Guardian

by P B Hughes

  Gregory hated Jelani and his ability to transform the terrain, his treacherous ability to manipulate a solid rock as if it were a liquid. The very earth could not be trusted.

  So I’ll use the sky, Gregory thought.

  “Jelani,” Gregory said, adopting a contrite tone. “I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m sorry, I don’t want to fight anymore—you win. Please, let’s stop this madness.”

  Jelani’s fierce gaze did not waver, but Gregory could see it in his eyes—he wanted to believe Gregory was telling the truth—that he had indeed, surrendered. And Gregory would use that to his advantage.

  “Drop your staff,” Jelani ordered. “Then we can talk.”

  There was a move Gregory had trained in, one he had yet to master. A difficult attack only few Ruby Miraclists could wield. He had tried to learn it back at school again and again, but with little success. How humiliating that had been! Caden had learned it when he was just a child; that boy was a true master. More proof that Gregory did not deserve to be a Guardian. But now, now things had changed. Now he felt good. With his newfound power, he knew he could do it. And with it, he would bring Jelani to his knees.

  “Okay,” said Gregory, lowering his staff toward the ground. “Whatever you say. I just want this to end.”

  Jelani relaxed. The pillars stopped spinning.

  The instant Jelani let down his guard, Gregory seized his staff and sprang toward a pillar. Jelani realized what was happening, but Gregory was too quick. The Ruby Miraclist planted a foot against the stone and launched himself into the air. He felt the energy course through him, growing as he raised his shining staff overhead. The sky ignited with a thousand crackling bursts until it was awash with meteors.

  Gregory fell and his flames fell with him.

  It was all Jelani could do to protect himself: he slammed the butt of his staff and a pillar shot up from the ground. He dove behind it, narrowly escaping the brunt of the attack. But he did not escape unscathed. His legs were badly burned; Gregory could see that much.

  Gregory’s meteors crashed against the pillar, breaking it into a heap of rubble, burying Jelani. Jelani burst out of from the pile, cartwheeling backward. He slid to a stop and readied his staff.

  Again, Gregory and Jelani faced each other, panting like rabid dogs.

  “You like that, big guy?” Gregory asked, grinning widely. Jelani was in pain; he could see the smoke rising from his scorched leg. Delicately, Gregory tapped his orb with the tip of his finger. “Because there’s more where that came from.”

  “Your power has grown,” said Jelani, his eyebrows bouncing. “But not enough; you cannot defeat me.” He jumped, aiming his staff at Gregory’s feet.

  The earth beneath Gregory began to swirl, puckering and swelling, crawling in clods up his legs and around his torso until he was cemented in place. Gregory swung his staff, but before he could release an attack, Jelani hurled a jagged rock through the air. It met Gregory’s wrist with a bone-splintering crack. Gregory watched in horror as his staff flew from his hand and landed on the ground out of reach.

  “Coward!” Gregory cried. “Give me back my staff—let me fight!”

  “I disarmed you fairly,” said Jelani, stalking forward. “Now, I will rid you of your disease.” He reached up and took hold of Gregory’s crown.

  “No,” Gregory pled. “Jelani, please—you don’t know what you’re doing. I give up—just let me keep the crown.”

  “This must be done,” Jelani replied, lifting the crown off Gregory’s head.

  Gregory screamed furiously, pain searing through him—it felt as if Jelani had cut Gregory’s skull with a knife.

  Jelani surveyed the circlet with a frown. “It must be destroyed.”

  “No—no,” begged Gregory, struggling against his stone prison. “Jelani, please.”

  Jelani met Gregory’s eyes. “Do you not see what this thing has done to you? You are under its spell—bewitched. You are cursed!”

  Seeing Jelani holding shining crown made Gregory tremble with wrath. He could not let Jelani destroy it—it was his life, it was his joy. Without it, he would be nothing. “Thief!” Gregory shouted. “I’ll kill you for this, Jelani! I swear it—I’ll kill you!”

  “And that is why I must do it,” said Jelani. He aimed his staff at the circlet, and the orb shone a brilliant amber.

