DW Chronicles excerpts

Excerpt from Book One, The Pit

2008-02-23T17:27:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, something bit down on his left foot — and swallowed his leg up to the knee. It chomped with terrific force, attempting to devour him, but it could not bite through his dense flesh. Torg spun the sword around and drove it into the monster, piercing something thick and cartilaginous. With a hiss, the tentacle withdrew.

Although Torg’s leg burned, he touched the wound and felt no blood. Then he attempted to illuminate the tunnel with his magic, but he was too weak. He would have to wage this fight in total darkness. And the creature he faced had been born in darkness.

It attacked once more, driving between his legs and snapping at his groin. To protect his genitals, he slipped his free hand between his legs. He felt the thing gnaw on his inner thighs, then it reared back momentarily and rushed forward.

This time, the creature shoved him more than twenty body lengths. The passageway narrowed too much to accommodate his girth, and the wizard was wedged wickedly into the hole. He managed to retain his grip on the sword, but his arms were locked against his sides.

Torg could not move.

The creature sensed his helplessness and renewed its attack. First it bit his right foot. Any normal being would have been dismembered, but Torg’s dense flesh was too great for the toothy mouth to penetrate. Then the creature pulled away and drove forward again, swallowing most of Torg’s right leg and crunching on his thigh. Again it did little damage and was forced to withdraw.

Torg twisted and squirmed, but could not free himself. He could barely wiggle his fingers. With terrific power the tentacle struck again, pounding against his feet, ankles, and calves. It bit, hissed, and spat.

Over and over it smashed against the wizard. The more it failed, the angrier it became. The monster had never encountered a prey so defenseless, and yet so invulnerable.

One final time, it crushed its colossal strength against the wizard’s underside. Torg felt excruciating pressure build along his torso, and his shoulders were pressed forward until they touched.

Impossibly, his body squirted through the tiny hole into a wider portion of the tunnel.

The tentacle continued to propel him forward at fantastic speed.

Finally Torg exploded from the tunnel into an open expanse — and fell a long way, thudding against the hard floor of a magnificent cavern. The sword clattered beside him.

The wizard was dazed.

But there was light.

Splendid and dappled.

He gazed upward.

What he saw amazed even him.

Excerpt from Book Two, Moon Goddess

2008-02-23T17:17:00.000-08:00

More than fifty cave trolls, each almost as large as a Kojin and magically altered to endure sunlight, pushed and pulled a massive stone platform that rolled on iron wheels. Imprisoned on its flat surface was Bhayatupa, his head, neck, torso, and tail pinned to the stone by dozens of magical chains. The dragon’s wings, which extended more than one hundred and fifty cubits from tip to tip, were lashed against his sides. Large golden spheres were stuffed into his nostrils. The beast could barely breathe, hissing through the tiny gaps between his fangs.

Without warning a voice exploded from above, and all heads turned toward the looming malice of Uccheda. Invictus stood on the balcony, his robes swirling in the early afternoon breeze. When he spoke, all could hear.

“There are traitors among us,” he said.

“Yes!” the throng shouted in unison.

Bhayatupa growled.

“The dragon has conspired against my realm.”

“Yes!”

“He attempted to free one of my prisoners. But of course, he failed.”

“Yes! YES!”

“I say to you, my loyal subjects, any who stand with me will thrive!”

“YES!”

“And any who stand against me will perish!”

“Yes! YES!”

“Behold, Bhayatupa! All have trembled before him. Until now.”

“YES! YES!! YES!!!”

With all his ancient might, Bhayatupa fought against his restraints. But the power of Invictus was too great even for the dragon, who had bowed to no one in eighty thousand years. The bonds that ensnared Bhayatupa were the same that had held The Torgon, only larger. The dragon, for the first time in his existence, was helpless.

Mala laughed. “Our king has spoken,” the Chain Man said, in a voice that also boomed throughout the valley. “Bhayatupa is a traitor. Of that, there is no doubt. But there is more.”

All went silent.

Invictus chuckled. “Yes, General Mala, there is more.”

Two figures — mere specks in comparison to the dragon — were dragged to the front of the platform, wrapped in chains. They struggled mightily, but their efforts were futile. Lucius and Izumo were put on display next to the dragon. Laylah collapsed, but Urbana caught her with steely arms.

“You won’t want to miss this, little one,” the vampire said.

Bhayatupa heaved against the chains like a mountain trying to tear itself from the ground. But the more the dragon struggled, the tighter the restraints became. Watching all this, Laylah became convinced that she was doomed. Vedana had been lying the entire time. Nothing could free her from this nightmare. But just then, the most peculiar thing occurred. Invictus, always in command, always in control, let out a yelp, and his magically amplified voice leapt across the valley, suddenly high-pitched and frightened.

“What is it?” he screeched. “What is happening to the sun? Someone ... help ... IT HURTS!”

All eyes looked toward the sky. A shadow had emerged over the western edge of the round yellow orb. Few would have noticed this unusual event — at least at this early stage — if the sorcerer had not reacted so intensely. To Laylah’s surprise, her brother turned and fled through a doorway into the tower, trailing fire and smoke.

The momentary silence that followed was as profound as death — then came hysteria, as if acid were raining from the skies. But above the tumult thundered an even greater sound — an enraged growl that swept over the valley like a tidal wave.

Snap. Snap! SNAP! One by one, the chains that held Bhayatupa fell away.

Excerpt from Book Three, Eve of War

2008-02-23T17:14:00.000-08:00

In her long life, Laylah had known pain. But nothing compared to this pain.

With methodical precision, a million tiny mouths devoured her with thorny teeth. She felt as if she were being skinned alive, but it was her essence being peeled away, not her flesh.

