by Mark Shane
Michael took a step to join them before noticing the missing section of the parapet. He looked at the sloping field beyond the moat, seeing the attacking army for the first time. They seemed to move slowly, unable to dodge the volley of arrows and fireballs. Something further up the slope caught his eye. Two men thrashed in the air, each suspended there by someone grasping their necks. Such a slim form for a person with the strength to hold two men in the air. Their thrashing stopped and the slim figure dropped them to the ground. A moment later another man appeared and struck the slim figure from behind. When the figure crumpled to the ground, the muted blacks and greys of the scene turned to vibrant color and Michael bolted from his dream.
“FALON!!!!!”
He fell to the damp ground, fingers digging into the earth. He rolled onto his back.
“AHHHHHH!!!!! FALON!!!”
Michael balled up, wracked by uncontrollable sobbing, unable to banish the image of her slumping to the ground.
The wolf emerged from the forest. “Brother!”
“Are they alive?” he demanded, almost feral.
The wolf looked down, sadness on his face. “I wish I knew.”
“You don’t know?”
“When you fell into the river I followed you. Your companions are not my concern.”
“Not your concern.” Michael laughed madly. “Wasted your time then. You picked the wrong one. Look at me! I’m not your hero. Everything I touch goes wrong. Everyone I love dies. Because of me. Because of me!”
“Brother—”
“Stop calling me that! I failed them. Max bet everything on me and he’s dead. Garen followed me and look where it got him. Falon gave her life for me and for what? For what?!”
“So you can press on. So you can—”
“Press on? Press on! Stupid beast. I couldn’t save my friends. What makes you think I can save the world?”
“Because you must.”
“I don’t care. Let the world face its end without me.”
“Humph. Strange way to honor those you love.”
Michael glared at the wolf.
“Hiding, wallowing in your sorrow, while the person responsible continues without being held accountable. Weak.”
“Leave me,” Michael growled.
“Brother—”
“I said go away!” Michael grabbed a stone and threw it at the wolf.
A patch of air shimmered inches from the wolf’s head and the stone disappeared. His golden eyes lit with anger, his lips rose in a silent snarl.
Michael sat there stunned. “How did you...where did it...what are you?”
“If you carry any shred of love for their memory you will grab your belongings and follow me.” The wolf turned north.
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter,” the wolf replied, disappearing into the forest. “You can walk with what little dignity you still have or I can drag your sorry carcass.”
“Do you ever answer a question?” Michael snapped.
Silence answered him. Growling, Michael snatched his knapsack from the ground, extinguished the fire and set off after the wolf.
The sun crept toward the treetops when the ruins of Desid appeared. Michael stared at the southern wall, more rubble than wall now. In two places the wall had taken hits low to the ground and segments had fallen outward like broken stone fingers dipping in the moat. The tower where he had stood was a jagged, round barrel. He was amazed he had survived the blast much less the plunge into the river.
“Yesula favors you, brother,” the wolf said.
Michael looked at him. Could the wolf read his thoughts?
“Not a gift to be discarded lightly,” the wolf added.
“How is it you know so much about the human world?”
“Wolves are smarter than man thinks.”
Michael crossed his arms. “So any wolf would follow me downstream, rescue me, provide me with rabbits, and keep watch all night?”
The wolf looked away. “Not exactly.”
“Uh huh.”
“It is complicated. And not of your concern.”
Michael snorted. “I’d bet my last coin it’s my concern.”
The wolf fixed his golden eyes on Michael. “Ever put your hand down a badger’s hole?”
“Yeah. What kid hasn’t?”
“Get bit?”
“Once,” Michael said.
The wolf’s lips raised in a silent snarl, revealing long canine teeth.
Michael threw up his hands. “Fine. What am I supposed to do? I don’t have Max to guide me. I don’t even have the Sword! How am I supposed to stop Aleister?”
“The Sword is not lost.”
“Really?” Michael looked around. “You see it somewhere? Because the last time I had it I was falling into the river!”
Michael and the wolf glared at each other till Michael looked away.
“An ounce of respect is worth a pound of gold, brother.”
“You speak like a wizard,” Michael replied. “Are you a wolf or a man?”
The wolf’s teeth flashed and he lunged at Michael.
Michael jumped back. “All right, all right! I’m sorry.”
“Accepted. Now retrieve the Sword.”
“How? It’s at the bottom of the river.”
“Did your power leave you along with your intellect?”
Michael opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but the words caught in his throat. He looked away, cheeks flushed, feeling rather stupid. Breathing deeply through his nose, he pushed his anger down.
“Clear your mind,” the wolf said. “The greatest way you can honor your friends is to defeat Aleister.”
They were not dead, none of them were. Garen was too good a fighter and Max was too resilient. And Falon was too...well, she was just too stubborn. She couldn’t be dead.
Reaching out with his mind, Michael sought the familiar connection of the Sword. Immediately the Eye embraced him like a friend welcoming him back from a lone journey. He suspected it had been there all the time, waiting patiently for his head to clear, waiting for him to reach out.
