by Mark Shane
“If he’s there, I don’t want you caught in this mess. It’s my fight.”
Alex glared at him. “It’s my fight far more than you know.”
The fire in his eyes surprised Michael. It was clear Alex wouldn’t stay behind. “Watch my back then. This fight will be all magic. When the sparks fly, you find cover. I can’t afford to hold back because you’re in the way.”
Alex nodded. “Fair enough.”
Michael opened the door and stepped outside. To his right was an empty corridor. On his left were massive, twin blackwood doors bound by three wide silver bars inlaid with gold. Michael pulled on the gold ring of the left door and it opened silently. He couldn’t help but admire the workmanship. He suspected the silver bars were some Crafted metal to be able to support so much weight effortlessly.
The cathedral was immense. Named the Cathedral of Light for its incredible stained glass windows, they stood as pictorial sermons of the Creator’s grace and love. Ten feet in width, they ran seventy feet from base to curved tip where they met the aisle vaulted ceiling. Twin rows of ornate round columns reached eighty feet into the air supporting the clerestory with its ten foot tall stain glassed windows. The fan-vaulted ceiling towered a hundred feet above the nave with its intricate designs of red, green and blue interspersed between spines of white stone and ran the length of the cathedral. Marble, granite, white stone, a dozen types of wood, and glass all meshed together in the most amazing symphony of sight as beams of light in every color rained down on it all.
The double doors of the south transept flung open with a crash and soldiers rushed in. More soldiers poured in from the north transept and from behind the chancel. Alex pushed on the cross bar of the main doors. It fell into place with a loud bang moments before angry fists pounded on the doors.
“I got your back,” Alex said with a smile.
Michael grinned back. The kid had spirit. Approaching the mass of palace guards, ready to burn them to ash, Michael stopped when Aleister strode in flanked by two magichae and a lithe guard clad in black armor, visor down.
“Well, well,” Aleister said, far too cheery for Michael’s liking. “The Keeper has returned. I have heard some interesting things about you. Ah! And I see you brought me the whelp. Excellent.”
“Graham! Pull out your purse. You owe me a wager.” Aleister paused, looking around, searching his men. “Graham?” No one answered his call.
A wicked grin replaced Aleister’s annoyance and he pointed at Alex. “I placed a hefty bounty on that little shike. Leave him and the Sword. I’ll even let you collect the bounty.”
“You piece of filth!” Alex roared, throwing his dagger. It was a fine throw, dead on for the warlock’s heart. Aleister threw his hands out wide, welcoming the dagger. It should have impaled him, but it merely hit Aleister’s chest and fell to the floor with a loud clang, tip crushed.
“Remember what I said about finding cover?” Michael asked. Alex nodded as Michael drew the Sword. “Now would be a good time.”
“Suit yourself,” Aleister said with a dismissive wave.
The black armored guard moved with fierce speed. Michael blocked the strike easily, instinct taking control. Slash, parry, and counter-strike, they danced a familiar dance. Lithe and quick, the man was well trained but too ambitious. Michael played to his weakness, baiting him to attempt a killing stroke.
The black armored guard took the bait, putting everything he had behind his swing; he would be victorious.
Michael almost felt sorry for the man, almost. Dodging the heavy swing, its momentum opening the man to attack, Michael slashed him across the ribs, the black armor offering no protection against the Sword.
Michael’s blood ran cold when he heard a woman’s shriek rather than a man’s.
As the black armored guard lay on the floor, body twitching in its death throes, Michael lifted the visor with the tip of the Sword. He fell back against a pew, legs threatening to buckle as Falon’s lifeless eyes stared back at him. Fear gave way to anguish, anguish turned to horror, horror became madness. Had she betrayed him? Or did Aleister compel her? It tore at the fabric of his mind. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees.
His heart was a cauldron of emotion. Shock, despair, disbelief all rolled over each other, building like a storm. His former life, everything he had been, was gone. Their flight to Shaladon, the death of Max and Garen, all seemed a farce. And now, the woman he loved lay dead at his hand. Deep inside him something snapped; the storm exploded.
