by Layton Green
In the corner of his eye, he saw Skara move towards the exit, followed by another stab of light arcing towards the adventuress. Again, from his position directly underneath the source of the magical beam, Will was able to intercept the missile with his sword.
“I think I just activated the defense system,” he called out, then noticed someone was missing. “Where’s Yasmina!”
“Here,” she said. “In another of the corner tunnels.”
“Stay put,” he said, trying desperately to figure out what to do. Why had he been so stupid? He had just wanted to see if he could help in some way, lift the terrible curse of the city.
The situation grew worse when he noticed that Zariduke had turned a few shades darker than its normal sheen. Will grew cold. The strange beam of light must have affected the sword in some way, perhaps even infected it with the disease plaguing the city.
The white ray had not struck again, making him think it was motion activated. He took a deep breath. He had gotten everyone into this, and had to get them to safety. “Skara, will you risk running for the exit? I think I can cover you.”
“You think?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
The adventuress muttered something too low for him to hear, then called out, “On the count of three?”
“Run fast,” he replied, then began to count. On three, he heard her rush across the floor behind him. As he suspected, her movement initiated two strikes of light from above. He managed to swipe them both, dissipating the energy, then studied his sword.
It had turned even darker.
“I’m out!” Skara yelled.
No no no. This can’t be happening. Everything they were fighting for, the Revolution’s hope against the Congregation, Will’s ability to defend himself and his companions, hinged on the power of the sword his father had bequeathed him.
He risked turning his head. The movement incurred no response from the defense system. He saw the horrible wound on Bartu’s hand and did not want to think about what a direct blow from one of those beams would do.
As far as he could tell, there was only one way out of this predicament. “Get out of the room,” he called out in a flat voice. “All of you.”
“What about you?” Dalen said quietly. Everyone must have noticed the damage to the sword. “Perhaps I could try an illusion.”
“It’s too risky. Better if I face it head on.”
“Cousin, my hand did not react when the light struck. Perhaps I can use it in defense.”
“And maybe the light beam is a thousand times stronger than what passed through the pillars.”
“I still think—”
“Go!” Will roared. “All of you! On my count!”
Without waiting for a response, he craned his neck to face the shaft of darkness overhead, and counted to three. Behind him, everyone made a mad dash for the exit, and he blocked two more blasts. Yasmina called out to say they all were safe.
At least I’ve done my duty.
He stood rigid by the pool, terrified to move. Zariduke had turned a deep, ugly brown, and he knew in his heart that whatever strange disease had ravaged the city had infected the magic of his sword as well. He found he was not as concerned with his personal safety as he was with Zariduke. He knew all too well that the sword, and not he, was the hope of the Revolution, the guardian of his companions.
Which meant that the sword, and not Will, had to make it out of that chamber in one piece.
He turned slowly as he raised his shield, prepared to throw the sword through the portal.
“No!” a voice called out, clear and firm. Yasmina. “Don’t do it, Will. Use the sword.”
He hesitated, gripping the buckler tight. Though he hated to expose Zariduke to another beam, he sensed she was right: the shield would not withstand the magical blast, and using it would likely get him killed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “and it’s not worth it.”
“I’m a believer in causes, Yaz,” he said. “In personal sacrifice for the good of all.”
“I’m a believer in the sanctity of life. Which I believe is more valuable than any cause.”
Skara and Bartu remained silent, but Dalen and Mateo chimed in, echoing Yasmina’s concern, pleading with Will to use the sword to escape even if it destroyed the blade.
Will stared down at the compromised weapon. “Even if I use it, I might not make it through.”
“Take the chance,” Yasmina urged. “We know the sword can stop it. It’s not Zariduke we need—it’s you.”
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“It is true. I need you. I need Will Blackwood, my friend for many years, the guy at the bar who always made me smile. Do you know who else would never forgive you? Do you think Val and Caleb care about that silly sword? Your brothers need you more than ever, Will.” She took a moment to gain control of her emotions. “I’m afraid Caleb won’t come back to us without you. He loves you and Val both, but he worships you. Respects your integrity. You’re his lifeline, Will. His beloved baby brother. You always have been. And I know Val well enough to know he’ll never recover.”
Whether calculated or not, Yasmina had found an argument that spoke to him. And she was right. His brothers needed him, badly, with or without the sword.
After taking a few quick breaths for courage, knowing he might not make it out, he backed towards the exit as fast as he could, using Zariduke to fend off three more rays of light. The impact of the final blast sent him tumbling through the open portal, where his friends caught him before he fell down the stairs.
Everyone tensed, but no more beams followed. The defense mechanism must have been keyed to the central room in some way, which Will had suspected.
As they descended the marble stairs, his eyes lowered to his sword. Zariduke was still in one piece, but the legendary sword had turned the color of deepest night, from tip to hilt, and felt lighter than before, as if the magic that sustained it was gone. He felt numb as he waved it around.
“Cast a spell, Dalen,” Will said harshly, as soon as they returned outside.
“What?”
“An illusion of any sort. Right here in front of me.”
