by Mark Shane
Dalan sat praying in his native tongue beside Darela, who lay motionless on the floor.
“Can I heal him?” Morgan asked quietly, eyes darting away from Dalan as if he were ready to bolt if the man stood up.
“What?” Dalan replied, eyes blinking, noticing Morgan for the first time.
Morgan ran his fingers through his sandy hair and licked his lips. “I...I think I can heal him.”
Max stepped closer, longing on his face.
Dalan looked between Max and Morgan for a moment then nodded his consent.
Morgan knelt down beside Darela, taking the warrior’s head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Delving Darela for injuries, he sucked in air, shocked, face turning grave. “How can his body survive such trauma?”
“Can you heal him,” Dalan asked, almost pleading.
“Yes, but he’ll be very weak for some time.” Morgan looked over Darela’s body. “I once healed a man who had been beaten to an inch of his life. Inside, he looks like that man, but there isn’t a mark on him. How did he get hurt?”
“He did what none of us could,” Dalan replied.
Jerrod reappeared with a narrow wood box containing the same inscription as the amulet on its lid. Placing the amulet in the box, he handed it to Max. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eye and he vanished, reappearing behind Garen, making him jump.
Jerrod laughed. “Yep. It works.”
Garen scowled at him.
“You were right,” he told Max. “Six warlocks are holding a rift open. There’s six more standing guard. I can’t jump us all in there. They’ll cut us down as we step out of the portal.”
Max nodded, mulling over their options. Jerrod could teleport himself instantly, slipping through time and space like slipping sideways through a half-closed door. Teleporting other people meant creating a full sized doorway and maintaining it till everyone stepped out.
Max looked at the group around him, at the remains of their company; haggard, wounded, damaged. But there were new members now. Peter and Tara looked capable and Cryer appeared ready for a fight. “Teleport us somewhere safe. Then those of us up to the task can come back and finish this mess.”
***
Garen rushed into the well chamber from the north entrance, running a warlock through before he could react. Dalan threw a pair of shurikens, killing a black haired warlock, the twin blades protruding from his neck. Cryer slammed the oak door closed and petrified it, barring the entrance to any reinforcements.
Jerrod teleported in at the same moment, knife flashing as he stabbed a tall warlock in the back. A blonde headed warlock across the room raised his hand and shot shards of Air at him. Jerrod vanished and the shards ripped through the tall warlock’s body. Reappearing beside the blonde warlock, Jerrod spread his hands out forming a horizontal portal that beheaded the warlock, his blonde head falling into the portal’s abyss.
“Jerrod!” Garen yelled, throwing his knife.
Jerrod disappeared and the knife sailed through the space he had been, taking a dark skinned warlock in the eye.
Tara and Peter entered from the south doorway. A warlock deflected Tara’s fireballs and struck back with his own volley. Wielding Water, Peter doused the fireballs and slammed his fist into the warlock’s face, reducing the man’s head to crimson liquid.
The air shifted in the room, pinning everyone to the wall. A human-like form taller than any man by a foot stepped from the rift. Its grey skin tarnished black, hair completely white and haggard. Looking around as if seeing the room for the first time, its red feral eyes took in each person.
“Sterling,” Jerrod gasped.
Tara shrieked and fell to the ground lifeless. Peter had an instant to mourn her before his body burst into flames.
Cryer turned the wall he was pinned against to dust and charged Sterling.
Sterling stabbed him in the stomach with a clawed hand. A hideous, low rumble of a chuckle emanating from his wicked throat. “You can’t stop the inevitable.”
Dropping Cryer to the floor, blood pooling around him, Sterling looked around. “Where’s your ring leader?” he taunted. “Where’s Xan’thorne?”
Sterling’s face broke into an evil rictus as Max stepped into the room. “Ah, the mighty Maximillian Xan’thorne. I see you still have others doing your dirty work.”
“At least I never hid in the shadows, Sterling,” Max replied, stepping around the room to face Sterling. “You occupied them quite well.”
Sterling waved his hand dismissively. “Bah, at least my pawns knew they were being used.”
“Does Aleister?”
“Humph. That lout’s too self-absorbed to notice anything but his own schemes. Funny thing is I’m not the one jerking his leash. I’ve just been along for the ride.”
“So who is?” Max asked slyly.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed, realizing he had said more than he should. He flexed a clawed hand then pointed it at Max. “Enough chatting. Hold still ya little gnat.”
With the last vestiges of life in him, Cryer grasped Sterling’s ankle turning his leg ashen. Sterling howled in pain.
Max pulled the amulet from its shroud and lunged at Sterling, slamming his shoulder into the warlock’s stomach. Wrapping his arms around the man, Max drove his feet forward, eyes fixed on the black maw.
“No!” Garen cried, dropping to the floor, his bonds released when Max and Sterling disappeared into the rift. It began to close as the six warlocks lost control, three of them crumpling to the floor from the backlash of the amulet entering the rift.
The air shimmered around Jerrod and he vanished. Moments dragged, an eternity of heartbeats, as Garen stood there staring at the place where the black rip had been, unable to accept the loss.