The only thing that kept her sane was the man who held her close. Where his body touched hers, there was a semblance of relief. Through the hysteria of her agony, she could sense his strength providing just enough comfort for her to survive one more moment.

And another ... another ... another …

Laylah’s back arched. White flames sprang from every pore, flaring inside the cramped chamber. She cried out. He screamed in response. She was hurting him, and she cursed herself. In such a short time, she had grown to love him more than anyone else in the world. She wanted to give him pleasure, not pain. She tried to push him away, but her arms lacked the strength. He was strapped to her like a chain. For better or worse, they would endure this nightmare together.

In some ways, her senses were blunted. When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but white. When she tried to listen, she heard nothing but dissonance. She could not feel her sweat on her skin. Or the blanket on which she lay.

In other ways, her senses were heightened. She could smell Torg’s sweet breath and feel the beating of his heart. And somehow, when her eyes were closed, she could see through the stone to where Lucius and the others lay sobbing outside the cave. She wanted to tell them that the pain belonged only to her. But she didn’t know how.

Laylah’s body went into a spasm, her legs kicking like a pair of insane scissors, her arms flailing against the stone floor with wicked thuds, her eyes opening and closing frenetically, casting beams of molten light that smote the walls and ceiling. In the midst of this chaos, the efrit slept peacefully within her abdomen, perceiving no threat.

Torg held her even tighter, attempting to corral her white rages with his blue-green might. Part of her wanted to embrace his magic, part of her expel it. But he did not ask for permission. Instead he rode her waves of agony like a leaf on the surface of a raging river. The worst of her pain went on for almost half the night. Without him, she would have perished.

Just before dawn the pain finally lessened, allowing her to regain consciousness and to realize where she lay. Now she could feel the sweat on her body and the chill of the stone. When she opened her eyes, she was relieved to see darkness; the all-consuming white had fled. Even better, the voracious mouths that had tormented her seemed to have lost their hunger and had blessedly departed. She shivered in her nakedness. In response, large arms succored her. It had not been just a dream amid nightmares. Torg was here, after all.

“The tide has turned,” she heard him whisper. “You’re strong, my love.”

She tried to respond but could manage nothing intelligible.

“Shhhhh … quiet now,” he said. “Try to sleep. You need to rebuild your strength. And when you wake, we’ll try a sip of water.”

In the silence of the cave, they lay entwined.

And for a time knew no more.

Excerpt from Book Four, World on Fire

2008-02-23T17:05:00.000-08:00

Sister Tathagata had lived for three thousand years and had spent millions of hours in meditation, her peaceful quest for Abhisambodhi (high enlightenment) enriching her mind as well as nourishing her body. Had it not been for her intense spiritual training, she would have lived no longer than an ordinary human, perhaps even less than a century. But despite her impressive resume, she had thus far failed in her quest to gain eternal liberation from suffering.

The High Nun often asked herself why she could not attain her goal. Certainly it was not from lack of effort, sincerity, or experience. Yet she had failed where others of her kind succeeded, witnessing three noble ones achieve enlightenment during her lifetime, their endless string of births exhausted.

Why not Tathagata? They called her the Perfect One. But they really should have called her the Flawed One. Surely there was something in her makeup that prevented her from achieving enlightenment. Perhaps it was because she was so attached to the beauty of rain.

Normally before she slept, the High Nun lay flat on her back and meditated, watching the frequency of her breath reduce to as few as one inhale and exhale per minute. Finally she would allow herself to sleep for three hundred of these breaths, and during that time she rarely if ever moved, other than the barely discernible rise and fall of her bony chest. But as she lay inside the crowded tent alongside four other nuns, this night was different. Her breath came in gasps, as if she were fending off suffocation in a nearly airless void. She tossed and turned, bumping into her nearest bedmates. When she did manage to sleep, she dreamed of rain, rain, rain. She stood naked in a thunderous storm, her head tilted backward so that she could engorge herself with water, but no matter how much she drank, her thirst was not quenched. And sometime during the dream, the rain turned crimson and became blood, and she drank that too. When she woke, her mouth was dry but her skinny body was sheathed in sweat, as if in the throes of a deadly fever. It was then that the smell inside the tent intensified. At first she thought it was just her own sweat or the sweat of the others. But finally she realized it was something else entirely. Like a predator within easy reach of its prey, Sister Tathagata smelled food.

In some distant region of her mind, she heard herself giving a lecture in the temple of Dibbu-Loka: “Thought leads to action. Action leads to habit. Habit leads to character.” Now her thoughts were consumed by a wicked desire to bite and rend, lick and slurp, chew and swallow. If she allowed her thoughts to become action, what then? A portion of her was disgusted by the mere possibility, but another part was tantalized.

Tathagata heard a growling sound, low and sinister. She sat up and looked around, attempting to discern its location. It took her a few moments to realize that it came from her own throat. She ran her tongue along her teeth. Where they had once been small and flat, they now were large and jagged. She put her hands to her face. Her lips were grotesquely swollen and her eyes were bulging from their sockets. She sensed strength in her arms far greater than she had ever experienced. And never had she felt so hungry. Her thirst for water was gone. She wanted to eat — juicy meat. The blood-soaked flesh would quench her thirst as well as her desire.

She heard another growl, this time clearly not her own. There were screams, feminine in timbre, from a faraway tent. The sound enraged her and spurred her into action. She buried her teeth into the neck of Sister Kilisatti and bit down hard. The flesh tore away as easily as moist parchment. Blood splattered Tathagata’s face. She drank it like the blood in her dreams.

Soon after, she ran.