Shadowed by Demons, Book 3 of the Death Wizard Chronicles (47 page)

RATHBURT HEARD all of this, but he paid it little heed. Though he sensed it was chilly and damp, he did not feel cold. Though he sensed there was a constant roaring noise nearby, he could not hear it. The air that whistled into his nostrils was odorless.

He spoke, but the words that emerged from his mouth made no sound.

“Am I dead? Not quite, but close. How pleasant it will be to die. I’m sick of this life, every bit of it. The only thing I’ll miss is my plants. Maybe in my next life, I’ll be a gardener in a place where there are no sorcerers and no wars. And no Tugars to make me feel guilty.”

Just then, something emerged from above and floated toward him: a little girl, glowing like a candle in the darkness. Or was she an angel? Rathburt didn’t believe in angels. But there was a first time for everything. Then he recognized her as Peta, the ghost-child who had led them out of Dhutanga.

When she spoke there again was no sound, but Rathburt could hear her voice inside his head. “You are damaged and will not live much longer. But it is not yet time for you to permanently depart this body. You must achieve
Maranapavisana
(Death Visit). It will give you the strength to heal your body and return to life.”

“Why should I want to do that? There’s nothing here for me. I’ve always been an outcast. The future holds more promise.”

“The Torgan needs you.”

“Ha
 . . .
that’s a joke! Since when has Master Showoff needed me? He’ll be much better off without me around. And so will everyone else. In fact,
I’ll
be better off without me around.”

“You are Torg’s only hope. You are Triken’s only hope. If you die and return, there is a chance. If you die and do not, there is none.”

“Rubbish. What possible role could I play in all this?”

“Your vision at the waterfall was not a lie.”

Instantly Rathburt began to cry, though he could not hear his sobs. Tears sprang from his eyes, though he could not feel them course down his cheeks. “You ask too much.”

“Courage builds positive karma. Cowardice does the opposite. The choice you make now will follow you to your next life and beyond. As a Death-Knower, you know this better than I.”

“Even so
 . . .
you ask too much.”

“I will go with you—and guide you back.”

“That’s not my concern. It’s what will happen when I return that frightens me.”

“The choice is yours. I cannot force you.”

With immense sadness, Rathburt relented and allowed himself to die.

Peta followed and watched him feed. The force of her will lent him the strength to return to his body. A few moments later, he sat up and screamed, causing the physical incarnation of Vedana to yelp and tumble back on her haunches.

“You could have given me a little
warning,
” the demon demanded, glaring at her daughter, who again stood within the chamber.

“Warning is all I’ve ever given you, Mother.”

Rathburt knew exactly what she meant.

AS TORG LAY atop Laylah, his lips pressed against hers, he felt flower petals fluttering down onto his back, buttocks, and legs. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. The sorceress moved her delicate hands along his back side, brushing them off.

Torg rose on his elbows and looked down at her lovely face. Her eyes glistened with tears, and when one of his own tears dripped onto the tip of her nose, he realized that his eyes also glistened.

“Laylah. I love you. I
love
you!”

“Torgon
.
You are my king.”

“And you my queen, if you’ll have me.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Yes
 . . .
as I have asked you countless times before, in our past lives. Will you marry me, my love?”

“The answer is the same as it has always been. Yes
 . . .
”

Afterward, they slept—but a while before dawn, Torg awoke. Something startled him: a far-off cry. Just a dream? Perhaps. But his thoughts drifted to Rathburt. And it was then that he made his decision. Torg would attempt his third Death Visit in less than a year, an unprecedented frequency, but a necessity—for he needed the extra strength for the trials ahead. He stood quietly. Even in the darkness, he could see that the ground surrounding where they lay had been scorched for several hundred cubits in all directions, forming a charred circle amid the grass and flowers. He could see Izumo’s silhouette a quarter-mile away. The stallion appeared to be watching Torg with wary curiosity. Their clothes and the white blanket lay unharmed in a ball only a few cubits beyond the destruction.

Torg wandered several paces from where Laylah slept and sat cross-legged on the ground, his back straight, head held high, body otherwise relaxed. Then he began
Sammaasamaadhi
, the supreme concentration of mind that led to temporary death. At least, he hoped it would be temporary. There was never a guarantee.

Torg’s first task was to focus on the present moment by achieving
Parimukhap Satip
, which meant
mindfulness in the front
in the ancient tongue. He did this by breathing—observing each inhale, exhale, and slight pause in between.

Torg focused his awareness on the rims of his nostrils, paying mindful attention to the beginning, middle, and ending of each breath. When thoughts inevitably arose to distract him, he noted their impermanent existence and then returned his attention to his nostrils. Torg had performed this act millions and millions of times over the course of his long life, so it was relatively simple for him to gain intense concentration. His thoughts were tamed, ceasing to hold any power over his awareness. Meanwhile his breath grew subtler, almost unnoticeable, until it eventually became a single perception.

There was no inhale, exhale, or pause. Just breath.

His great heart slowed. From fifty beats a minute.

To thirty.

Ten.

One.

When he died, his body remained in the cross-legged position, but his head sank slowly until his chin rested against his chest. He could not have looked more peaceful.

Torg saw this from above. His mind/karma entered a place he had visited more than a thousand times in this lifetime alone. Silence was all about him, as relentless as it was limitless. He could not smell, taste, or touch. All he could do was see. But that was enough. Once again he had become a broiling ball of karmic energy, leaping great distances across time and space. Countless other spheres streaked along beside him, gazing at him and each other like old friends.