The flash of a knife zipping inches in front of his face broke Garen’s focus. Dalan’s red handled knife hung embedded in the stomach of a warlock, the man’s face contorted in shock and pain. Dalan engaged a second Warlock, severing the man’s arm before he could wield his power. The final warlock, a bald man, stood across the room, hand raised, focused on Dalan.
Garen pulled two shurikens from his belt releasing them in a smooth motion. One dug into the warlock’s shoulder, the other took him under the jaw. The bald warlock fell to the floor, his hand clutching his neck, doing little to stave the blood spurting from it.
As the warlock’s knees hit the floor, the air blurred in front of Garen. Realization clicked and Garen rolled away an instant before the thin sliver of a portal opened where he had stood. Jerrod and Max fell out in a heap.
“That was an experience I never want to repeat,” Jerrod declared.
“You should have let me die,” Max said weakly.
“You can die when this is all done,” Garen replied. “Crazy fool, diving into that...thing!”
“I have no more meaning,” Max shot back.
“Did you lose your mind along with your power?” Garen replied. “I need your knowledge to get me close to Aleister. When this madness is all said and done, I’ll kill you myself if that’s your wish. Till then I’ll be your shield, you’ll be my guide. I didn’t come this far to give up.”
Max nodded, a glimmer of determination returning to his eyes. “I lost the amulet, we have no way to combat Aleister,” he said, as Garen pulled him to his feet.
Garen looked at Jerrod. “That’s all right, Max. I have a plan.”
Max glanced at Jerrod then back at Garen. “In that case, Jerrod, take us to Dalarhan. To Eli’s study, please.”
Jerrod smiled. “Yes, sir.”
The master of arms stormed into the room with twenty men, swords drawn, as the thinnest sliver of the portal vanished.
CHAPTER 51
Dalarhan
Three children clutched their mother as they skidded past Michael, eyes down. They held their cloaks tightly around themselves, but the threadbare clothing did little to keep out the bitter cold. The street in Dalarhan was filled with people in the same state.
Michael seethed with anger. The past seven days had been enlightening to say the least. The first place he reached when he cleared the forest, a city named Kirvin, had appeared normal. There were a tad more beggars than Michael would have expected and some shops closed and boarded, but nothing indicating dire circumstances. Few people had been willing to look him in the eye, though, and the absence of any heartfelt greetings had bothered Michael the most. Everyone seemed strictly intent on being about their business without any amount of the kinship Michael grew up with in Whitewater’s Forge. Granted, folks back home were friendlier than most but still these Shaladonians were as cold as their weather.
He had discovered how bad off the people were when he reached the next village. Dirty, weary, and skittish, even the younger children carried a haggard look about them. And food was sparse. How could they have not prepared for a harsh winter?
He had learned the answer when a raiding party rode into the village square demanding food, money and anything else they fancied. The “King’s tribute” their leader claimed. Michael had almost convinced himself to remain anonymous. His fight was with their “king” and he needed surprise on his side. Then the leader had grabbed a woman and put a knife to her throat.
Michael had stepped from the crowd as the man demanded someone pay the tribute. He could have helped from the cover of the crowd, but he had grown tired of hiding. If he was going to be their king, he might as well start.
Wrapping the brigand’s knife in Air, Michael moved it away from the woman’s throat. The brigand’s eyes widened in shock, comprehension touching his face an instant before the knife plunged into his temple.
The other ten brigands had sat on their horses stunned, disbelieving eyes glancing from Michael to their leader’s limp body. Ten blades of Air flashed in the sunlight and ten severed heads fell to the ground.
Michael approached the leader’s horse, a dapple grey mare better fed than most of the people in the village. He swung into the saddle and surveyed the villagers. Most showed apathy. They had seen plenty of death, a handful more didn’t mean someone was going to actually change their situation. A few, however, had looked at him with hope in their eyes. Their gaunt, starving faces were seared into his mind. To the abyss with surprise. Let them see the face of their true king. Let them know someone had come to their rescue.
“When I return,” he had told them, “you will be paid three-fold whatever has been taken from you by such outlaws. And you will not be terrorized again.”
No such scene repeated itself as he rode to Dalarhan, but he had lost count of the number of children he saw hungry and poorly clothed for such a bitter winter. How many people suffered under this madman’s rule? Something Jorgen said echoed in his mind.
Justice is mercy.
Now he understood.
***
The day started early for Alex. The innkeeper found him sleeping in a stall and threw him out, flinging him to the ground with a threat to call the guards. Alex did not give his unceremonious treatment a second thought. Strange how months on the streets had changed his entire outlook on life. And position. His old self would have had the innkeeper placed in stocks, but now he was a pauper.
He shook the dust off his already dirty clothes as he chuckled. If only his mother could see him now. Such the fit she would have. Not that she would notice in her current state. He shoved that thought down deep.
Someone caught his eye at the gates; tall, blonde, about Falon’s age, riding a dapple grey mare. The hilt of a sword peeked over his shoulder, the gold lion in the round pommel glinting in the sunlight, and when he passed by Alex could see the Eye. His heart skipped a beat. Thomas’ vision had come true. The Keeper had finally arrived.
