Shackles of Sunlight

by J. Daniel Layfield

  There was a sharp sting across his neck as the blade grazed by, but he barely felt it over the burning of his chest wounds from being stretched so far. What he did notice, because it was unexpected, was the pressure against the back of his neck. It only lasted a moment and ended with the ting of something metallic breaking.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Braughton saw an object flying away, following the same arc as Malock’s sword. He turned to get a better look at it, and noticed Malock tracking it as well. Launched by Malock’s sword, the white, cylindrical object flew into the air.

  Wait. It wasn’t just white. It was bone white. And trailing behind it was a silver chain. Braughton’s face paled as he felt around his neck, knowing already he was watching Helsig’s finger sail towards the rest of his skeletal remains.

  The bone tumbled end over end, threatening to disappear into the gloom above before it reached the apex of its arc. It slowed, then paused, almost hovering in the air, and Braughton realized there were forces beyond just gravity at work here. The bone flipped once more, pointing at Braughton, then flew like a bullet towards Helsig. It slid into place on the far side of the skeleton’s right hand, and, barring the silver chain still attached, appeared to have always been there.

  Just like the bone seemed to slide right into place, things suddenly clicked for Malock. Exactly why the ritual had failed was now painfully clear. The only thing between him and the table now was Braughton.

  Still staring at the now complete form of Helsig, Braughton barely heard the swinging blade in time. Fortunately, Malock was no longer trying to kill him, and Braughton was able to block the blow to his chest by quickly raising his sword. Unfortunately, Malock had put all of his force behind the swing, pushing Braughton backwards, and then swept Braughton’s feet out from under him as he passed. Already off balance, Braughton could do nothing to stop his crash to the ground. Malock raced to the end of the table, raised his arms in the air, and once more called out, “Adsurgo!”

  The air in the cavern was still and the only sound was Braughton pulling himself up to a sitting position. Both Braughton and Malock watched the skeleton with anxious eyes, looking for any sign of movement. A soft wind sighed through the cave and touched Braughton’s cheek. Within moments it grew to a wailing howl he could feel push against his chest. If it hadn’t suddenly died he might have even thought it responsible for the first twitch of movement from the skeletal remains.

  He could still hear the wind whistling and whipping through the rocks of the cavern’s dark roof, but not even a breath of it touched him. When he saw the skeleton hand move a second time, he was sure. The ritual was finished. He had no idea if losing a part of his soul to this creature would kill him or not, but they were all about to find out.

  Braughton pushed himself up off the ground as the skeleton began to lift its frame from the table. The skeleton’s movements were stiff, and the organs Malock placed in its cavities were left behind. As if a hulking skeleton standing of its own free will weren’t terrifying enough, this one was also spattered with fresh blood. It didn’t seem to bother Braughton. He stood still, sword raised, waiting to face his fate.

  Malock was still standing wide-eyed with arms raised in the air. Helsig turned hollow eye sockets in his direction, which seemed to jar his senses.

  “I, who have called you forth, command you to do my bidding,” Malock said. The creature made no reply, so Malock continued, “Reclaim your soul from this bastard son of a vampire, and become whole again. Take on your new form in this world, and await my commands.”

  Malock pointed and Helsig’s skull followed his finger’s path until its empty gaze fell upon Braughton. Only it didn’t feel empty to Braughton. He could feel the creature peering deep within him, but he didn’t move. He was ready for whatever was to come.

  The ancient jaw bone fell open, and Braughton heard the wind return. No. Not the wind. He could still faintly hear it shrieking above, and what surrounded him now was a whisper. Thousands of whispers, all at once, all trying to be heard, slowly became one voice. The voice of Helsig. The jaw bone did not move as the creature spoke, but simply remained open.

  “The summoning is complete,” the chorus proclaimed. “I shall be whole again, but the new form was chosen over six centuries ago. With the destruction of the old, the transfer will be complete.” The skull then turned back to face Malock, who still stood with arms raised and his own jaw gaping open as well. The voices addressed him now. “Helsig the Devourer will not be commanded by his prey. I am bound to the human – heart, mind, and blood.”