But as he journeyed toward the future, Torg’s mind/karma noticed a slight difference. Glints of green followed the spheres, urging and nudging. How was it possible he had never seen this before?

When he reached the deep-blue ball of Death Energy, he settled just above its enormous surface and fed. But again there was a difference. When the blue tendrils leapt up to imbue him with power, brilliant flashes of green emanating from his own sphere greeted them.

Which wasn’t so amazing.

Except for one thing.

For the first time in all his experiences with death, Torg
heard
something.

Barely audible.

But unmistakable
 . . .

Voices.

So Ends Book Three.

(Please continue reading for an excerpt of Jim Melvin’s
Torn by War
)

Torn By War

The Death Wizard Chronicles

Book Four

THOUGH TORG knew it naught, Laylah woke soon after he peeled himself off her naked body. She lay still as a fawn and watched through the slits of her eyes as the wizard wandered a few paces away and then sat down in a cross-legged position on the grass. She had witnessed him in meditation one other time, in the rock hollow near Duccarita, and had been curious then too. Everything he did pleased her, but this was especially fascinating.

Immediately his body became motionless—except for the rise and fall of his chest. Soon after, even that steady movement ceased, and when his head fell forward she became puzzled and then frightened. It dawned on her how little she knew about his abilities. He was a Death-Knower; she could surmise what that meant. But to consider it psychologically and to view it physically were two different things. Suddenly her heart pounded, and her breath came in gasps. Beyond belief, Torg was
dead
. The reality of it struck her like a blow from a war hammer.

Laylah didn’t know what to do. Should she cry for help? Or rush to Torg and shake him? Even as she sat up, the great stallion she had named Izumo came up silently behind her and nuzzled her on the ear, startling her so much she nearly joined the wizard in death. Her scream caused the horse to bolt, spin around, and snort. It took Laylah what felt like a very long time to regain her composure.

When she again could breathe semi-normally, she crawled toward Torg on hands and knees, her arms and legs trembling so much she could barely support her own weight. The night was so quiet she could hear herself shuffling through the scorched grass, which was carpeted with wilted petals. She also heard a strange thudding sound—and finally realized it was her own heavy tears striking the ground. Her beloved was dead! She could see it, sense it,
feel
it.

Laylah crept within an arm’s-length of her lover’s lifeless body. She wanted to grab him and hold him. Sob and shout. But she was afraid to touch him. If his death became that real to her, she might go mad.

Without warning, Torg’s head jerked up, his eyes sprang open, and his mouth opened so wide she could see the back of his throat. Blue-green energy roared from his body and battered her face, lifting her off the ground and casting her several hundred cubits. She landed on her naked rump in a cushiony patch of wildflowers just beyond the scorched circle. Obhasa came to rest beside her, but she noticed in her daze that the Silver Sword remained where she had left it. The blast would have killed almost any creature on Triken. But other than feeling dizzy and stunned, Laylah was unharmed. As if concerned for her welfare, Izumo trotted forward bravely and nuzzled her cheek; this time, she didn’t shout, which regained his trust. The stallion backed a few paces away, lay down, and rested his muzzle on the ground like a loyal dog. Soon after, Torg came over and took her in his arms.

“My love! What have I done? Are you hurt?
Tell me you’re all right
!”

“I’m
 . . .
fine, beloved.” Then she looked into his eyes, where she again saw life. “In fact, I’m better than fine.”

Torg squeezed her so hard she grunted. Then he released her, sat back, and leaned against his hands.

“I’m sorry, Laylah. You appeared to be sleeping so deeply
 . . .
”

“You frightened me.”

Torg chuckled ruefully. Then he took a deep breath and sighed. “With all the running we’ve done since Kamupadana, we’ve never had a chance to fully discuss
Maranapavisana
, my visits to death. They are brief in duration but appear unnatural to those unprepared. I apologize again. I made a severe mistake in judgment. But when the mood comes upon me, it’s safer and easier for me if I succumb to it quickly.”

“Succumb to what?”

“To the desire! My magic comes from
Marana-Viriya
(Death Energy). I have lived a thousand years—and died a thousand deaths. Only a Death-Knower is able to fall—and rise. When I return from death, I am renewed.”

The wizard leaned close to her face, speaking now in a whisper. “At this moment, I am greater than I have ever been. But the trials that lay ahead will require all my strength. Will it be enough?” Then Torg lowered his head.

Though Laylah had been with him for just a few weeks, she already knew him well enough to sense that he was holding something back. “This time was
 . . .
different?” she said.

The wizard appeared surprised. “I will never be able to deceive you. In our future together, that should work to your advantage.”

It was Laylah’s turn to chuckle. “You don’t strike me as the lying type.”

“I have weaknesses, but lack of truthfulness is not among them,” Torg agreed.

Then he described to Laylah what it felt like to die and what he witnessed while in the Realm of Death. He also told her about seeing the green energy for the first time—and hearing the disturbing voices. By the time he finished, it was almost dawn.

“Did you understand anything the voices were saying?”

“Whoever, or whatever, it was spoke in no language in which I am fluent,” Torg admitted. “I sensed neither friendship nor hostility. But I was stunned, nonetheless. After more than a thousand visits, I was arrogant enough to believe that I knew everything about death and its accoutrements. Apparently, I could not have been more wrong. I have been humbled.”

As if in response, Izumo nickered. They both laughed.

“Maybe Rathburt is speaking through the horse,” Laylah said. They laughed even louder, though afterward they fell into mournful silence that lasted until the first fingers of dawn crept across the plain.

(Please continue reading for the glossary and mor information about Jim Melvin)