He swiped an apple from a nearby merchant and caught up to the man, walking beside the dapple grey through the crowded street.
“An apple for you, sire?”
“Thank you,” the man said, looking down at him, “but I think you need it more than I do.”
His eyes held compassion, like Falon’s had just before he betrayed her.
“After such a long journey you must be hungry,” Alex pressed, holding the apple up.
The man stopped his horse and leaned down, pressing a gold coin into Alex’s hand.
“I’m sorry for your suffering,” he said.
Shock took Alex for a moment. Did he know about Falon, about losing Thomas, his many failures? How could he?
“Sire,” he said, looking both ways for anyone listening, “I was told to watch for you.”
The man recoiled, looking around for signs of danger. Satisfied there was none he looked back down at Alex. “By whom.”
“A friend. His name was Thomas.”
The man’s eyes widened, eyebrows shooting up. He slid from his saddle. “How did he know I was coming?”
Alex shrugged. “He was a seer. He just knew.”
“Was?” the man said.
Alex beat down the sadness that welled up. He would not cry in front of the Keeper. “He...he was killed helping me escape. Just like he helped my sister.”
Alex turned down a narrow street. “Follow me,” he said, heading for a particular warehouse. “I can get you into the castle.”
***
Falon heard footsteps approaching, a fast rhythmic click of boot heels on the stone stairs outside her cell. Aleister’s eyes cut to the cell door, displeasure dominating his face. No doubt he had left orders not to be bothered.
The young soldier who had taken her captive burst through the doorway, saluting and trying hard not to trip over his own feet as he stopped in front of Aleister. He looked too young for the captain insignia stitched into his doublet.
“Sir,” he said gulping for air, “he’s here. We, I mean I, believe he’s here.”
Falon smiled. Good, let them fear Michael.
“What makes you think so, captain?” Aleister asked, deadly calm turning derisive when he said the word ‘captain’.
“A stripling stationed near the southern gate sensed a magichae more powerful than any she’s encountered. She wasn’t on duty, but she felt it two blocks away.”
“Why did the stripling stationed at the gate fail to pick him up?”
The soldier looked away. “There wasn’t a stripling at the gate, sir. He was apparently too drunk to bother showing up.”
Aleister smoldered, glaring at the captain.
“I...I sent four men to arrest him,” the captain added quickly.
Aleister’s cheek twitched. “Execute him.”
The captain bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“Where is the would-be-keeper now?” Aleister asked.
“I’m not certain, sir, somewhere in the city.”
“Somewhere?”
Falon knew that tone well. The captain was close to death. From the ashen color on his face, he knew it as well.
“He was lost in the crowd. He disappeared before the stripling could locate him. She was still combing the streets last I heard.”
Aleister looked at Falon, thoughts clearly turning in his head.
“The guards have been put on alert,” the captain continued. “They’ll sound the alarm if he comes near the castle.”
A sinister smile crept across Aleister’s face. It made Falon cringe inside, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing it affect her.
His voice contained a timbre of madness she hadn’t noticed before.
“I must go now, my dear. Must prepare for our guest.” He turned and walked toward the cell door. “Especially since you will be the main attraction. But don’t worry, we will discuss your waywardness.” He looked back at her with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Soon.”
She threw herself against the chains and screamed as the door slammed shut. She had to do something but the chains, the walls, the cell. She screamed again. Collapsing to the floor, despair on the verge of taking her, she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. Panic was her enemy. She had to keep her wits
about her. Examining her chains, she inspected each link for any breaks. Finally, she resorted to staring at one of the binds intently, willing it to magically fall off. She dropped her head relenting to the irony. A thief of magic and she could not even pop a rivet from her shackles. A flash of light streaked through her mind and her head shot up, looking around. She closed her eyes again, calming herself, sorting through her emotions, looking within for the light. She could sense it, a small faint glow in the far reaches of her mind. Following the glow through the blackness in her mind, she came upon the orb emitting soft, white light. She grabbed for it, but the orb slipped through her fingers, like trying to grab a leaf suspended underwater. She tried again and again, growing more desperate with each attempt until the orb faded away.
She opened her eyes, bewildered. It was gone. She knew it held the key to her escape. She didn’t know how but she was certain, and now it was gone. Unable to keep the despair at bay any longer, her body convulsed, wracked with sobbing, and her wails echoed off the cold stone walls.
CHAPTER 52
Justice is Mercy
Michael stepped through the secret door into a small room. He glanced at the short ceremonial robes for acolytes who assisted the priests, the thuribles hanging on pegs and other accoutrements used for worship services.
“Where are we?” he asked as Alex walked across the room to a door.
Alex opened the door slightly and peeked through it. Satisfied, he opened the door and Michael followed him.
“The priest’s waiting room next to the Cathedral of Light. Unless Aleister has changed his routine, he will be in the Courtyard right now.”
Alex reached for the ring on the large oak door, but Michael grabbed his wrist.