  Malock’s arms dropped to his side and his jaw snapped shut. “The human?!” he growled. “What do you mean, the human?” His eyes were red, his pointed teeth bared, and he lunged at the skeleton as though he intended to dismantle it piece by piece. Before he could lay even a finger on it, a loud clap and a flash of silver light reduced the skeleton to a pile of ash. It also tossed Malock toward the far end of the cavern where he disappeared into the darkness.

  The wind, released from its banishment to the roof, came roaring straight down towards the pile of ash, picked it up, and slowly formed a swirling funnel of Helsig remains. It stood nearly as tall as the creature had, and after drunkenly staggering from side to side for a moment, headed straight for Braughton.

  Run.

  The voice was small, but insistent, and Braughton was tempted to indulge it. The fear and uncertainty he felt about who and what he was were all contained in that grey whirlwind closing in on him. Part of him wanted nothing more than to flee, to escape, but where could he go? Where could he hide? Even if he could somehow outrun the ash tornado now, he knew it would never stop following him. No, there would be no running.

  Braughton held his breath as the twisting cloud of ash enveloped him, but it wasn’t necessary. Within seconds he was in its calm center, without even a single smudge. It began to pick up speed, spinning faster and faster around him, the grey ash growing darker, forming spiraling patterns around him. His feet left the ground as he was lifted a few inches into the air. Braughton’s eyes grew heavy, then closed. His head tilted backwards as his body began to spin in the opposite direction of the funnel.

  Braughton’s eyes shot open, revealing only the whites, but he wasn’t seeing anything in the cavern anymore. His entire body tensed, his back arched, and his hands clenched as thousands of years of memories flashed through his mind, each gone too quickly for him to see or feel. Millions of thoughts, thousands of battles, and hundreds of different forms all passed through in a matter of seconds. If there had been room for any thoughts of his own, the only one would have been fear of his head exploding.

  As the memories flooded his brain, the cloud of ash grew thinner and thinner, until there was nothing left. The wind died, Braughton’s body stopped spinning, his eyes closed, and his body collapsed to the ground in a lifeless lump. Everything went dark for Braughton.

  How long had he lain there? Seconds? Minutes? Longer? He had no idea, but he did notice how still everything was. He was alone. He sat up, trying to remember everything that happened. He had fought with Malock, but the wounds on his chest were completely healed, with nothing except his torn shirt and red stains as proof they had ever been there.

  He looked at the table in the middle of the ruins and saw the skeletal remains of Helsig were gone. Completely. The only things still on the table were the human heart and brain. Presumably, that meant the transfer was complete. But what did it mean for him?

  Braughton stood slowly, examining the rest of his body, but nothing seemed changed. He was the same height, no talons on the end of his fingers, and his jaw seemed as non-snout-like as it ever had. He still felt himself inside as well. His thoughts were his own as were his memories, but something had definitely happened. He just couldn’t remember it.

  He looked again towards the table and noticed Malock’s robe on the ground. Sticking out of it was the familiar and unmistakable shape of a book. And not just an
y book, but the very same one Malock used for the summoning. It was what he’d spent centuries searching for, and the temptation was too much to resist. Besides, he reasoned, what better place to find an explanation for what happened to him?

  It was old, but remarkably well preserved. The original text appeared to be in Latin, but notations in several other languages were scribbled in any blank space available. It had obviously passed through many hands and been translated countless times, but reading it would have to wait. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind, from the far end of the dark cavern, would have to be dealt with first.

  Braughton placed the book on the stone table, then turned to face Malock. His clothes were covered in dirt and ripped in places stained with some of the same red adorning Braughton’s shirt. Coupled with the small scratches on his face and arms, it suggested his unexpected flight through the cavern had not ended pleasantly. The anger in his eyes confirmed the suspicion.