Using Air, he reached down and pulled the Sword from the river. When he grasped the hilt, a sense of euphoria swept through him. The squawking of birds grabbed his attention. Buzzards fighting over some scrap of carnage left behind. And just that quickly, Michael’s euphoria was chased away by the anguish of what he had done. In his mind, he relived the battle. The ground exploded and fire spewed upward. He looked at the field of wrecked bodies and still saw them being torn apart and engulfed in flame. He sheathed the Sword, no longer wanting to hold it.
“It’s too much power for one man,” he whispered.
“Anger has a way of being destructive,” the wolf replied.
Michael looked at him. “I meant the Eye.”
“The Eye is a mirror of humanity,” the wolf replied. “Well, the humanity of the Keeper. Anger, aggression, fear, these traits cause the Eye to turn red. For a thousand years it has been seen as merely a weapon rather than the scepter of accountability it was meant to be. Such foolishness is man.”
Michael snorted. “You speak like a wizard.”
The wolf ignored his comment. “Where are the traits that define humanity as what Yesula intended? Devotion, selflessness, faith, love; against these traits there is no defense. Wield the Eye bearing such traits, with no thought for yourself, and then you will see real power. It is ironic that the power man considers his strongest trait is in reality the weakest. And so it is with the Eye.”
“So why me?”, Michael shot back, uncertain what fueled his ire more; the insinuation that he did not possess enough love to save his friends or the fact he must not since he failed. “What makes me so special? This isn’t my life. All I ever wanted to be was a carpenter. Now look at me. I’m standing here talking to a wolf beside a ruined castle where my friends died because I didn’t have enough faith!” Michael did not realize he was yelling.
The wolf’s golden eyes bored
into Michael as if he were contemplating a decision with no favorable options. Finally, he replied, “Follow me.”
“Where?” Michael asked.
“Does it matter?” the wolf replied over his shoulder.
The air in front of the wolf shimmered, making the trees blurry, and the familiar form of a portal opened. Colors streaked across the surface of the murky grey walls and Michael could hear the whispering voices beckoning him.
“You can teleport?” Michael said, stunned, unable to keep the accusatory tone from his voice.
“Yesula bestows gifts as He sees fit. I never would have found you when you left the Black Woods if I could not.”
“Why didn’t you use this sooner? You could have saved us all.”
“My power is limited. I can barely make a portal large enough for you to walk upright. Now stay close.”
Michael followed the wolf into the portal. A moment later the gateway closed and the ruins of Desid stood alone once again.
CHAPTER 47
In the Heart
Michael stepped out of the portal into a vast circular expanse walled by pines, firs, and spruce trees. Large flakes of snow fell from the steel grey sky.
Vivid images of a battle he never fought flashed in his mind. Knights on horseback with lances formed protective circles, staggered behind each other, facing an onslaught of attackers. The first circle lunged and impaled hundreds. Their defensive line broke and chaos took over. For an instant, he glimpsed a darker haired Jorgen wielding that great axe of his, leaving carnage in his wake.
“Where are we?” His asked.
A woman with familiar blue eyes looked right at him, hand outstretched and six men fell around her, sliced in half. Raising her hands and face to the sky, the snow around her exploded outward throwing a dozen attackers backwards twenty feet.
Realization struck him like a fist. He stood in the Heart of the Al Shar Dan forest, witnessing the slaughter of his parents.
Michael spun on the wolf, seething. “Why did you bring me here?”
The wolf stared at the expanse, distant and sorrowful. Did he see the same images or something else entirely? Whatever he saw, the grief on that fur-covered face was far too human for any beast.
Turning around, the wolf walked away.
“Answer me.”
“To meet your destiny,” the wolf replied, not looking back.
“My destiny! Come back here! I’ve had it with your vague answers. Tell me what you mean!”
The wolf continued walking.
“I’m not your puppet. You hear me? Get someone else to dance your tune. I’m finished!”
The air in front of the wolf shimmered for an instant and he was gone, teleported to God only knew where.
“Bloody, stupid, useless beast!” Michael kicked at the snow, sending powder into the air. All the emotions that had been brewing in him, all the self-doubt, all the grief, all the anger at his failures finally exploded.
“I AM NO HERO!”
Only the wind answered him.
He sank to his knees.
“You carry the wrong sword,” a voice said from behind.
“What?” Michael snapped, spinning around, embarrassed someone witnessed his tirade. His eyes widened. Before him stood not a man, but an apparition; misty and opaque. The apparition held a commanding air about him. A king if Michael ever met one.
“The sword you carry, it holds the Eye does it not?”
That clear, resonating baritone struck a chord deep within Michael, familiar somehow.
“Yes.” Michael’s response came as but a whisper pulled from him despite himself.
From the moment he had grasped the Sword and came face to face with the Eye, every step had been driven by survival. Success had led to confidence and he had even grown to believe he had a chance. But all that lay in tatters now. A lost soul on a God forsaken quest. Regret for a thousand failures crashed in on him, proclaiming he could never live up to what the Eye required.
