Forged In Death, Book 1 of The Death Wizard Chronicles (13 page)

Torg had observed this millions of times, and therefore knew it to be so.

The breath is a microcosm of all existence. Torg knew this also.

Torg used his breath as the focus. But he did not force it out of its natural rhythm. He simply became aware of it.

When his mind wandered he drew it back—gently, but persistently—by releasing his distraction and returning the attention to the breath.

Inhale
 . . .

Breathe in and become peaceful.

Exhale
 . . .

Breathe out and become peaceful.

Inhale
 . . .

Breathe in and concentrate the mind.

Exhale
 . . .

Breathe out and concentrate the mind.

Inhale
 . . .

Breathe in and slow the breath.

Exhale
 . . .

Breathe out and slow the breath.

Inhale
 . . .

Breathe in and slow the heartbeat.

Exhale
 . . .

Breathe out and slow the heartbeat.

Inhale
 . . .

Exhale .
 . .

Inhale .
 . .

Exhale .
 . .

With one final surge of mindful concentration, Torg willed his heart to stop beating. When
Sammaasamaadhi
arrived, his temporary suicide began. What he experienced next occurred to all that ever live—from the simplest bacterium to the most complex animal.

And that is what made Torg so special.

Only a Death-Knower can die.

And live again.

Only a Death-Knower can return from death.

And remember.

Only a Death-Knower can tell us what he has seen.

Not all care to listen.

Torg’s lifeless body lay
at the bottom of the pit, but his mind—or what some might call his soul—exploded out of the hole like a fiery boulder heaved into the night sky by a volcano. Torg became a swirling sphere of karmic energy, and he leapt great distances across time and space, drawn by a force far greater than gravity.

The silence of meditation was nothing compared to this silence. There was no sound at all—neither was there taste, touch nor smell. There was only sight.

Torg tumbled toward his future. He could not see his own karma; death did not permit reflection. But he could see what surrounded him. Countless other spheres—in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors—streaked alongside him like an army of comets. Torg could sense that the spheres were looking at him and at each other in mutual fascination.

In the far distance, beyond the planets, beyond the stars, Torg knew from vast experience that a deep-blue ball awaited their arrival. It was larger than a galaxy, and billions of karmic spheres dove into it from all conceivable directions, while just as large a number rocketed outward. The ball was a cosmic headquarters for the natural cycle of life and death, directing and redirecting karma throughout the universe.

In this realm there was no fear or pain. No pleasure or joy. In fact, all emotions were muted. Torg felt only a dry scientific curiosity. It was cold, but he did not shiver. It was bittersweet, but he did not taste. From his experience, the abilities to hear, taste, touch and smell were reserved for life.

Death was a temporary condition.
Life is short,
the Vasi saying went. But death was far shorter.

The lure of the natural order was seductively strong. Torg’s karmic sphere yearned to enter the ball and continue on its way to its next existence. His dead body was trillions of miles away on a distant world. His only chance of return was to stop short of the immense ball and hover just beyond its surface. If he entered, there would be no turning back.

Torg had accomplished this feat a thousand times before—but never while so diminished. A large part of him wanted to give in and let the living beings he had left behind fend for themselves. What did it matter, anyway? All of them, except for the demons, would eventually die. All of them would pass through here on their ways to their next existences.

At that moment Torg’s thoughts strayed to Sister Tathagata, as they often did during his
Death Visits
. Her wisdom had brought him back from the brink before.

“Use your time wisely, child,” the High Nun of Dibbu-Loka had said to him. “Time is precious. What do you gain if you are allotted a million lives but never learn? Do not waste this life hoping that the next will be superior. Halt your suffering now.”

Once again, Tathagata saved him. Torg stopped just outside the surface of the ball. Countless other spheres sped past him, seemingly puzzled by his decision. But Torg’s mind was made up. He would feed on the boundless energy of death and return to his body in the faraway pit.

Was this a
wise
use of his time? That was yet to be seen.

Like a bird hovering just above the surface of a stormy sea, Torg positioned his essence at the edge of the mottled cloud. All around him, spheres plunged into the broiling blueness, but Torg ignored them. His focus was too intense for distraction.

He inhaled with great effort. Tendrils of the dark ooze crept slowly up, probing his sphere like cautious fingers. He inhaled again. This time, a great draught of the cloud flowed into him.

Torg swallowed hungrily, feasting on death’s power. The blue fire engorged his essence with immeasurable pleasure. His sphere bloated to ten times the size of the others, then one hundred. He grew as large as a planet. Fiery blasts of blue light danced around and through him. Incoming and outgoing spheres avoided his presence. If they crashed into him now, they would be obliterated.

“Use your time wisely, child,” the mortal from the distant world had said.

In Torg’s awareness, the words were quiet and soft, holding little meaning.

But a small part of him tried to listen.

Wanted to listen.

Knew it had to listen.