  There was more than mere anger there, Braughton noted. There was confusion, and perhaps even some fear, but Malock raised his sword before Braughton could look any deeper.

  “So, where’s Helsig?” Malock asked, his eyes searching. Braughton could only shrug. Malock’s eyes fixed upon him and narrowed. “No, it can’t be,” he said almost to himself. “You?” he said with a crooked smile. Braughton, unsure exactly what the accusation was, simply shrugged again. Malock’s response was even more perplexing – laughter.

  It didn’t bubble up, no, it burst forth from him, loud and long, until he was wiping the tears from his eyes. “Well,” he said through heavy breaths, “I must admit, of all the options available, I’m less than impressed with the choice.”

  Braughton stood, his back against the table, waiting for Malock to let him in on the joke. As the echoes of his laughter faded though, Braughton knew there would be no explanation. Malock cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and wiped the last signs of mirth from his eyes. Gone too was the fear Braughton had glimpsed. Malock had bested him once and had no doubt he could do it again, no matter what had happened. “I’ve no idea what sort of amalgamous atrocity you are now, but if I cannot control you, then no one shall.”

  Malock shot forward and Braughton reached for his sword, but found only an empty sheath. A memory, surrounded by swirling ash and his sword falling from his hand. There, on the ground behind Malock, he spotted the blade. All Malock knew was Braughton had no weapon, and though there was no laughter, his smile revealed his sharp teeth.

  Malock’s blade whistled as it cut through the air beside Braughton. He side-stepped Malock’s advance at the last second, but wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised the attack had missed. Malock’s forward momentum took him past Braughton, who took the opportunity to turn so the sword was now behind him.

  Enraged by his miss, Malock spun around with his sword out, and Braughton easily dodged. Malock growled, advancing and swinging at Braughton’s constantly yielding frame. When Braughton’s back foot finally touched his sword, he hooked his foot under it, took a large step over the sword, then kicked it up into his waiting hand, where it clashed against Malock’s blade before it could reach Braughton’s neck.

  “Forgive me if I don’t applaud,” Malock snarled, then followed up with two more blocked attacks. Braughton simply smiled and began his own offensive push. Their swords clashed back and forth, becoming little more than a blur, but Braughton was slowly pushing Malock backwards.

  Malock stumbled, catching his foot on a rock, and Braughton waited for him to recover before continuing his attack. The gesture only infuriated Malock even more. His snarls and growls became louder, his swings wilder, and Braughton could see that fear return to his eyes.

  Malock had lost all awareness of his surroundings, so it was a complete surprise when he crashed backwards into the stone table. Braughton, however, had been steering Malock to just such a collision. He knocked Malock’s sword from his hand, and put his blade against Malock’s neck.

  “Go on then,” Malock said through clenched teeth. “You’ll get no groveling or begging from me, you filthy abomination. End this. Kill me.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you,” Braughton assured him. “I’m going to devour you.”

  Malock’s eyes widened as Braughton lowered his sword and wrapped his free hand around Malock’s neck. A white light filled Braughton’s eyes as he lifted Malock into the air. Malock clawed at the hand crushing his throat, but couldn’t budge Braughton’s fingers.

  Braughton opened his mouth and the sound of rushing wind again filled the cavern. Malock felt the breeze sliding along his arms, tugging on them, drawing them towards Braughton. He held them up and saw it wasn’t wind he felt, but blood. It was oozing from every pore, and running in streams towards his fingertips, where it then coursed through the air and into Braughton’s waiting mouth. Soon he felt the same tug on his face, chest, and even legs. His blood filled the space between them, and he was powerless to stop it. He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a choked gurgle followed by a river of more blood.

  Once the last drop of blood passed between them, the light in Braughton’s eyes began to fade. As it did, he slowly released his grip on the shriveled shell that was Malock. The body fell to the ground with a thud, and Braughton followed closely behind.

