by Joseph Evans
Voices.
It was the first thing Seckry was aware of.
Voices, and lots of them.
“Have you come to save us?”
“He’s been sent from Gedin!”
“What is your name?”
“Tell us your name.”
“My . . . name is . . . Seckraman,” Seckry said weakly.
“Seckraman.”
“Seckraman, who are you? You are not of this world. You appear in a flash of light.”
“Where am I?” Seckry said, opening his eyes.
“He’s the son of Gedin,” someone said. “Did you see him just appear like that? It’s just like the prophecies foretold! Gedin has spared us. He’s sent us his son! In our gravest time the Lord Gedin has spared us. He has shown us compassion.”
“No,” Seckry said feebly. “You’re wrong, I’m not the son of Gedin.”
He stood up and looked all around him. A crowd was gathering, a crowd of men and women in all sorts of multicoloured robes, and thick, bushy hair.
“Look! He cannot be of this mortal world. Look at his robes! They’re not Klaxion robes. And look, he has power in his hand.”
“What?” Seckry said, and looked down.
The glove.
The air around it was rippling and distorting and cracking violently, and it was only then that he began to feel the pain from it once again.
It was getting hotter. And hotter. He writhed around trying to yank it off, but his hand was still seized up. The glove wouldn’t budge.
It was only as he looked to the sky in pain that he saw something he thought he’d never see.
The sky was completely filled with craters, and they seemed to be getting larger by the second.
“We are being judged,” someone shouted. “Will you save us? Please. I beg of you. Remove this monster from the sky!”
Seckry couldn’t believe it. The gateway had worked. But Darklight hadn’t come through, he had.
The question was, where was Seckraman? If the legends were true, Seckraman would be here right now, raising his hand up to the sky and blasting the meteor away, saving the earth from the apocalypse. It looked like the meteor was about to hit.
“Seckraman,” a woman pleaded, dropping to her knees and cradling a baby in her arms. “Please save us. Please . . .”
Seckraman . . .
Was he . . . Seckraman?
But Seckry had no more time to contemplate. The pain in his hand suddenly seared so hot that he screamed and thrust his arm out into the air. It felt as though his hand was been ripped apart as the glove released its energy into the sky.
There was a gargantuan boom, and as the sky began to crack into millions of pieces, Seckry’s consciousness faded away.
Chapter Thirty Five
Recovery