah. Master Hah-nah.” Ugga charged toward Torg and gave him a powerful hug, lifting him off his feet. “Me and Bard were afraid ya’d never wake up. Ya slept so sound, we feared ya might have passed away.”

Bard also approached, bearing his spear along with Jord’s bow and arrows. “Good morning, Hah-nah. Glad to see ya aren’t a corpse, though ya do kind of look like one.”

“Thanks,” Torg said, “I suppose.”

The crossbreed smiled, his small eyes glistening. “The storm blowed away all the food and gear we left outside. Me and Bard couldn’t even find the pot we use for stew.”

“And what of Jord?” Torg said.

“The Bitch is gone,” Bard said. “I looked everywhere. Ugga, too. But there are no signs.”

“I misses her,” Ugga said. “Where did she go, Master Hah-nah?”

“How would he know, ya dimwit,” Bard said. “Hah-nah was sleeping all night, don’t ya remember?”

Ugga ignored Bard’s insults. “Will ya help us look for the Bitch with your Mah-Gick-Cull powers?” he said to Torg.

Bard stepped between them. “After our party last night, there’s not much left in the house to eat. If we want breakfast, we need to hunt.”

“I agree,” Torg said. “And after we eat, we’ll have a long talk and tell each other who we are and why we’re here. As for Jord, I believe she will return when she desires and not before.”

The crossbreed lowered his head but did not speak.

Bard told Ugga and Torg to stay and build a fire, and then he pounded through the snow into the woods. After his companion disappeared, the crossbreed went about collecting deadwood and kindling. Torg did the same. Neither spoke. Ugga drew a sliver of flint from his cloak and struck it against his axe. The kindling caught fire.

“Are you angry with me over what happened last night?” Torg finally said.

Ugga’s great chest heaved. “I is just sad, is all. The Bitch is gone, and I doesn’t know why. Will I ever see her again? I loves her, I does.”

Torg placed his hand on the crossbreed’s shoulder. “Who is she? Who is Jord?”

“Don’t ya know? She is me mumma
 . . .
in a way. And Bard’s, too.”

Torg was amazed. “Your mother?”

As if in response Bard stomped out of the woods, carrying two hares and a plump possum.

Ugga ran to greet him. “Bard, me love! How’d ya get them so quick? Ya’ve been gone just a blink of an eye.”

“I’d like to say I killed them myself,” Bard said. “But I did not. A parcel of savages greeted me not a thousand paces from where ya stand. They rushed to me and handed me these fine critters. Their chief said to me, ‘Svakara werricauna.’ And then he and the savages ran far away.”

“Why are the Svakarans afraid?” Torg said.

“Do ya not know?” Bard said. “They are scared of ya. We’re not the only folk who call ya an Ogre. They hope to buy your pardon with hares and this fat che-ra. They fear ya have come to murder the men, rape the women and eat the children.”

Torg rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone around here think I’m a monster?”

“Ya looks like a monster,” Ugga said. “Ya are as strong as a monster. Are ya not a monster, Master Hah-nah?”

Torg wasn’t used to being treated like a bogeyman. He took a moment to examine his body, first rubbing his hand along the top of his head. When he had escaped the pit, his scalp had been bald, but now it was covered with a bristly carpet of hair. He slid his tongue along his teeth. As far as he could tell, they were already about a quarter of the way grown in. The skin on his arms remained scaly and mottled. The asthenolith had burned off most of the disease, but the healing process wasn’t pretty.

Torg guessed it would take several more weeks to look relatively normal and half a year to grow his hair back to shoulder length.

“Ugga, I’m not a monster,” Torg said. “At least, not in the way you mean. In fact, it’s time to tell you who and what I really am. But first, let’s skin these ‘critters’ and put them over the fire.”

“Ya and I are alike,” Ugga said. “We’re hungry all the time.”

While the hares and possum roasted, the crossbreed went into the hut and came out with a keg of wine. “This is the last of the spirits. Water is all we’ll be drinkin’ for a spell, I fears. It’s a fair ways to the Whore City. But we got some nice skins put away that we can trade for more wine.”

“How long does it take to reach Kamupadana?” Torg said.

“In the summertime we could walk there in two days,” Bard said. “But after yesterday’s big snow, I thinks it will take three days or more.”

Torg took the keg from Ugga and drank several gulps of wine.

“The two of you need to go to Kamupadana for fresh supplies. I need to go there for reasons of my own,” Torg said. “Here’s what I propose: If Jord doesn’t return today, we’ll spend tomorrow looking for her. The following day, no matter what, we’ll begin our journey. Does that sound fair?”

