by Mark Shane
Michael climbed down the rubble of the rear tower. The manmade hill of earth had three white-barked birch trees growing from it, one so close to the edge of the dam it roots were exposed by the river’s flowing waters. He reached out mentally, feeling the earth, noting the large rocks buried under years of dirt, how the roots of the trees worked their way around them and plunged deeper into the ground. Picking out the primary roots of the birch closest to the river, he sliced them with Air one by one. With a push the tree toppled into the river, creating a nice splash and leaving a crater in its place. Michael did the same for the other trees.
With the trees gone, the ground felt looser. He turned his focused to the rocks deep underground forming the base of the dam. Delving into a large boulder the river had partially exposed, he sought out the internal fissures within it. Large chunks of earth fell away into the river as Michael rent the boulder into pieces and pulled it away from the dam. The rapids helped now, lashing against the dam, seeking out newly opened crevices, weakening the earthen wall. Michael worked methodically, breaking away the anchors of the dam, piece by piece. After an hour, sweat drenching his clothes and his head throbbing, Michael gave one final surge of power and the river flooded into the moat once more.
“Bravo, Michael!” Max cried from the top of the tower. “Well done. That will buy us time. Come, we are gathering at the gatehouse.”
Michael followed Max to the roof of the gatehouse where Falon and Garen stood against the crenulated wall, watching the small army assemble on the western hills.
“Things just got worse,” Falon said as they stepped onto the flat roof. From their vantage point, they could see the catapults approaching. “These walls won’t last long against those war machines.”
Max smiled. “Let them bring the castle down around us. It will cover our escape.”
His smile disappeared, though, when he noticed Dalan standing at the stairs, shaking his head. They had indeed found the secret exit, but it was flooded.
“Ok,” Max said, stroking his chin, eyes darting to and fro. “Michael, I can shroud you in a spell of illusion, make you invisible. Then once the battle starts you can slip out—”
“And leave you here?” Michael replied. “No. No way.”
“Michael—”
“No one is sacrificing themselves for me,” Michael snapped. “How am I supposed to stop Aleister without you?”
“What if we bury ourselves under the keep?” Garen asked. “When those catapults start firing and the walls start to fall we retreat underground and bring the keep down to bury us. Once they think we’re dead in the rubble, they will move on. Right?”
“I don’t think we have any choice, but to fight them to a man,” Michael assessed.
“You realize those are your countrymen,” Max said.
“They’re Aleister’s men, I’m the enemy. You think waving the Eye in front of them would change that?”
“I think it just got worse,” Falon said, pointing at two men riding beside a catapult. One was tall, muscular, his bald head shining in the afternoon sun. The other small and mousy, easily overlooked in a crowd. “Those are two of Aleister’s warlocks. When the catapults are ready, they’ll guide the shots. Get rid of them and we stand a better chance.”
“We can shoot them with arrows,” Michael replied.
Falon looked at him. “Do you really think they won’t deflect them?”
“What do you suggest? Storm past three hundred soldiers?”
“No,” she replied. “Max, you could make me invisible and I could—”
“What?” Michael demanded. “No way, no—”
“When they get those catapults built they’ll turn this castle into rubble,” Falon shot back.
“Why not make us all invisible and we can all walk out of here?” Garen asked.
“I can’t shroud all of us,” Max replied. “They know we’re here. That truth would nullify the spell. I could shroud one, maybe two.”
“If I can get to those two warlocks, I could eliminate our biggest threat,” Falon said.
“Are you out of your mind?” Michael demanded.
“If you have any better ideas, I’m listening,” she fired back.
No one had a better solution, but Michael refused to consider the idea. He was still adamant when the southern wall shook with the first hit. A massive payload set aflame by the warlocks slammed into the southwest tower causing it to shake violently. Garen loosed arrows, targeting the engineers. Strangely Dalan and Darela stood apart having a heated discussion. Darela sliced the air horizontally with his hand ending the conversation and the twins took position on the west wall.
Michael had no time to dwell on the brothers argument as a volley of flaming stones screamed toward them. Everyone cleared the gatehouse as the payload smashed the crenulated wall of the gatehouse.
***
“Max, please,” Falon said. “Cover me in a spell of illusion.”
Max looked at her doubtfully until a fireball exploded against the rampart near them.
“Those two warlocks have to be taken out,” she pleaded. “We don’t have another option.”
Max looked down the wall at Michael. “Even if you manage to get past the fray, once you touch either warlock you’ll be revealed.
“Please, Max. This is my only way to help.” Tears welled up in Falon’s eyes. “After all I’ve done. With what I am. Please, this will make it all worth something.”
A fiery boulder flew toward them. Michael threw out his hands, face contorted with strain, and the boulder crashed into the wall below them leaving a massive dent. Falon nodded a thank you, but Michael was running to the southeast tower, focused on his next target. How long could he deflect attacks? “Besides, the warlocks will find us even buried under the ruins.”
Grudgingly, Max created the spell of illusion around her. He could see Falon plainly, but to anyone else, including Michael, she was invisible.
“I’ll form a bridge of Air over the moat. God speed, Falon.”