His friend complied, waving his hands to create an image of a hill troll looming over the party, smacking its lips in hunger. With everyone watching, Will gripped Zariduke and ran it through the heart of the illusion. He felt numb as Dalen’s illusion flickered but held. The snip-snap of blue-white light from the sword was so faint it was barely visible.
Dalen swallowed and dispelled the illusion with a flick of his hand. No one spoke as Will grimly turned on his heel and headed back the way they had come, towards the river and the waiting barge.
Though an occasional shriek or deep-throated bellow accompanied their passage, imparting a vivid reminder of the menagerists who used to occupy this part of the city and perhaps still did, the party returned to Meru’s vessel without incident. The barge master was waiting on the deck when they arrived, drinking from a battered gourd and chewing on a wad of something in the side of her mouth. After a curt greeting, she returned to the pilothouse and ignited the boat’s power source.
Once safely on the river, Skara used her good hand to extract a tiny tube of healing salve from her pack, then applied the ointment to her and Bartu’s wounds. The salve did not have the miraculous effect of stronger healing balms Will had seen, but it closed the wounds and eased the pain.
When Skara asked her companion about his hand, he probed his palm with his other hand, declared he was fine, and moved away. Her eyes followed him, though Will was too preoccupied with his sword to think much about it.
As the sun descended, casting the gloomy city into deeper shades of gray, the party discussed what had occurred in the storehouse. Was the bizarre pool of energy the source of the wafers, or did it only consume them? Would the city come back to life now? Outside the storehouse, they had seen no further sign of regeneration, but maybe it
would take time. Why had a few of the wafers been left behind by their creators? Why not try to use them all?
Yasmina remarked that the shape of the room, an ellipsis with four passages in the corners that spiraled away from the center, resembled the shape of a galaxy. Had the Nephili arrived from beyond the stars? Or was the storehouse merely inspired by the heavens above, an ode to the beauty and mystery of the multiverse?
The others came to the conclusion that Will had drawn when the wafer had dissolved in the pool and ignited the room: somehow, the architecture of the city was magically connected, perhaps even alive in a way that none of them understood. This would explain how the plague had spread, and why it had stopped at the borders of Praha. This could also mean the builders of the city were connected to the city itself, sensitive to any damage incurred.
As curious as it all was, Will couldn’t bring himself to care about the discussion. He had only wanted to bring a spark of hope to the doomed city, yet he had succeeded in single-handedly derailing their quest, and possibly the entire Revolution. How could he return with a broken sword? What would he tell Tamás and the council?
How would he help his brothers?
He thought of Mala, and her final words before they parted. She was right, of course. Being a hero was a fool’s game, and he was Fool in Chief. Deep down, did he want to sacrifice his own life? Did he have no identity apart from his prowess in battle, or the praise and adulation of others?
Who was the better human being: Mala, who might be selfish but placed a high value on the sanctity of her own life, or Will, who stumbled blindly forward, risking life and limb for inchoate causes that bolstered his reputation?
Mala had true confidence. She knew exactly who she was and lived her life by that code.
Will had spent his life in search of meaning, doing everything in his power to please and help others—and now he had paid a terrible price for his choices.
The barge passed by the docks and kept going. Soon, the towers and spires atop the bluff of Old Town emerged in the distance, a great gaping darkness looming in the middle of the city. Will gave a little shudder at the thought of entering the Agora and scaling the Wailing Wall without the use of Zariduke.
As if reading his thoughts, Mateo wandered over to offer up a spare dagger he kept in his pack. Will tried to act grateful as he accepted, but felt only shame and humiliation. His cousin patted him on the back and reminded him that every weapon was simply an extension of the spirit of the fighter, even a weapon such as Zariduke.
Will flashed a bitter smile and returned to watching the river.
Dalen and Yasmina kept their distance, sensing Will needed to be alone. On occasion, when one of them caught his eye, he converted their sympathetic glances into pity, whether they meant it that way or not.
Bartu had spent the entire journey alone at the stern of the boat, muscular arms folded, watching the receding tunnel of stone with an impassive expression. As the bluff drew ever nearer, its sheer walls seeming to rise straight out of the river, Skara wandered over to stand beside Will. She placed her hands on the railing and leaned into the wind.
“I’m not your friend,” she said, causing Will to bark a laugh.
“The feeling is mutual.”
“But let me offer some advice. I’m a teacher to my acolytes, both in the martial ways of baritsu and in the discipline of the mind. And I can state with impartial clarity that if you do not regain your focus, you will die on this journey, and imperil our lives as well.”
“My sword is broken, Skara. What if you didn’t have your weapons?”
“Are you familiar with baritsu?”
“No.”
“It’s a derivation of the martial arts of the Orient, adapted to the needs of urban environments. Instead of fighting samurai on horseback or engaging in hand-to-hand combat in fields of war, baritsu utilizes the principles of everyday survival common to all slum dwellers. In short, we do anything and everything we can to stay alive, with any weapon available.”
“That reminds me of my own teacher,” Will said, still staring into the distance. His heart grew heavy at the thought of Mala. Not just her distance—physical and emotional—but how cruel her laughter would be when she heard of his reckless behavior.