Bard shook his head. “There’s no use searching for the Bitch. She’s where she wants to be.”

Ugga snarled. “Ya would abandon the Bitch after all she’s done?”

“The Bitch is gone ’cause she wants to be. It’s not like she hasn’t disappeared before. Ya know that as well as I does, ya dimwit.”

Ugga lowered his head. “I loves her, Bard. Where does she go? Why does she leave?”

“Ask him,” Bard said, pointing to Torg. “He knows her better than us. Ya told me so this morning, ya did.”

The small portion of Ugga’s cheeks that weren’t covered with hair turned bright red. “I told ya to keep it a secret,” the crossbreed muttered.

Torg interrupted. “It’s obvious we all have much to say. Let’s sit in the hut where it’s warm, share what’s left of the wine, and tell our secrets. I’ll go first.”

They went into the hut and huddled around the table. Each drank several more swallows of wine before Torg finally broke the silence.

“My name is not Hana, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. My name is
The Torgon
—and I am a king.”

Bard spat a mouthful of wine onto the table. “Ya are a king. And Ugga is a princess.”

“Be quiet, ya
katichhei
(rogue),” Ugga said. “Let Master Hah-nah finish his talking. And don’t waste any more of the spirits. If ya can’t keep it in your mouth, don’t drink it.”

“I must not look much like a king,” Torg said, chuckling. “Master Ogre is a better description. But my recent travails have been hard on my body—and spirit. Others might not have fared as well. But before I continue my story, I must ask you both a question: Do you know of the sorcerer named Invictus?”

“Surely, ya speak in jest,” Bard said. “Everyone in these parts has heard of Invictus, even simple wood folk like us.”

“Are you for him or against him?” Torg said.

“I’m for Bard and the Bitch,” Ugga said. “I cares naught for In-vick-tuss, as long as he leaves us alone.”

“We’re too small a bunch for his concern,” Bard said. “But I thinks we’ll have to move on one day. Betwixt the Whore City and Avici, it’s no longer safe. More and more, his soldiers wander about, causing trub-bles.”

“Good enough,” Torg said. “But let this be known: I am Invictus’ sworn enemy, which makes me the enemy of any who claim him as friend or ally. I will slay anyone who has joined him as surely as I would slay the sorcerer.”

“I believes ya, Master Hah-nah,” Ugga said. “Or, should I call ya King Hah-nah?”

“Hana is what I prefer,” Torg said. “Besides, it will be safer to use that name while we travel. Even in the wilds, the enemy has eyes and ears. I’m hoping Invictus believes I’m dead, and that’s the way I want to keep it for as long as possible.”

“We’d better check the meat,” Bard interrupted. “It should be cooked by now.”

“Let’s eat, then,” Torg said. “And while we do, I’ll tell you why I like the name Hana.”

They rushed outside in a fit of hunger, then went back inside with their meal. Torg chomped into the possum’s juicy thigh. The white, fatty meat was as tasty as wild boar. Grease dripped down his chin. He wiped it with the sleeve of his cloak before picking up the keg and taking a long swig. Ugga and Bard devoured both the hares and then helped Torg with the remains of the much-larger che-ra.

Afterward, the crossbreed and his handsome friend began to digest more than just roasted game. For most of the morning they listened as Torg recounted the events of the past several months, including the rescue of the noble ones at Dibbu-Loka and his imprisonment in the pit. He told them who and what he was. He even described the death of Sōbhana. But he left out the sexual encounter with Vedana. That was between him and the demon.

Ugga bowed his large head. “I understands why ya want us to call ya Hah-nah. Your Sōb-hah-nah was a great lady. Almost as great as the Bitch.”

“In some ways they were much alike—strong, brave and beautiful.”

“Ya speak as if Jord is dead, too,” Bard said.

“I don’t believe she’s dead. But I have no idea where she is or why she left. Who and what she is befuddles me, as well. Maybe now, you can tell me your tale and help me to understand. Do you believe what I’ve told you?”

“I believes ya, Master Hah-nah,” Ugga said. “Ya are not a liar.”

“I believes ya, too,” Bard said. “But does I has to call ya King Hah-nah?”

“Very funny,” Torg said. “But now I’m being serious. I’ve risked a lot just telling the two of you about me. But I trust you
 . . .
as friends.”

“Then friends it is,” Bard said. “And friends we will be.”