“For someone who is not a hero you carry the wrong sword.”
“I did not ask for this cursed sword,” Michael replied hotly, stung by the apparition’s words.
“Now that is one description I’ve never heard used toward the Sword. At least not from your end.” The figure looked at him, steely eyes weighing him from crown to toes on some invisible scale, “As for asking for it, not a single Keeper ever truly did.”
“What do I know of being Keeper, or king?” Michael said. “I care nothing for seeking glory or being some great hero that everyone thinks higher of. All I ever wanted was to live a quiet life.”
The apparition paced, circling Michael. “Hmm, and what would you do in this quiet life?”
“I’d be a carpenter like I was before this insanity started.”
“A carpenter,” the apparition said, drifting into thought as he paced around Michael, hands behind his back. Michael turned, following his movement. “Did you build homes for people? Perhaps furniture to fill them?” he asked.
“Yes, both.”
“Was it all plain or did you place your signature touch; rich carvings here, a special design there, to make it something more, something special?”
“I always tried to put something unique into my work,” Michael replied, not bothering to hide his indignation.
“And perhaps you built a large dining table for a family. One they could eat at, visit at, and grow stronger as a family at for years and generations to come.”
“Yes, I like to think so.”
“And, did you gouge your prices? Ask large sums for your labor?”
“Never! My prices were always fair.”
“Then you are a hero.”
Michael snorted. “For what?”
“You served people, giving them shelter and furnishings that enhanced their lives. And in return you only asked for what was fair. I suspect you did more than you were paid for. Why?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “I love working with wood. I love creating something people can use.”
“You love people,” the apparition corrected him. “Carpentry simply allowed you to meet your purpose.”
Michael sniffed. “That’s fine and good, but my old life has been obliterated.”
“Heroes do not seek glory and honor,” the apparition stated. “I’ve seen frail farmers stand and protect their families against odds that caused paid soldiers to run. Why? For glory? Honor?” The apparition shook his head, derisive to such an idea.
“No greater power than love. And no greater love than a person who will lay down his life for family and even more so for strangers. Heroes are simply those who serve their fellow man in the mundane events of life or in the direst of circumstances. Such actions become legend because they are so rare. People have a hard time forgetting such events because all men aspire to be as much, but few ever find the mettle to be so. Now, Michael Ashguard, Keeper of the Eye, King of Shaladon, Lion of Righteousness, who do you love? Do you possess such mettle?”
Michael looked away. The people he loved were dead and mettle had been useless when he needed it most.
“Why would the Creator give us such power when it can cause so much destruction?” he finally replied.
“Everything has as much potential to be good as it does bad.”
“But why? Why give a flawed being such power?”
“Because He chose to. It is not your place to question the Creator’s motives.”
“No. No, I can’t accept that,” Michael replied. “It makes no sense. Why not just make everyone normal, spare the world the dangers and destruction we pose? There must be more than just because.”
“Can you explain how the sun rises or why the stars sparkle? Can you explain how the power that courses through your veins actually works?” The apparition leaned close to Michael. “Hmm?”
Michael took a step back from those hard eyes.
“No, you cannot and yet the sun rises, the stars sparkle and you can level buildings with litt
le effort. It’s not because you can explain them or understand them. It’s because you can sense them. You can see the sun, feel its warmth. The stars exist to us merely by sight. We can’t touch them, can’t taste or even hear them. But see them, oh yes, we can see them. And that is enough.
“You can feel the power within you, waiting to be released. You don’t know where it comes from, you can just sense it. When you control it, you do so by your senses. Understanding comes from comprehension, comprehension comes from experience and to experience something you must sense it. Deep down inside, beyond consciousness, lies the greatest thing we can sense, the Creator, Yesula ha Malisha.
“Sensing Him will lead to experiencing Him, which will lead to comprehension and then understanding. Not the understanding of trivial things like how the sun rises, or the stars sparkle or even why He gave us such power. No, the understanding will be to grasp the answer to the most important question: What were you created for?
“Why you have power, why you have talent, why you are who you are will answer themselves when you realize what you were created to do.”
“How do I do that?” Michael replied.
“You chose to walk the path He has laid before you regardless of how much of it you can see or how much it will cost you.”
“I haven’t got the foggiest idea where to go from here,” Michael said.
“Have you not been listening?” the apparition chided. “Is the Sword you carry not evidence of what you were created for? You were called to serve people. Go where you’re needed most.”
Michael looked northward, an inexplicable pull drawing him there and one word left his lips, “Dalarhan.”
He turned to ask another question, but the apparition was gone. A sense of stark loneliness overwhelmed him and Michael fell to his knees, hanging his head. How could he bear such a burden alone?
A memory of Jorgen praying slid across his mind’s eye. “Meshema Donai,” he prayed, “I’m not capable.”
The clink of armor caught his ear and he looked up. Before him stood hundreds of apparitions, wispy and opaque, with more and more appearing beside and behind them. In moments, the army of ghosts solidified into pale representations of soldiers. Watching him.