Opportunities as precious as this should not be wasted.

Aglow with reckless might, Torg reversed his course. He left the cloud behind and roared back to his flesh.

When he returned to life inside the pit on Mount Asubha, his karma tore through his flesh like a bolt of lightning, and he cried out.

The wizard’s cry startled
a pair of sentries who stood near the opening of the pit, and they yelped and leapt backward.

No sound had come from the pit in more than a week. Everyone at the prison believed the wizard was dead—except for Mala, who claimed to sense the Death-Knower’s essence, no matter how diminished. With the Chain Man stomping around, they were all on edge, including the lookouts. When the sentries heard Torg’s shout, they nearly dropped dead.

Dawn was approaching, but in these lonely heights the air was as dark as midnight. Enraged winds swept through the gaps between Asubha and its sister mountains. Few places on Triken were as miserable as this peak. Prisoners rarely survived more than a couple of months. Depression and fear grew until they became unbearable. Suicide was common. More often than not, the dead were found frozen at their posts or in their beds—with hopeless looks in their eyes.

“I’ve got to tell the warden that the wizard still lives,” one of the sentries said, managing to regain some composure. “He’ll want to go straight to Mala. Might even have to wake him.”

The other sentry, his nostrils clogged with frozen mucus, grabbed his partner by the arm.

“You’re not leaving me alone,” he barked into the wind. “Having to stand guard next to this accursed pit is bad enough, but if that nasty wizard crawls out of it, I’ll soil my pants. Let me go tell the warden.
You
stay and watch. I’ve suffered enough. It was only twelve days ago that the Asēkha almost killed me.”

“Don’t be a fool. You think you’re scared now? Think how it’ll be if the Chain Man hears you’ve messed things up again. It’ll make soiling your pants seem like a nice, hot bath.”

“Nothing good’s going to happen to me up here, I’ll grant you that. But I’m not staying alone, no matter what. If you go, I go
 . . .
Chain Man or no.”

A dagger appeared. A speckle of starlight that somehow had weaved its way through the swirling clouds reflected off the deadly blade. The cowardly sentry grasped his stomach, his hands feeling warmth for the first time since arriving at Asubha. Steaming blood gushed out and bubbled on the gray ground.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m ready to die now.” He staggered, slipped on a patch of ice, and fell backward, tumbling into the pit’s hungry maw. At first his corpse clung to the narrow opening, arms and legs draped outside of the perfectly round hole as if making one last effort to avoid termination. Then his lifeless body folded and disappeared into the black cavity.

“Thank me in hell,” the other sentry yelled. Before sprinting into the angry darkness, he paused and whispered, “It can’t be any worse than this.”

Torg’s eyes filled the bottom
of the pit with blue light, and for the first time in many days, he could see something other than blackness. The walls of his prison were horrid and lumpy, writhing as if alive.

To his surprise Torg felt, more than heard, a commotion above him. Then he sensed that something was falling down the long shaft of the pit straight at him. Just in time, he raised his hands to shield his head. A hard bundle crashed into his side, striking him in the ribs, and the force of the blow rocked Torg. A man-sized body had fallen roughly upon him. Torg closed his eyes and lay still for a dozen long breaths, trying to regain his composure. Though he was sick and exhausted from the accumulation of his ordeals, his inner power now blazed. But he was also stretched dangerously thin.

The body smelled salty and stale. The man was dead; the fall alone would have killed him. But there was more. Torg felt warm blood and acidic goo dripping onto his naked chest, making it probable the man had been stabbed, probably in the stomach. But why? What was happening up there? Torg could not begin to guess.

The man’s arms and legs were propped above his torso and pressed against the sides of the pit, which was only three cubits in diameter. The poison that Invictus had magically imbedded into the stone walls began to dissolve the exposed skin on the corpse’s wrists and ankles.

Torg gagged from the stench.

He considered his options. Since achieving
Sammaasamaadhi
, he had become dangerous again. He could use his powers to incinerate the body that lay atop him, but he needed to conserve whatever strength he still possessed. Just getting out of the pit could prove impossible, much less accomplishing anything once he was free. If he were somehow able to climb out, dozens of soldiers, and who knew what else, would be waiting for him. Mala still might be up there, and the prison on Asubha was home to other horrors. It was even possible that Invictus would be part of the welcoming committee.

“One thought at a time,” Torg said aloud, and the corpse’s head flopped down noisily onto its chest.

“I’m glad you agree. You seem like a nice enough fellow. I could use a friend down here.”

Torg opened his eyes and willed their bluish glow to illuminate the bottom of the pit again. Then he studied the man’s face. His jaw was thick and square, and there was a recently healed wound on his forehead. His dark-brown eyes were wide open, exhibiting an unsettling combination of horror and relief. If you cleaned him up and dressed him in golden robes, he would look like a cousin of Invictus, or a younger brother. He even had the long yellow hair, though a lot of it already was dissolving.