“Which was whom?” Skara asked.
“The same person who sent us to you.”
Skara’s tone took on new respect. “Mala? I’ve never known her to take on a disciple.”
“I was hardly a disciple. It was . . . a necessary circumstance.”
“I know Mala well enough to know she does not suffer fools. Whatever the circumstance, she must have thought highly of your potential.”
“We were paying her to guide us. She wanted to keep us alive. That’s all.”
After a long moment, Skara said, “I don’t know her that well, but did Mala tell you how we met?”
“I’ve been wondering about that.”
“It was many years ago. She might not appreciate me telling you, but she was looking for a particular weapon in Praha. One she never found, at least to my knowledge.”
He thought about it for a moment. “Was it a cat o’ nine tails?”
Skara pressed her lips and nodded. Will decided not to tell her that Mala had found the scourge at last.
“Slight as she is, Mala is the greatest opponent I’ve ever faced. We sparred briefly, in my arena in the Nilometer, and I was unable to touch her. It’s not just her skill in battle, but her willingness to use anything and everything at her disposal to prevail, and her cleverness in so doing. Though her style is different, she embodies the principles of baritsu. Are you aware of the nature of the particular weapon she sought? The cat o’ nine tails?”
“Not really.”
“It was crafted specifically to kill majitsu.”
“Okay.”
After a moment, Skara said, “Mala fears those who wield magic, Will. She fears them with all of her being.”
“That seems like a healthy point of view.”
Skara pushed away from the railing and stared him in the eye. “Fear may keep you alive, but it will eat you from within, and color all of your actions. Fear will keep you from truly being awake. As capable as Mala is, she is ruled by her fears.”
He got the point she was trying to make, but it only served to annoy him. “I suppose we all have our faults. What’s yours, Skara?”
“Mine?” she said, with an unhealthy chuckle and a glance in Bartu’s direction. “Mine is the opposite of fear.”
“Bravery?”
“Obsession.”
She moved away to stand closer to the prow, leaving Will to his thoughts as the vessel rounded a bend in the river. Soon after, they navigated another turn, completing the C curve. The boat slowed and headed for shore as they passed the edge of the bluff, bringing a new sight into view: a jumbled collection of pillars, stela, and temple-like structures spread over a small plain, abutting the rear face of the massif. From the perspective of the boat, Will saw how the top of the bluff formed a high, flat-topped hill with sheer rock walls that looked impregnable. Atop the bluff loomed the shadows of the blackened palaces and arches of Old Town, swathed in darkness and, far below, bordered on three sides by the river. On the fourth was the plain of ruined buildings they now saw before them.
They had reached the Agora.
-23-
For some reason, after plunging into the Jabberwock’s throat and surviving, Caleb progressed faster through the challenges of the tower. Or at least he thought that was the case. Maybe he had gotten off track somewhere, and was working his way back to the beginning. Maybe the tower had no end and he was stuck in an infinite loop. He didn’t know. He could only press grimly forward, using the memory of Marguerite and Luca as a beacon on the hill, pointing the way to some unknown destination.
After the Jurassic version of Alice in Wonderland, Caleb popped into a barren wasteland akin to the surface of the moon. The blasted, rocky ground had a bluish-silver sheen th
at was almost metallic in nature. The sky was black and deep and the stars gleamed brighter than any he had ever seen, as if all other celestial firmaments possessed a filmy gauze obscuring the view. He felt as if he could reach out and touch these stars, and he saw two enormous blue spheres hovering in the sky behind him, a pair of moons glowing with a sapphire light so luminescent he almost had to shield his eyes.
Okay, then. So I’m not in Kansas anymore.
Able to breathe just fine, he caught a faint odor of limestone and chalk dust. As far as he could see, nothing but craters and piles of loose rock littered the lonely surface of the planet. After a time, a humanoid creature made of rock wandered into view, half Caleb’s height but twice as thick. It had the look of hardened clay. No eyes or nose or mouth, just two arms and two legs, a torso, and a faceless head. Caleb scurried behind a boulder as the strange being lumbered past without a sideways glance.
More of them came and went, never interacting, never doing anything, an ongoing random procession that felt mindless. He finally got the nerve to call out to one of them. When he did, it stopped moving as if frozen in place. Almost, he thought, as if awaiting a command.
So he gave him one. Start walking.
And it did.
After a while, Caleb intuited that this place was a representation of his current vision of the universe. A lifeless place without hope or joy. The only break in the monotony were the two perfect orbs of beauty dominating the night sky, appearing so close yet forever unattainable.
He didn’t need a PhD in literature to figure out what they symbolized.
Know thyself.
As easily as the nature of this place came to him, so did the manner in which he could leave. Build, he commanded the stone creatures wandering aimlessly across the surface. His voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it resonated with power, and every rock creature in sight obeyed his command. They worked in silence, tirelessly, gathering the rocks and boulders strewn about the landscape into a central pile, just as Caleb had imagined. They built and they built for their sad human god, lumps of clay in his hands, until they had constructed an image he held clear in his mind: a tower of rock about the same size and shape as the Tower of Elarion.