A short prequel to The Death Wizard Chronicles, a six-book epic fantasy.
In the great desert Tējo on the planet Triken there lived a race of
warriors called Tugars. Many believed these warriors were immortal
gods who were invincible in battle. The mere sight of them caused
most enemies to quail. The Tugars, however, were not gods. They
believed immortality was nothing more than a state of mind. As for
invincibility? They trained under the guidance of Vasi masters for fifty
years before attaining the rank of warrior. In all of Triken’s long
history, no greater fighters had ever existed.
The ascension to warrior was a high honor. But the most
accomplished Tugars sought an even more exalted title. The twenty
greatest warriors were promoted to Asēkha—and were revered by all.
Yet it didn’t stop there. The rarest of The Twenty achieved a rank
above the rest. They were called Death-Knowers, earning this title
because of their ability to die and then return to life enriched with
magical powers.
The greatest of all Death-Knowers was named Torg. His
ceremonial title was The Torgon, and from birth it was obvious he was
special. Even among a race as grand as the Tugars, he stood out among
his brothers and sisters. He was faster, stronger, braver, more beautiful.
But even The Torgon had to die before he could rise.
Just a few days shy of his eighty-second birthday, Torg wandered
from the fires of the Tent City known as Anna. The night swelled
around him, challenging his courage. A thick layer of clouds obscured
the moon and stars, increasing the depth of the desert’s darkness.
Away from the oasis—where the current version of Anna stood—it
was as black and still as the inside of a cave.
As he walked across the still-warm sand, Torg felt the pull of a
seductive will far stronger than his own. He had no power to resist it—
and would not have, even if able. He wanted to make this journey into
death. And, if he was worthy, return. Every Tugar who had ever lived
considered it the ultimate privilege. The desert warriors called the
sensation Dakkhinā, which in the ancient tongue meant holy gift.
For several centuries now, there had been no living Death-
Knowers. The last one, a female of renown, had perished long before
Torg’s birth. There were periods in recorded Tugarian history when as
many as six Death-Knower wizards had existed simultaneously.
However, all recent attempts to return from Sammaasamaadhi—the
supreme concentration of mind—had failed. The few who tried had
perished, permanently. Their karma was elsewhere; they were no
longer. Rather than a gift, Dakkhinā had become a curse.
Though he had achieved the rank of Asēkha less than two years
earlier, The Torgon already was highly regarded among the elders. They
whispered that Torg, son of Jhana, would put an end to the long string
of failures. Without a Death-Knower as their leader, the Tugars lacked
a true king or queen. Torg seemed their last desperate hope. The young
warrior already was unbeatable on the battlefield. Could he win the
ultimate battle?
Still under the hypnotic power of Dakkhinā, Torg climbed, then
descended a seemingly endless series of dunes. He walked for more
than a league, remaining just within the interior border of the Simōōn,
a circular barrier of wind and dust conjured by Tugarian magic to
protect Anna from attack. Snakes, scorpions, and even a small fox
skittered away from him. Torg sensed their movements, but paid them
little heed.
Finally, he came to a dune that towered several hundred cubits
above the rest. It was a fossil dune—as ancient as it was huge. Torg
could not see its peak in the darkness, but he was able to sense its
impressive height. This was where he would attempt to enter the realm
of death and then return. Or die trying. His current life hung in the
balance.
By instinct more than design, Torg chose to ascend on the
windward slope of the dune where the surface was more tightly packed
and therefore easier to traverse. Despite his body’s immense
musculature, his smooth-soled boots left only slight impressions on the
coarse crust. Upward he went, his thick legs churning without
cessation, his heavily muscled body taking delight in almost any form
of exertion. Halfway up he sensed more than saw a scattering of small
holes that marked the entranceways to tunnels housing nests of mice.
If he had stepped too near this conglomeration, the surface would
have collapsed, burying him up to his waist in the sand. This would
have been no more than a nuisance, but he was in no mood for any
kind of delay.
Dakkhinā called. Tonight it would not be denied.
The upper third of the dune was as sheer as the wall of an
escarpment. Torg used both his arms and legs, clambering like a rock
climber toward the beckoning summit. Over and over, he dug his
fingers into the crust and heaved himself higher, his breathing growing
heavier. He had never climbed a dune so unnaturally steep. Perhaps it
had no peak at all but instead extended into the eternal heavens.
But Torg knew this could not be true . According to the law of
impermanence, all things had a beginning, middle and ending. Even
this dune could not be infinitely tall. Just then, he reached his hand up
and felt the crest beneath his palm. It was as sharp as the cutting edge
of a sword, but it was made of sand, not iron, so it collapsed beneath
his dense flesh. Torg swung his legs up and around and then straddled
the summit of the dune, feeling as if he were riding on the spine of a
dragon so immense he could see neither its head nor tail.
As if in honor of his arrival, the cloud cover parted, and the night
sky was unveiled. The full moon was huge and felt close enough to
touch—and though the orb’s light dominated the firmament, there still
were plenty of stars visible in the night sky. They looked like pricks of
light in a silk curtain.
Torg felt profoundly alone, which was how he wanted it. This was
a good place to die.
