by Jeff Gunzel
Aena had found a waterskin, small pot, and some tea in the sack as well. It was exactly what they wanted right now. Aena poured two hot cups from the pot she brewed and handed one to Eric. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping away. “So what are we going to do when we get to Taron?” she asked in a soft voice. “I mean, we don’t have any money, and there is only a little food in that sack. There isn’t even a change of clothes.”
Eric kept sipping his tea in silence for a moment, considering the question. “I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I just know it’s important to get there. As long as we have each other, I’ll think of something.” He set down his tin cup and placed his fingers on his temples, rubbing in circles as his head began to throb.
“What the— My head.” He tried to stand up, but his legs would not support him. He stumbled to the side and fell, kicking his teacup over in the process. Eric looked over at Aena as he lay on the ground. There seemed to be two of her circling each other. Then the two images of her began laughing as they moved towards him.
“How sweet,” the far-away voice echoed. “We will be together? Well, I have a better idea. The Dark Lord wants you alive, and for that I will be given eternal life!” Eric shook his head violently, trying to stay focused. The two images finally came together as one, but the single image was now holding a dagger and still moving towards him. He tried to inch away, worming along on his elbows and backside.
“I’ll have to remove your feet and hands to make you less dangerous, of course. But don’t worry, that’s nothing compared to what the Dark Lord has in store for you!”
“N-no…st-stop,” he muttered as he tried desperately to stay conscious—a battle he was on the verge of losing.
Right as she positioned herself on top of him, Aena suddenly whirled around, blades in hand. A sharp clang rang out as she deflected the speeding dagger that was hurling towards her head. She followed the action with two backward handsprings and landed in a low crouch, crossed daggers defensively in front of her face. Eric was fighting hard to stay conscious by slapping himself in the face repeatedly. Again he saw two figures in black robes, but they were facing each other this time and did not seem to be the same person, although their snakelike movements were awfully similar.
Crackling lightning lit up the immediate area, revealing two hooded reapers circling each other, both wielding a dagger in either hand. Each shifted their daggers from pointing down to pointing up and back again by rolling them individually across the backs of their hands, as they stalked one another in a tight circle. Only trained killers with marvelous dexterity could have made the shifts look so effortless. For all Eric knew, they were fighting over who would kill him first. He had to move, but his body was shutting down. How could she do this to me? He watched helplessly as the reapers continued to circle, switching blade angles constantly, searching for a weakness in the other’s defense.
One struck out at the other in two viper-like slashes, each parried solidly by a set of daggers, followed by return strikes that were just a fast. The probing shots continued as each one tested the speed and skill of the other with quick strikes sent out as feelers. Then the dance of blades began, each pair of arms whirling and pumping in an intricate series of thrusts and parries.
Each of the cloaked figures appeared to have eight arms, as it seemed impossible only two could move with such tenacity. The steel-on-steel blows were so heavy that a shower of continuous sparks fired off in every direction. Each time the sky lit up with a flash of lightning, the scene showed a portrait of violence, that exact moment frozen in time forever. As the display of whirling blades raged on, it became clear that one of the figures was taking more slashes than the other, although they had both taken several. Individual blade collisions could no longer be deciphered from one another.
The cloaked figures rolled their bodies with the blows to keep the slashes from doing no more than grazing, while countering hard as the other did the same with unimaginable speed. It was impossible to believe humans could move like this.
One reaper began to really press the attack as the other’s body jolted, then jolted again with fresh, deep cuts. At last, the first reaper parried both his opponent’s daggers out wide while dropping his own, then grabbed the cloak of the other figure, doing a backward somersault while locked together tightly, and ended up on top.
The reaper on the bottom slashed up once, twice, three times, each one dodged by lightning-quick reflexes as the other continued to squeeze and twist the neck of his victim. A loud, sickening crack echoed through the night, and then it was over...
His head spinning, nausea flooded through Eric. He knew this was it—he would be out within seconds, certain never to wake up. The remaining reaper limped towards him.
Blink
It was closer now, almost on him.
Blink
The figure pulled its hood back to reveal a beautiful face with crystal-blue eyes. “I’ve searched my whole life for you...Gate Keeper.”
Blink
Eric’s world faded into darkness.
Chapter 8
Dragot gazed out his window, beyond his personal paradise and into the lifeless desert. Deceitful winds brought the illusion of comfort as they spun hot, dry air along the scorched, sandy surface. Brilliantly colored birds continued to mock the lifeless desert as they sang their cheerful songs filled with unwavering happiness born from an oh-too-easy life, constantly soaring through the waterfall before landing on a lush, green tree branch only to shake off the precious liquid in a fine white mist.
The demon’s large yellow eyes were glazed over with calm serenity, scanning the wasteland yet looking for nothing in particular while the narcissistic being continued to dwell upon his genius. He marveled at the plans he’d concocted and which were now set in motion, plans to not only stop the Gate Keeper, but to bring him to the tower for judgment as well. The demon wanted to show his enemy the error of his ways, the sheer betrayal of being born and posing a threat to his greatness, his immortality—crimes that could never be forgiven, even through death. Oh, death would come eventually, but by then it would be more accurate to call it mercy!