  Suddenly, a swirl of shadows materialized between Gregory and Jelani, forcing Jelani to step backward. Slowly, the shadows grew until they formed a giant body—like some sort of animalistic man crouching on all fours. And then the beast, made from the blackest smog, hulked before them.

  Delight glittered through Gregory. With the power of his protector, nothing could stand in his way—and Jelani would soon know of his strength.

  “Get him,” Gregory ordered the beast. “Show him our power! Show him that together, we are like a god!”

  Jelani dropped the circlet to the ground; fear flooded his eyes as he stared up at the shadowy figure. Its red eyes gleamed with malice, and for a moment Gregory thought the thing would pounce on Jelani and devour him. But the beast only growled, and instead of attacking the boy, it turned around, placed a hand on the earth that encased Gregory, and with one stroke, broke him free. Then, it vanished in a smoldering, hissing swirl.

  Gregory and Jelani stared at each other for a brief moment, dumbfounded by what had just happened. But Gregory was free. He dashed to his staff, took hold of it with his left hand and aimed it at Jelani. A stream of strange, blood-red fire spewed out from the tip of the orb, splashing against Jelani’s middle, forcing out a cry of pain.

  Gregory pulled his staff back and sprinted forward, fighting against the blinding throb shooting through his wrist. He jumped in the air, flames igniting at his toes. He kicked Jelani in the stomach and in the face, fire bursting against his body with each blow. He kicked him again and again, knocking away Jelani’s staff, and pushing him back until the boy was pinned against the mountainside.

  Gregory stepped back, triumphant rage coursing through his veins. He picked up his crown and released a mirthless laugh, memories of his mother’s death overwhelming his senses. He could see it all happening in the black jewel’s reflection—the robbery, the stabbing, the explosion. How he longed to avenge her death! But he had been too weak. Not anymore! Now he had the power. Now he could kill anyone that stood in his way.

  And there stood Jelani, one of the strongest Miraclists at Brightcastle Hall: defeated—covered in pinkish, blood-soaked burns, barely able to stand. He stared into his eyes, expecting to see them wide with terror. But they weren’t. In fact, he looked as somber as ever; entirely unafraid. And then, to Gregory’s annoyance, Jelani closed his eyes and laid his head back against the stone.

  “So it has come to this,” said Jelani. “Do what you have to do. But remember—a time will come when all men have to answer for the evils they have done. You will not be exempt.”

  Gregory stepped back and took a deep breath. “No one can stand against me now,” he said. Jelani had suddenly become all the enemies he had ever wanted to kill merged into one soul. “Not you, not Vut’Al Choshek—not anybody.” He pointed his staff and watched the tip ignite. The flames he had used before were but gentle breezes compared to this one. This would be a broiling, scorching, white-hot, kill shot.

  “Gregory, no!” cried the sound of Martha’s voice.

  There was a blur from the corner of his vision; the terrible flames tore through the air and a body flung itself into the blast. Gregory tried to stop the attack, but it was too late.

  It all happened in slow motion. He pulled up his staff, sending the wash of flames into the sky. And then he stared down where she lay—nothing but a smoking heap.

  Jelani slid down beside her. “Martha—Martha, speak! Are you okay?”

  She lay completely still.

  Gregory dropped his staff. There was nothing in his mind—nothing at all. Everything was blank and white.

  Slowly, he raised his
hands, staring at them as if they were covered in blood. “I killed her,” Gregory said, his voice but a murmur. “I killed her.”

  The Shadow’s voice whispered sweetly in his ear, “You have to kill them. They must die.”

  “No,” said Jelani. “She is not dead. She is still breathing.”

  Jelani rolled her over. She had black burns on her shoulder, neck and face. But she was breathing.

  “Martha?” said Gregory, choking back tears. “Martha, can you hear me?”

  “Gregory?” she said, opening and closing her glassy eyes.

  Gregory searched the mountain, Jelani’s face, and the sky in a panic. “Somebody—somebody, help!” he screamed.

  “Gregory,” said Martha. “Gregory, why did you go?”