  “Hey, are you alright?” The voice was one he recognized, but it seemed so far away. “Braughton, wake up.” Getting closer. “What the hell was that?!” Elizabeth. He opened his eyes and saw her face hovering over him. “Did you hear me?” she asked with a hint of irritation, but there was an obvious look of relief on her face. “What the hell was all that?”

  Braughton sat up as he considered the question. “I’m not really sure.” He looked at the dried husk of Malock, then back at Elizabeth. “How much did you see?”

  She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, and wanted to tell him it didn’t matter how much she’d seen, he’d better tell her everything. But she didn’t. She’d seen enough to know something had happened to him, changed him. Maybe he was asking her because he couldn’t remember.

  “Before I even reached the bottom of the stairs, I could hear the two of you fighting,” she explained. “Then I heard Malock yell out some word, and everything went quiet. So quiet I stopped walking down the stairs, and just listened.” Braughton nodded, remembering the stillness. “Then I heard the wind, and some of it even blew past me up the stairwell. I heard voices, so I hurried down the rest of the steps.”

  She paused and looked hard at him for a moment. “The time I’ve spent with you,” she said hesitantly. “The things I’ve seen.” She shook her head. “I was not prepared to see that monstrous skeleton standing there. And then to hear it speak. I could hear every word as plain as if it were standing next to me, no, as if it were in my own head.”

  She took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. “Watching Malock get knocked back into the cave was pretty entertaining,” she said with a small smile, but it didn’t last long. “And then the wind came back. First it picked up the ashes of that creature, and then it came for you.”

  She paused again, and Braughton could see a light sheen on her eyes. “I wanted to come down, to help you, but I couldn’t move. I just stood and watched you get swallowed up in that funnel of ash.”

  “It’s alright,” he soothed.

  “No!” she barked. “It’s not alright.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, sniffed to stop her running nose, and released a deep breath. “By the time I was finally able to do something, the ash was gone, and you were suspended in the middle of the vortex. I took one step towards you, and the wind put you down. I could hear it rushing towards me, and it picked me up like a rag doll, and slammed me back into the wall of the stairwell.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. But I was knocked unconscious. By the time I woke up, you had Malock in the air. I watched you drain him of every drop of blood, without even a single bite.�
�� She shook her head, trying to shake the image from her mind. “That, is that normal for you? Or is that Helsig?”

  “Most definitely Helsig,” Braughton affirmed. “I guess now we know why he’s called ‘The Devourer’.” Elizabeth nodded and he thought he even saw a small smile. Good. He suddenly realized how relieved he was to see her. He also just noticed the blood on her shirt and pants.

  “You are hurt.” It wasn’t a question anymore.

  “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.” He moved to help her, but she waved him off. “It looks worse than it is,” she assured him. Then added, “Although, I wasn’t thinking that while I was trying to come down all those stairs.”

  “So, Samuel is …”

  She nodded. “Dead.”

  Braughton nodded. She didn’t offer any details, and he didn’t need any. How ever she had beat him, he did feel a certain amount of pride. Something was still bothering her though, and he wasn’t sure exactly how to find out what. Fortunately, all he had to do was wait.

  Liz cleared her throat and looked Braughton in the eye for the first time since he’d woken up. “The transfer, that’s what happened in the funnel, right?” Braughton nodded. “And Helsig, he’s a part of you now, isn’t he?” It was a fair question, but Braughton honestly had no idea. She looked closer, squinting her eyes a bit. “Are you still you in there?”

  “Actually,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “There’s a book on the table that can probably answer a lot of questions for both of us.”

  “A book?” Now he was sure he saw her smile. “Yeah, you’re still you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The room was cold and lit only by torches on the walls. Their flickering light threw dancing shadows all over the walls, but the back of the room was shrouded in a darkness even his eyes couldn’t penetrate. This was the first time he’d ever been allowed entry to the room, but he was sure of what waited in that shadow.