Even though the silent intruder never made a sound, Dragot knew the briggit had wandered into the room. “Yes?” he hissed, his eyes never leaving the desert scenery. His acknowledgement of the creature was followed by a series of anxious clicks. Even as Dragot whirled around like a top, his face portrayed a deathly calm. “What do you mean she failed?” The nervous clicking continued while skinny, cloaked arms flapped up and down like a hummingbird.
Massive clawed hands moved tauntingly slow towards the bringer of bad news. The messenger’s only crime was being the informant on this particular day, a crime considered quite severe. Dragot had no need to rush; the little servant knew better than to move. His claws moved ever so slowly as they dug deep into the hooded fabric while hoisting the messenger high in the air. As easily as ripping a piece of paper, Dragot pulled in both directions at once with a quick twist. He was left holding two halves of a brown cloak, a piece in each hand, with no blood, flesh, or any remains; there was not the slightest clue that anything had ever existed inside the coarse brown fabric.
Calmly throwing both pieces to the ground, he left the room, exuding calm serenity once more. He walked down the stairs, contemplating the new events. That girl had been recruited at the age of five. She had been trained painfully hard every single day, knowing full well the inevitable results of failure. In fact, her final test of loyalty had been to take the lives of her long-forgotten family—surely not a test of skill, but merely to prove her unwavering allegiance. Even though she had not seen them in many years at that point, the test was still valid. Only the coldest person could take the lives of blood relatives, regardless of their relationship. She’d done it without blinking. Her soul was black as coal. She’d been ready, but had somehow failed. In combat, no less.
She was a blademaster who had no equal. How is this possible?
&nb
sp; The demon wandered though his fortress, across shiny black marble, until he arrived at the chamber where his pet humans resided. So docile and domesticated, they could hardly be called humans anymore. Their moaning was constant, but intensified as he entered the chamber. It was hard to tell if they were afraid one of their own would be taken away, or happy because it was feeding time. The primitive groaning always sounded the same.
It was time for them to prove their worth, but preparations needed to be made first.
Dragot roamed past the cages as bony arms eagerly reached through the bars. He ignored them as usual and continued on to the witch’s chamber. He’d never cared much for the little troll—she was human, for one thing. However, she was unfortunately very important to him, now more than ever. Her powers and abilities were...unique. This was why she never showed the proper respect: She was perfectly aware of her importance to the demon. As physically powerful as Dragot was, his prowess with summoning and practicing general forms of elemental magic was...limited. He needed the imp to complete his plan. Besides, as much as he didn’t like dealing with her, it seemed a far better idea than reporting to Krytoes that their prized assassin had been bested by another mortal. I still can’t believe it!
But it was time to move on with the real plan. Luckily, the first part did not need to involve Krytoes. This one demanded a different sort of demon—the whole reason these cattle had been kept alive in the first place.
He barged through the door.
The old hag spared him a glance but remained seated in her lush handcrafted chair. With thick white cushions embroidered with tiny colorful flowers strung together by bright green vines, the fine oak chair seemed oddly out of place, given the drab, gloomy surroundings. An old wooden table with the finish long worn away graced the center of the room. On the table’s center sat a pearl-like sphere held in place by a golden stand in the shape of a human hand. In the corner of the room lay an old mattress with a single dingy, yellow pillow. A worn-out blue blanket full of holes lay in a messy pile at its base. There was no art of any kind to help cover the dull green walls, where old paint seemed to peel from every spot.
Addel sat back and stared with her one good eye. That amused smile seemed to always cross her face whenever she knew Dragot was in a bad mood. It was like looking at a wild animal behind bars, knowing no matter how much you teased it, it could never hurt you. She seemed to relish it.
“Remove that smile or I’ll remove it for you, witch,” he said in a smooth voice that seemed at odds with his cold stare.
She knew she was pushing it now, but couldn’t fight it. Her smile grew larger. Knowing she was now playing with fire, Addel recovered as quickly as she could. Her smile seemed at odds with her grayish skin and wild stringy white hair. “To what do I owe this great honor?” she said, trying to stand up from the chair but clearly having great difficulty. When she finally pulled herself up, aided by two hands pushing hard off the wooden table, she bent her already hunched body farther in a ridiculous-looking bow.
Dragot took several deep breaths as he leaned his full weight hard against the wall. “Witch,” he said in a menacing hiss before composing himself, “Addel. You will aid me in a matter that requires your attention. It seems our little spy failed at the simple task assigned to her.”
No doubt the witch was already aware of this little setback—yet another thing about her that got on his nerves—but she pretended to look shocked anyway.
“We will proceed with my original plan. The time is now, and we’ve already wasted enough of it!” Dragot concluded.
Bent over the way she was, combined with the look of dread in her eye, the witch looked quite feeble for the first time. She knew where this was going. She had known for decades what the demon’s mad plan was—at least, as much as he shared with her anyway, but not the why of it. It seemed she was about to find that out as well.