Michael threw his head to the sky, his scream filled with agony and rage. Seizing the glowing orb in his mind, the Eye awoke, burning crimson. He could feel everything; the wood pews, the marble floor, the heartbeat of the guards. Every particle around him resonated, calling to him. He lashed out at the windows, imploding them, turning giant works of art into glass shards. Nothing of beauty should remain now that she was dead. He grasped hundreds upon hundreds of colored glass shards as they fell, suspending them in mid-air, floating there waiting for his command. He had never felt such power before, such control, yet something the wolf had said about greater power skidded on the edge of his consciousness. He drew all the shards to him, a whirlpool of color swirling around him. Looking up, he met Aleister’s eyes. Falon was dead. Let them all die.
Michael unleashed the shards. Men screamed, skin flayed from bone by a thousand glass daggers, but Michael did not hear. He drew the surrounding air in tight around him, compacting it until it was almost a solid sphere, then he sent it out. The concussion turned wood pews into splinters and crushed men as they were sent flying into walls.
He jumped to his feet, the Sword in his hand, rage pulsing through his veins. Fire erupted from his free hand. Men fell screaming in agony. Let them scream, he thought as he dropped to his knees, breathing hard. Not even his rage could fuel such power for long. Amidst the carnage of glass, wood, and bodies stood Aleister; cold, calculating and unscathed.
“I hadn’t imagined someone so new to his gift could wield such power.” Aleister brushed fine shards of glass from his shoulder. “In this old, stifling place the masters wouldn’t have let you come close to such power. Jealous, old windbags would have kept you on a very short leash. For your own good, of course. I must thank you.” He motioned to the destroyed windows. “I’ve wanted those bloody things gone for years.”
Aleister looked at Falon’s body. “Pity your power wasn’t enough to save her. She cried for you. Till I turned her.”
Michael charged him with a yell.
Aleister sidestepped the attack, deflecting it with little effort and tripped Michael.
“Is that your best?” Aleister taunted. “I expected more.”
He pulled a blade from over his shoulder, blacker than night with a dark topaz set in the end of each quillion. It made Michael think of a serpent, ready to strike. It made his skin crawl.
Michael picked himself up, wiping blood from his lip. Instinct told him to evaluate his opponent, rage propelled him forward. Sparks flew as Crafted steel met demon forged steel. Blades locked, each man pushed the strength of the other.
“I’m going to kill you,” Michael spat.
Aleister shifted his weight, stepping to the side, throwing Michael to the ground. “By all means, you’re welcome to try.”
Michael lashed out with the first thing that came to mind.
Crossing his arms, Aleister formed a shield. Thrown across the cathedral, he slammed into a pillar and fell to the floor.
“Impressive,” he said, picking himself up. “You have learned a few tricks. Xan’thorne teach you? No matter, they won’t save you.” He threw his hand out toward Michael.
Michael dodged the ball of fire then lunged at Aleister, power infused muscles propelling him at amazing speed. He struck blindly. Training screamed for him to follow the forms, rage refused to listen. For a time, the sheer force of his attack drove Aleister back, but his strikes were unplanned, lacking continuity. Aleister only had to deflect them and wait f
or his opportunity.
***
Falon sat bolt upright, jolted from her despair by the sound of shattering glass. She looked out the barred window of her tower cell shocked to find the stain glass windows of the Cathedral gone, shards of color littering the courtyard of Heroes. Sparks of light inside the cathedral caught her eye. Michael was locked in a fierce sword fight with Aleister. Even from her distance she could tell Michael was struggling.
Panic threatened to seize her again when she saw him thrown from his feet. She grabbed at her binds trying to slip her hand from the shackle. She had to get free, she had to help Michael. She closed her eyes and reached for the light again. It was there but slipped through her fingers. She grew desperate, panic growing in her heart. The noise of the battle below drew her attention. It had moved out to the courtyard, the ring of their swords echoing off the stone walls. A crowd gathered on the balconies, drawn by the commotion.