  Gregory stared down at her, his whole body shaking. “I had to leave—I…”

  “Don’t leave me, Gregory,” she said. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  “Martha,” said Jelani urgently. “Martha, listen to me, you have to heal yourself. You have to. It is your only hope.”

  “Kill her,” growled the voice inside Gregory’s head. “And leave her to rot. She must die—they all must die for you to live.”

  And then Gregory knew what he must do. He stared down at Martha—her beautiful face seared by his own hand. His emotions had betrayed him. He lifted his staff from the ground and stared into it, his skin growing numb.

  “Gregory,” Martha said, “please. Don’t leave me…”

  “Finish her,” said the voice. “End your earthly connections—seize your greatness!”

  Gregory aimed his staff at Jelani and Martha.

  “Good,” said the voice. “Do it.”

  Jelani stared up at Gregory with deep sadness in his eyes. Gently, he ran a comforting finger across the part of Martha’s face that was not burned and looked down at her. “Do not be afraid,” he told her. “Your life has been one of light. And now to light we shall fly.”

  “Gregory,” said Martha. “Gregory…I love you.”

  The sound of her voice pierced his heart.

  He looked at his circlet. The golden band lay on the ground, glowing beautifully. It was so incredibly divine—so wonderful. His crown! With it he could buy anything he wanted—a real man, wealthy and powerful beyond his dreams.

  But then he thought of Martha’s face, and what he had done to her. A life of wealth, luxury, and comfort meant nothing if she was gone. And then he realized: he would rather be a Guardian in a war-torn world with her at his side than the king of a world without her. He could never be what the shadow-creature desired.

  With a shout, Gregory took aim at the circlet. He sent a stream of flames swirling down—the hottest he had ever produced, hotter than the kill shot. His whole body gushed with sweat, and his eyes felt as if they might liquefy in their sockets. And then, the gold began to drip.

  Suddenly, the creature appeared before him—this time swirling through the air—screaming at him to stop. But he wouldn’t. With one last burst of energy, Gregory sent a swell pulsing through the flames and melted the circlet into the earth.

  The eyes of the smoke creature grew wide and then, with a violent scream that shook the stars, they vanished. All that was left was the swirling smoke. And then a breeze blew across the mountain, carrying it away.

  Gregory’s energy had all but left him. He dropped to the ground. Though his body was exhausted, his will felt strong—like a fog had been lifted from his mind. Laboriously, on all fours, he crawled over to Martha’s side.

  “Martha,” he said. “I love you too. I love you. Don’t go. Please—don’t leave me here alone.”

  He could see her smile, ever so faintly. And then she coughed, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  An idea flooded Gregory’s mind. “Martha,” he said, “Martha—I’m injured. I need you to heal me. Can you heal me?”

  Martha grimaced.

  “Can you heal me, Martha?”

  She opened her mouth, trying to speak, and Gregory could see she was responding to him.

  “Please, Martha, I’m badly hurt. Please heal me.”

  “My…My staff,” she said.

  Jelani handed her staff to her.

  She took hold of it. “Where?” she asked.

  “I’ll put the staff on my injuries and you heal me. It hurts so much. Can you do it, Martha—can you heal me?”

  “Y-Yes…” she replied.

  Gregory placed the end of her staff against her face and the light from the orb flickered blue. Slowly, the healing mist began to pour over her wounds.

  “Keep healing me,” urged Gregory. “I am very injured—I might die. Please, don’t give up.”

  He could see the strain on her face as she healed. And then, after several long minutes, her eyes flickered open. She stared at the sky, blinking and confused.

  Gregory buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Chapter 35

  Jude, Samara, and Marcus dashed away from the tower toward the cover of the surrounding buildings. Though the moon was hidden behind a veil of clouds, to Jude, everything seemed bright and clear. He felt sure-footed and strong. It was as if he had been in the throngs of sickness and, quite suddenly, the fever had lifted.

  If using the Nosfertu makes me feel this good—this liberated—can it really be evil? he wondered.

  They ran into an alleyway and were met by Ryker. The spy caught Jude by the shoulders, his old eyes wide as plates.