It was Dragot’s turn to smile as he uttered the words that she had dreaded for so long, they hardly registered now. “Summon the puppeteers!”
Addel let out a long sigh. Her head sank even further. The puppeteers, she thought to herself. Also known as krabbers. Vile, dangerous things! They were unpredictable at best, but at worst... The thought of their very nature sent shivers through her, like cold water was being poured down her shirt. The true danger with them was in their ability to coexist in two dimensions at once. They were the only known beings that could do such a thing.
“Summon one for now. We will begin this slowly,” Dragot said, his smile firmly in place. “Oh, don’t be frightened. I’m sure you will be able to control it,” he said through outright laughter as he leaned back clenching his stomach. “That is, as long as you concentrate on what you’re doing...my dear.”
His voice turned from laughter to frost. “I’ll be back in half an hour. The summoning better be finished by then!” He marched from her room and back up the stairs.
To get a human from one of the cages, no doubt. Addel wiped a tear from her eye as she tried to collect herself. Terror filled her. She braced her hands on the table to control her shaking. Summoning a krabber was not really all that hard, given how easily they could move from one plane of existence to another. For her, it shouldn’t really be all that dangerous—she hoped. It was just that the nature of their behavior was chilling.
Krabbers, or puppeteers, could take many different forms because they have no physical bodies of their own. In their purest form, they appear as nothing more than a gray mist floating in the air. They did seem to have faces, but not in the traditional sense. Looking closely into the gray mist, human-like expressions will appear for brief periods of time before fading away. They had no physical bodies, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t steal them—well, borrow them, really. If a person was weak-minded or feeble in any way, he becomes the perfect target.
A puppeteer can wrap itself around a person’s very life force, or soul, if you will, while pulling it back to their plane of existence. But even when doing this, they still have a partial foothold in this world as well. From here, they have the ability to control the victim’s every move. Essentially, they are that person now. Of course, they are only controlling the animated body and nothing else.
The puppeteers won’t feel any pain or hunger; will feel none of the physical limits placed on the body, no matter how long they keep their host. The bodies are nothing but a husk, a pod linking the krabber to this world.
Carefully observing the “pod,” faint golden strings can be seen attached all over the victim’s body. These strings are a connection to the other world. They are vital for full control of the body to continue. The illusion, in which the victim appears to look like a stringed puppet, aided in the creation of the creatures’ nickname of “puppeteers.” A krabber can only do this if a person is mentally weak or susceptible, but the person may also be willing and offer no resistance at all.
Krabbers have been known to perform their craft on someone who is asleep or in a weakened mental state. It is said that when you have the sensation of falling in your sleep, a krabber is pulling at your life force. When you jolt awake all of a sudden, it was your life force snapping back into you. Addel took one last deep breath, knowing she had better hurry and get this over with. She tried her best to reassure herself her mind was far too strong to be at any risk.
Hobbling up to the sphere resting on her table, she placed both hands upon it and began her chant. “Pherum...doesingtal...parthumal...ulundra!”
The color in the sphere began to swirl, giving the appearance of milky, white smoke. As the rolling white mist mixed with a bluish swirl filled the globe, Addel’s head snapped back as she continued the chant. “Teruma...fimlisia...predutu...comeallia!”
To any that didn’t understand the intricacies involved when performing summonings, or any elemental magic for that matter, this would appear difficult and draining. The truth of it was, as long as the being that’s called forth is willing, it’s quite easy. The chants simply set up a line
of communication between the two worlds. This takes very little energy, considering the channels already exist and just need to be reopened. Of course, this also depends on the dimension that’s being connected. They differ greatly in size, distance from contact point, and density of barrier. In the case of the puppeteers, their dimension is adjacent to the world of Tarmerria. This is why they have so little difficulty accessing poor souls as they dream.
However, this goes both ways. When a person dreams, part of their life force might wander through dimensional doors, seeing as how dreaming only partially takes place in the mind. Most of the time it’s nothing to worry about, though. When a person’s life force flashes into another dimension, it’s usually only for second or two, no time at all for a krabber to take hold. The person’s life force tends to return back to his dream almost immediately. On the very rare occasion a puppeteer is able to grab and hold on to a life force that quickly, the unlucky victim’s body goes into a coma-like state. He remains this way until the physical body dies or his life force is released. A puppeteer cannot control a body if the life force was captured during a person’s sleep, seeing as how the body will always remain unconscious.
Addel finished the chant and leaned back in her chair. The milky fog in the globe had dissipated, and everything in the room seemed quiet—too quiet. She folded her hands on the table as her eyes swept around the room. Addel’s anxiety was barely under control as she tried to gather up as much courage as she could.
“I know you’re here. Show yourself,” she commanded in a quiet voice. Given how silent the room was anyway, it seemed as if she was shouting. Then, ever so slowly, like sand dripping through an hourglass, the being began to take shape. Faint at first, the thin mist hovered in the air, like a kitten that feared the strangers in the house, not wanting to come out of hiding. Then, becoming a bit bolder, the steamy figure began to gain in strength and density.