Michael faltered, striking blindly. Aleister was amusing himself, toying with Michael like a cat with a mouse. She yanked at the chains trying to pull them from the wall. She screamed at Michael, wanting him to know she was there, hoping it would help, but she was too far up. Her cries couldn’t reach his ears.
She collapsed to the floor, resigned. Everything was lost. She couldn’t free herself, she couldn’t save Michael. All her hopes and dreams were fading away and Aleister was going to win...again. Sobs wracked her body. She would never be able to tell Michael that she loved him.
Back at Marla’s when he was on the edge of death, she had realized how deeply she felt for him. It was absurd, a stippling in love with one of the greatest icons of magic. Such an impossible situation. She had fought her feelings at first, showing him her cold side, knowing it could never be. Then Marla forced her to admit it out loud and her heart could never go back. Falling for someone she could never touch would only lead to heartbreak, but being separated from him had created such a sense of loss in her. It had intensified her love beyond logical reason. It was all she had to hold on to. All her life she had separated herself from her feelings, out of necessity for what she was, but her love for him refused to be ignored. They had broken through and now she embraced them.
Deep within her mind the sphere of light appeared again. She grabbed at it like a person falling would grab for the ledge, but it slipped through her fingers.
“What do you want?” she screamed at the ceiling, at the Creator. How could he be so cruel? Was it just a nasty joke? Punishment for all her crimes?
Then an idea struck her, a whisper on the edge of her consciousness.
Surrender.
In her mind, she reached out to the orb, hands cupped before her, waiting. The orb landed in her hands and her mind exploded in a shower of light.
***
Aleister jerked around at the explosion. The top level of the tower was rubble. Muscles in his jaw flexed, his anger seething.
“Looks like your castle is falling apart,” Michael said, leaning against a statue, chest heaving.
“Nothing I can’t take care of,” Aleister said, taking a swing at him.
Michael barely reacted in time, rolling away from the strike and taking cover behind the statue.
“Don’t think I haven’t enjoyed our little game,” Aleister said, “it’s been mildly amusing, but, um”—he glanced up at the destroyed tower, anger seething on his face—”I have more pressing matters to attend to.” Pointing the black sword at Michael, he looked down its blade at him. “Honestly, I’m rather bored.” He lunged at Michael, his movement so quick, sword point striking between the legs of the statue.
Michael felt the blade slice his arm as he rolled away. He had planned for it, wanting Aleister to commit to the strike so the black sword would be impeded by the statue, but his body reacted too slowly. He brought his sword down on Aleister’s exposed side before the warlock could recover his sword.
Aleister raised his forearm and deflected the strike.
Shock swept through Michael. The Sword couldn’t penetrate the shield. He stood no chance against Aleister’s dark magic. Falon was dead, his friends were all dead. Did living really matter?
Michael deflected an attack more from instinct than anything else. He tried to take the offense, but Aleister parried and slammed a fist into his jaw. Reeling from the blow, Michael retreated to stop the ringing in his head, but Aleister pursued him. The warlock struck with ferocity and Michael barely brought the Sword up in time.
Aleister glared at him through locked blades. Michael’s ability to read people saved him, bringing up a shield as Aleister hit him square in the chest with a wave of Air.
Flying through the air, Michael slammed into the plinth base of a statue, the Sword knocked from his hand by the impact. Stunned, he slid to the ground.
Aleister approached; his walk triumphant. He towered over Michael savoring his victory. “Now, I’m afraid we must conclude this little game. I must say, though, you have gotten much further than I anticipated. If it’s any consolation I’ll make certain the historians record you as a worthy adversary.” Aleister raised his sword.
“Michael.”
It was a weak voice, fearful, but it was the sweetest sound Michael had ever heard. Falon stood in an arched doorway at the edge of the courtyard. Clothes torn and tattered, but she was very much alive. His heart leapt for joy, a surge of strength coursed through him.