She smiled weakly, the smile of a person who did not expect to ever smile again. With a quick glance at Michael, she ran down the stairs.
Max whispered a prayer for her soul.
She ran through the ranks of attackers, fireballs and arrows flying overhead. Even the few times she brushed against someone she was not given away. In the fray, no one gave a bump a second thought.
The two warlocks were setting catapult payloads on fire when she materialized before them, grabbing each around the throat. All the fear and anger she felt for Aleister sprung up. The shame and prejudice she had endured stirred within her. This one act could right all her wrongs. It was her chance to strike back at Aleister. It was the only thing she could give Michael.
The warlocks thrashed in her hands, the mousy one’s face bent in a silent rictus while the taller warlock howled as she stripped his magic. She released them, her power spent, and they crumpled to the ground. She managed a few steps before Captain Jackson struck her in the back of the head, dropping her to the ground beside the warlock’s lifeless bodies.
***
“NOOOO!” Michael screamed. Wildly, he launched fireballs as fast as he could form them, lashing out at anyone within range. He hit a group of soldiers with a concussion of Air, throwing them in all directions.
His emotions as chaotic as the battle before him. Anger rolled over grief rolled over hatred. With Falon gone he wanted to destroy them all. He drew the Sword. If it was so powerful, let them feel it. The image of the young girl appeared in his mind. He shoved it down. There was no place for weakness now. No such luxury existed any longer. He drew on the Eye’s power, welcoming its crimson glow. Twin columns of fire shot upward from the ground then exploded, their shockwaves engulfing soldiers in blue flames. Men thrashed and screamed in agony, some running for the moat to extinguish the flames. Columns of fire shot up all over the battlefield as Michael’s rage burned away any other emotion. He faintly heard someone yelling his name, but
he ignored it. He saw the fiery payload an instant before it exploded on the tower. Throwing his hand up, Michael formed a shield. The concussion slammed into him and his mind registered the peculiar sensation of falling an instant before he hit the icy water and everything went black.
CHAPTER 44
The Perfect Number
Dust sparkled in the midmorning sunlight streaming through the tall, lone window. The bookshelves lining the walls stood like sentinels over the matching oak desk set a few paces from the window. Half-hidden by stacks of books, Aleister sat behind the desk, leaning heavily on the armrest of the leather bound chair, chin in hand, knuckles pressed against his cheek.
The First Wizard’s study was a trophy room, one he savored more than any other. He glanced at the spot where he had stood time and again enduring lectures from Master Burlan. Sanctimonious fool. Perched on his mantle as First Wizard, what did he know about the plight of being a weak student in the keep?
A muscle in Aleister’s jaw flexed. Students had snickered when he couldn’t wield Air more than five feet away. They had laughed out loud when he manipulated Fire only to have it sputter and die in moments. “Almighty Aleister” they had jeered as he walked, white-knuckled, down the halls. “Someday,” he told himself as their laughter needled him.
“The power is there,” his professors proclaimed. Some wizards accused him of being afraid to accept his power; others shook their heads and claimed he was late to bloom. Regardless of their assessment, public embarrassment was a favorite tactic to break him of his handicap. Punishment was another.
“Can’t become great if you don’t stretch,” one professor stated as he wrapped Aleister’s knuckles with a wood ruler for failing a task.
A few wizards made him spar against stronger students hoping that would force his powers to grow. They only managed to encourage worse beatings in private by the same students.
They did succeed in one way; he learned to fight. If his powers were short range, then he would compensate by any means necessary. He made friends with some of the castle guards, learning the sword and hand to hand combat, something most wizards derided him for.
Hypocrites! They revered their mighty keeper for his swordsmanship so why not one of their own? Or did they simply despise Aleister for possessing the same skill?
Despite his magic’s limitations, he developed a talent for shields few magichae could break. “Ah, such skill with defenses,” some professors commented, “you could be great if you had range.” Those words stung more than most. Nothing he accomplished was enough. Someday he would show them all.
In his mind’s eye, Aleister saw the Keep’s courtyard on a particularly dreary day. Branson, a student with perfect features and relentless torment for weaker classmates, stood beside the arched doorway Aleister needed. Never far away, Branson’s band of cronies made a loud ruckus with their horseplay. Aleister turned to take another route when cords of Air snatched his ankle like a snare and yanked him six feet above the ground.
Uproarious laughter echoed off the stone walls.
“All hung up there, Mighty Al?” Paxton said.
The other boys cut their eyes at their mate for getting the nickname wrong, but Paxton appeared too dense to notice.
Their laughter stopped when Aleister reached up, sliced the cords with a blade of Air, and landed deftly on his feet. Along with his talent for shields, Aleister had developed a knack for breaking through elemental magic, not that his classmates had noticed over the years.
Branson glared at him, fingers twitching.
Somewhere between the anger and adrenaline, Aleister reached a decision, one corner of his mouth sliding up in a malicious grin. It felt like a good “someday” for Branson.
Branson formed a ball of Air between his hands and launched it at Aleister’s head.
Raising his forearm, Aleister solidified Air into a soldier’s shield, batting the attack away. Branson’s cronies stared at him, their smugness replaced by surprise.