He used his hands to flatten a portion of the crest and fashion a
seat for himself on top of the dune. He took his time, methodically
smoothing an area wide enough to contain his girth. When completed,
it resembled a lone embrasure on a battlement. He removed his boots
and settled in, assuming a cross-legged position and resting the palms
of his hands on his thighs, fingers pointed inward. Then he closed his
eyes and began the slow process of relaxing his mind and body. To
achieve Sammaasamaadhi, Torg had to meditate with supreme singlemindedness,
which in turn would progressively slow his heart rate until
the stubborn organ nestled beneath his thick breast finally stopped
beating.
He had to will his body to die.
First, he took an internal inventory. He began with his face, using
his powers of concentration to relax the muscles around his eyes and
ease the set of his jaw. Next, he turned to the bulging muscles in his
shoulders, willing them to soften and become slightly rounded. Farther
down in his abdomen he sensed tension. This too he willed to
dissipate, though it took him several long breaths to achieve the
desired result. On down he went, all the way to his toes. Though his
entire body now was serene, he remained upright and alert.
Sammaasamaadhi had nothing to do with sleepiness or torpor. In fact,
he had never been more awake.
Torg now focused his awareness on the tip of his nose where his
breath slid over the thin skin of his nostrils. He needed to clear his
mind by watching only the breath and eliminating all other thought.
Single-mindedness calmed the body, causing the heart to slow its
beating. Supreme single-mindedness could stop the heart.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale—
He heard the chittery call of an elf owl somewhere on the desert
floor. He adored the little creatures and was fascinated by their antics.
He noted the distraction and returned to the breath.
—Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale.
Pause—
A particularly vibrant breeze arose. Tējo’s sweet desert air filled
his lungs with pleasure. Torg noted the distraction and returned to the
breath. His heart rate already had slowed.
—Pause.
Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale—
An itch tormented one of his earlobes. Torg knew that this, too,
could be used as an object of concentration. Without judgment or
prejudice he felt the itch rise and fall of its own accord. He also
observed how it affected the workings of his body and mind. When
the prickle abated, he returned to . . .
—Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Pause.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
From early in his life, meditation had come naturally to Torg. And
now was no exception. Soon he no longer was distracted by the
activity around him—the growl of a desert dog, the hiss of a Gila
monster, the sparkling beauty of the sands.
There was only the breath.
Inhale.
Pause.
Exhale.
Only the breath.
Each breath had a beginning, middle and ending. The inhale had a
beginning, middle and ending. The pause in between had a beginning,
middle and ending. The exhale had a beginning, middle and ending.
Torg had observed this thousands of times, and therefore knew it to be
so.
The breath was a microcosm of all existence. He knew this also.
With one final surge of mindful concentration, he 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.
Torg’s now-lifeless body sat motionless at the top of the dune, but
his soul—or what the Tugars called his karma—exploded into the
night sky. He became a swirling sphere of energy, leaping great
distances across time and space as he tumbled toward his future. He
could not see his own karma, but he could see countless other
spheres—in a variety of shapes, sizes and colors streaking alongside
him like comets.
In the far distance—beyond the planets, beyond the stars—Torg
approached a deep-blue ball larger than a galaxy. Billions of karmic
spheres dove into it from all conceivable directions, while just as large
a number rocketed outward. The ball was a cosmic station for the
natural cycle of life and death, directing and redirecting karma
throughout the universe.
In this realm, Torg felt neither fear nor pain. Neither pleasure nor
joy. In fact, all emotions were muted. There was only a dry scientific
curiosity. It was cold, but he did not shiver. It was bittersweet, but he
did not wince.
Death was a temporary condition. Life is short, the Vasi saying
went, but death is far shorter.
The lure of the natural order was seductively strong. Torg’s karmic
sphere yearned to plunge into the immense 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 and hover just above the
ball’s surface. If he entered, there would be no turning back.
But he had come too far to fail.
Torg positioned his essence at the edge of the mottled cloud.
Countless other spheres sped past him, seemingly puzzled by his
decision. But he’d made up his mind. He would feed on the boundless
energy of death and return to his body in the faraway land.
He inhaled, and tendrils of dark ooze crept slowly up, probing his
karma like cautious fingers. Again. This time, an enormous draught of
the cloud flowed into him. He swallowed hungrily, feasting on death
energy. His sphere bloated to ten times the size of the others, then one
hundred. Fiery blasts of blue light danced around and through him.
Aglow with reckless might, he reversed his course and left the
cloud behind. He roared back to his flesh.
When he returned to life on the crest of the desert dune, he cried
out. Magic spilled from him like floodwaters. He sat for a long time
and luxuriated in the magnificence of existence.
Early the following morning he marched back into the Tent City,
steam erupting from his super-heated flesh, intoxicating vapors surging
from his flared nostrils.
His eyes glowed blue, stabbing like sweet bliss.
The Tugars arose and cheered.
They engulfed him and cried out his name, lifting him onto their
shoulders and holding him aloft for all to see. “Behold . . . The Torgon!”
A half-zythian bard gets caught up in an affair with the Duchess of Highlake. The Duke wants him dead and our hero is forced to flee through a forest that no one has ever returned from.
In the great desert Tējo on the planet Triken there lived a race of