Aleister looked at her, glanced at the tower then cut his eyes back at her. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Only twice in recorded history has a stripling been transformed. I’m not certain how you managed it, my dear, but we will find out soon. Say goodbye to your love.” He brought his sword down.
Michael rolled away, the black sword slicing into the green plinth. He wrapped Air around his fist and slammed it into Aleister’s jaw, sending the man staggering back.
The sight of Falon swept away all the lies, all the illusions. His old life was gone, his friends dead because of this man’s lust for power. For that, he would pay, but it was Falon that drove him now. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her.
Michael picked the Sword up, feeding all his anger, all his hatred for what Aleister had done to him, into it. The Eye responded, burning a fierce red, pouring new power into Michael. He drank it in like a man lost in the desert. Bathed in a red aura, Michael glared at Aleister. “Now we finished this.”
Aleister’s eyes widened. There was no record of the Sword covering the Keeper in such a way.
Michael struck. Aleister blocked the blow, but the sheer force behind it knocked him off balance. Michael wielded Air, slamming Aleister against the statue and engulfed him in fire.
Aleister stepped out of the flames, a wicked grin on his face. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
Michael answered with Separating the Willows, Garen’s series of strikes intended to disarm an opponent. Aleister was quick but not quick enough. The last strike should have sliced off a finger or two, but the Sword could not penetrate his shield.
They squared off, measuring one another. Michael struggled inside. How could he defeat someone he couldn’t touch? In his mind, he delved deeper into the Eye, searching desperately for more power. A white orb appeared in his mind’s eye, pulsing brightly. Then he heard the voice that had spoken to him that first night in General Baldwin’s rooms. The same one that had saved him from the assassin’s blade and provided the way to kill the dragon in the mountains.
Surrender.
He deflected Aleister’s attack and countered with his own, the Sword skidding across the warlock’s shield.
“You can’t win,” Aleister jeered.
Michael lashed out. Aleister received the strike, straining under the weight of Michael’s attack.
Michael hit him with another fist wrapped in solid Air. The blow sent Aleister reeling. It should have crushed his skull.
Surrender.
The voice was more pronounced this time and the orb pulsed with the voice
. Images emerged from the orb and swept past Michael in the blackness of his mind; images of yesteryear growing up with Garen, of Max and A’lan, images of his rage-driven actions at Finery’s Way and Desid.
“Shaladon needs you,” he heard Max say in his head.
The wolf’s voice echoed in his mind. “Where are the traits that define humanity as what Yesula intended? Devotion, selflessness, faith, love. Wield the Eye bearing such traits, with no thought for yourself, and then you will see real power.”
The haggard, fearful faces of children filled his mind, the desperation of the people in that village where he stopped the brigands. His eyes fell on Falon standing at the doorway. All thought for himself was replaced by a desire to protect her.
Surrender.
Michael relinquished his control, letting the orb consume him and his mind exploded in a shower of light. Blue light from the Eye enveloped Michael, growing intense like the sun.
Aleister threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the light a moment before it exploded in a wave of Air. The blue laced concussion shattered Aleister’s shield and sent him flying across the courtyard like a rag doll. He slammed into the plinth where the fake Eye rested, sliding to the ground.
Groggily he pulled himself up, his eyes coming level with the fake Sword and Eye. Rage swept across his face as the fake Sword turned into a common castle guard’s blade.
“Keeper of the Eye,” he sneered, turning to face Michael. His countenance transformed from his own evil to that of something much more sinister. “You will not defeat me, boy.” His voice was ice, his eyes glinting with secret knowledge.
Aleister held his hands out before him. A glowing orb began to take shape, coalescing into a mass of color streaked blackness that writhed as it spun and grew in size. The core seemed to be made of pure blackness devoid of everything, swallowing the swirling colors and consuming the space around it. A voice, raspy and far more evil than Aleister’s emanated from his throat. “You will die.”