  “Emperor’s ghost, you made it!” Ryker exclaimed. “I thought you’d been captured.” His brow furrowed. “And what happened to being stealthy? That tower has been shaking with activity—prisoners running out, guards running in. It’s a regular jailbreak!”

  “Do you want a cup of tea with your story?” Samara shot. “Or shall we be on our way?”

  Ryker released Jude. “Follow me,” he said.

  They cut down a narrow passageway that spilled out into the street and hurried over to an abandoned tavern. There, four horses were tied to a hitching post.

  “The prisoners you released are causing havoc in the city,” Ryker informed them as he helped Marcus onto his horse. “A whole troop of mounted guards went after them.”

  Jude mounted his steed—a shimmering black beauty with a white nose. “Good,” he said. “They’ll serve as a distraction.”

  “What’s happened to you, lad?” Ryker asked Marcus, studying the cadet’s chest where the sheleg had cut him.

  “It’s nothing,” Marcus replied, his voice ragged. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re a mess is what you are.”

  “Ryker,” said Samara. “Help him with his chains.”

  Marcus held up his shackles. Ryker pulled a small lock pick from his belt. A twist, a turn, another twist; the shackles fell off.

  Marcus rubbed his wrists. “I take it you’re another friend of the Empire?”

  “Look out!” cried Samara.

  A band of guards appeared behind them, shouting and rushing toward them with weapons drawn.

  Ryker and Samara swung onto their horses. Ryker gave a mighty “Yah!” and the four of them galloped away, arrows whizzing overhead.

  They galloped through the broad main street as alarm bells clanged. They passed the town hall and the boarded-up library. But instead of turning west down the road, they turned east—toward the gate their ally had opened for them.

  As they neared the outskirts of town, the bells grew distant and the streets deserted. Every building seemed to droop with age and the pavement crumbled into dirt beneath them. They had entered the eastern slums, and though Jude did not think it possible, the homes were in worse shape than those at the city’s entrance; most were ramshackle dwellings that seemed uninhabitable.

  They rode up the crest of a hill flanked by several tall buildings. From the look of them, they were vacant—the windows smashed out and their insides gutted. They pulled to a stop, hiding in the shadows of the overgrown trees outside. Before them, the road slid down the hil
l, cutting through rows of thatched-roofed huts that gave way to a clearing ending at the portcullis. The gate was not raised. Fifty guards lurked outside, their spears aglow in the moonlight.

  “It’s down,” Jude hissed. “The gate is down.”

  Though they were in shadow, Jude could see Ryker’s face go pale. The fellow leaned forward, studying the situation. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Our cohorts fed misinformation to Oldguard. There’s not supposed to be this many soldiers here.”

  “Ryker, look,” said Samara, pointing. “It’s Alfonso.”

  A man hung from the top of the wall, a rope around his neck. It seemed their spy had been found out.

  “No,” said Ryker. “No, they couldn’t have known. It’s impossible.”

  “We’ve been betrayed,” spat Samara. “Now what are we going to do?”

  Jude watched in silence, wanting to scream. The gate was down—there was nothing to be done but hide and regroup until they could find another way out. His insides writhed at the idea.

  I cannot spend another minute in this cursed city, he thought. And then a different thought rose in him, one that was not his own: Then kill them. Hang every last guard the way they hanged that spy. Then raise the gate yourself and be gone.

  Jude squeezed his staff. Not an hour before, he had used the Nosfertu to kill the sheleg. And already, he wanted to tap back into the ghastly power.

  And why shouldn’t I? he thought, suddenly. Why shouldn’t I use it to defeat these soldiers? After all, we are at war. Would they spare me? No!

  He peered down at the soldiers. Six were mounted, and the rest were on foot. He noticed several of them held heavy chains. They were ready for him, resolutely prepared to take him in. Jude glanced at Ryker. The man’s fingers were pressed against his temples, so deep was he in thought. He looked so sincere, so trustworthy. But he was a spy, a trained liar. There was a snap in Jude’s head. What if it’s all a ruse? I trusted others in the past. Mordecai, Ari, Daniel. But each of them lied! His mind flashed back to the battle with Caden in the forest. For all I know, Daniel might be dead, and his answers along with him.