Extending both hands, Branson released a quick volley of fireballs.
Aleister blocked them easily, streaks of charred grass smoldering to his left and right. “Is that the best you can do?”
With an angry yell, Branson pummeled him with balls of Fire and lashed out with chords of Air. Aleister deflected each strike as he charged Branson. The arrogant fool, so proud of his talent, threw up a weak shield at the last second. Aleister yelled as he leaped into the air, smashing through the shield and slamming his fist into the chap’s nose. The horrified look on Branson’s face was worth a pound of gold as he fell to the ground, nose bleeding. Aleister jumped on his tormentor, a tide of pent-up emotional damage pouring out of him as he threw punches at Branson’s face. Someday was today.
Someone tackled him, legs and arms tangling as they rolled on the ground. He kicked the boy in the face to break his hold and managed to stand just as Landon, a youth twice his size, hit him square in the jaw.
Aleister’s ears rang and white formed around the edges of his sight as he fell to his knees. A thought filled his mind, an epiphany of sorts, about wielding Air. In a split second reaction, he wrapped Air around his fist and struck back, crushing the boy’s jaw. Seeing the biggest member of their gang slump to the ground from one hit gave the other boys pause. Uncertainty painting their faces. Then Branson shot past them, screaming as he tackled Aleister, and they descended on him.
Bloodied and battered, Aleister stood before Master Burlan, the old windbag droning on about rules and authority, traditions and order. The Wizard Order could burn for all Aleister cared. No doubt the old man’s favorite students got off with no punishment yet again. At that moment, Aleister had concluded the power he sought could never be found in the confines of these pious walls. There was greater magic in the world and he would find it. He would master it. Then he would have his “someday” on them all. Every one of them would fear Almighty Aleister.
The reminiscence faded and Aleister noticed the piles of books covering the desk, his mood souring instantly. He shoved a stack off the desk, the sound of their crashing to the floor loud in the silent room. One, maybe two, barriers stood between him and the well of power. Might as well be a hundred. Nothing he knew about shields or breaking magic worked on the barrier he now faced. The magic it radiated was different than anything he had seen. And pouring over old books had provided no answers.
So close, so bloody close. Aleister’s eyes darted back and forth, mind racing for a solution. He knew of one thing he could do, but it was pure insanity by any measure. He had found two accounts in those old books—well Graham had found them—of wizards who had done it. In both accounts, the wizards had been granted great power but ended badly for them when they failed to deliver what they promised. Then again that was their fault. Failure was not an option when striking a deal with the Master of the Night face to face.
“Graham!” he called.
A man of average height with black hair and mousy features stepped into the room.
“Fetch Draden. I want to jump to Mistenthar.”
“Right away, sir.”
***
Aleister stepped over the dismembered body of a blonde woman, his eyes fixed on the rift. So accustomed to the slaughter involved in creating a rift, he gave no thought to the people murdered. They weren’t people, just tools to be used and discarded. He absently rubbed a smooth red stone in his hand as he studied the black maw, noting the stark contrast to the blue and white hues swirling at the perimeter of the rift. He glanced at the magichae in the chamber. Sterling and five other magichae worked to keep the rift open. They would tire quickly. The longest any single group had managed to keep a tear open was five minutes. Thirty magichae stood by waiting to step in when one got too weary. Would it be enough? The accounts he had read indicated time behaved differently within a tear. It would have to be. His success boiled down to one insane gamble.
He wielded Spirit into the soul stone and stepped through, blackness enveloping him. He glan
ced over his shoulder, surprised how far away the entrance to the gateway was. He could barely make out the well room in Mistenthar. How did he get so far away in only a few steps?
Something brushed across his back. He turned but saw nothing. Voices whispered, beckoning him forward. Something in his mind screamed for him to run back, but his feet carried him further away.
A voice, raspy and serpentine, whispered in his ear. “Foolish being. It walks where it does not belong.”
Aleister spun around but saw only blackness.
Something claw-like raked across his back, restrained. A promise of what was to come.
“Kill him, feed off him,” other voices hissed with glee.
Aleister thrust the soul stone outward, its radiance growing as he fed more power into it.
Two forms shied away, muttering angry promises of his demise.
“Foolish creature, that talisman won’t save you for long,” a third form said, floating just past the soul stone’s radiance. The form studied him, its gaze intent and oppressive. A leader of some sort Aleister surmised.
“He comes! He comes!” hissed a voice. “Master comes!” it shrieked, fleeing into the blackness.
“Bow, worm,” the leader commanded. “I look forward to feasting on you once your audience is finished.”
Aleister grabbed his head, screaming as pain beyond comprehension flooded his body. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees. The pain subsided, leaving him gasping for air.
The demon chuckled. “Told you to bow, I did.”
“What do you seek?” a voice, deep and hideous, asked.
“I seek to serve,” Aleister managed to reply.
“I have servants,” the voice replied. “What do you seek?”
“I seek to rule,” Aleister hissed thru clenched teeth, the truth pulled from him unwillingly. “I seek to destroy those who dismissed me. I want to find every person who tormented me and feel their beating hearts in my hand as I rip them out. I want to see the whole world cower at my feet and fear my power.”