by Clayton Wood
Yes, Kyle decided with a smile...it was a perfect plan. He could still become everything he wanted to be, do everything he wanted to do.
That is, if Xanos didn't kill them all first.
Chapter 4
Kalibar stepped into his spacious shower, feeling the magically warmed granite under his bare feet. The shower was powered by magic; with a thought, Kalibar could activate the sensor rune on the ceiling, generating a soothing cascade of water over his head. Activating a rune to the right of the center rune would make the water colder; the left, hotter.
He activated the center rune, feeling water spray down over his head, dripping over his bare shoulders. Though the shower made water by consuming air, there was no cold wind whipped up by its creation. Gravity-field generating runes in the shower stall dissipated the breeze, while others warmed the air, creating a consistent temperature. A miracle of modern runic technology, this shower. And yet it paled in comparison to the simplest trinket from Ancient times.
Kalibar sighed, feeling the weight of the day begin to lift off of his shoulders. He adjusted the temperature with a thought, the water turning from warm to hot. It felt good over his aching head, where he'd struck his temple on a rock fighting the Dire Lurker two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, but it already felt like the distant past.
Kalibar lowered his chin to his chest, letting the water course over the back of his neck. He'd naively expected the Council to be more cooperative during his second term. Imaged them setting aside their differences, coming together under a common goal, against a common enemy. Instead, they bickered as usual, letting old animosities and party lines dictate their allegiances. Goran had run against Kalibar for Grand Weaver almost twelve years ago...a vicious battle of the popular Elitist versus the legendary Populist war hero...and Kalibar had won handily. Twelve years later, Goran failed to secure a second nomination after Orik – also a Populist – had used his considerable influence and unlimited funds to ensure that Goran never got a chance to challenge him. Goran had never forgiven Kalibar for his successes, and had fought against him on almost everything since...and did so even now, when the stakes were at their highest.
Kalibar sighed, mentally nudging the sensor rune above his head. The water became hotter still, almost burning hot. He ignored the pain, feeling his heart thumping in his chest, and an increasingly familiar sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Fear.
He was going to fail, and he knew it. The enemy was too powerful, too organized. United under one ruler with one vision. The Empire, on the other hand – the Council with its dual leaders – had been designed to provide inertia, to ensure that no change in its laws was enacted without significant debate. It was an excellent system in times of peace, but terrible in times of crisis.
There was one way to get around it, though. The founders of the Empire had anticipated this very situation. In times of crisis, he and Erasmus could enact emergency powers, giving them full control over the military. The Right of Dictatorship, it was called. It was a sure way to win control over the Council, but it would make the rest of his six-year term – if he lived that long – a miserable experience. After the crisis, the Council would almost certainly block any future bills brought forth by himself and Erasmus, effectively shutting down the government until their terms expired. Then, once they were civilians, they could both be tried with war crimes for “subverting the government”...and even be executed.
It had happened before.
Another piece of insurance, that. The Right of Dictatorship could be wielded, but only if the Grand Weaver and Runic agreed together to enact them...and were willing to face the consequences if their actions were later deemed inappropriate. Only the truly desperate would ever resort to using them. Those with nothing left to lose.
Kalibar shut off the shower, standing there as beads of water trickled down his body. He stood there for a long moment, mulling it over. Certain failure, or almost-certain execution...with his reputation in shambles, as well as that of his closest friend.
He sighed again, stepping out of the shower, then reaching out blindly for the towel he knew Jenkins had left hanging to his right. He found it, using it to wipe the water off of his body. He winced as it brushed up against the innumerable half-healed cuts and bruises that covered him, being extra gentle over the ribs on his left side. He was pretty sure they had been broken. When he was done, he wrapped the towel around his waist, and felt for the runes Erasmus had placed on the railing next to the wall, the one that led back to his bedroom.
He stepped out of the shower, making his way slowly around the corner, turning right. After six years of living in this room during his previous tenure, he knew that his bed would be straight ahead...even without the runes Erasmus had peppered all over the room. He let go of the railing, and walked forward carefully, sliding his feet forward across the floor with each small step. He could feel every object in the room...except the floor. Even though he knew it was level, and that Jenkins would never allow an obstacle to be left for him to trip over, he couldn't help being cautious. He could easily stop any fall with his magic, but a part of his mind refused to believe that. He was still human, after all.
He put his hands out in front of him, feeling his palms to touch soft bedsheets. He found himself tilting his chin up as he walked, and lowered his head. He would have to work on that.
He eased himself onto the bed, his body aching with each movement. His recent adventure had taken more from him than just his sight. Every breath hurt, and he still got awful headaches from time to time. He knew that, at his age, he would never fully recover. Pain was now, and would forever be, an everyday fact of life.
Along, of course, with the blindness.
He'd never told anybody, and he never would, but there had been times in those first two weeks after the Dead Man had ripped his eyes out of their sockets, dark times where he'd stared into that swirling blackness – that terrible nothing – and he'd wept silently. At first he'd been angry, angry that he hadn't just stayed at his home in Bellingham, angry with the fact that some kid from another planet had happened on his doorstep, changing his life forever. If only he'd pawned the boy off on someone else, or stayed in Stridon instead of running off to Crescent Lake, he would still have his eyesight. He missed seeing the morning sky, a brilliant painting that was never the same as the one composed before it. He missed colors, and textures. He missed being able to see people's faces. It was so hard to talk with people when he couldn't see their faces. So much about communication was visual, more so than he'd ever imagined.
In the first two nights, chained to his narrow cot in his prison cell, he'd thought about ending it all.
Of course, he hadn't. He'd suffered through the pain, the realization that his life was now irrevocably changed, and pulled himself slowly together. He'd done it for Kyle, the boy who he now thought of as his son. He'd done it for his real son, a boy who'd died at birth because his father had failed to save him. Most of all, he'd done it for himself.
He laid down on the bed, kicking the sheets down with his legs, then sitting up to pull them up over his body. He cursed silently; he should have pulled the sheets down first, before he'd gotten into bed. If he'd been able to see, he wouldn't have made that mistake. Still, it was getting easier to live with his blindness. He'd found himself dwelling on it less and less with each passing day, slowly coming to accept his new reality.
He sighed, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. His doctors had mixed the extract of a narcotic-producing plant with some herbal tea. He knew without a doubt that a glass of the pain-killing tea had been placed within his reach, on the nightstand to his left. Jenkins had, of course, seen to it. The man was brilliant, in his own way...anticipating Kalibar's every possible need. Even a half-glass would ensure him a pleasant night's sleep.
He left the glass on the nightstand.
He sighed again, bringing his hands up to his face. A nightly ritual, this. He ran his fingers over his lips,
then up along either side of his nose. When he reached his lower eyelids, he paused, his heart skipping a beat. He'd promised himself he'd stop doing this, stop torturing himself, but every night he completed the ritual. He continued onward, running his fingertips lightly over his sunken lids, grimacing as they dipped sickeningly, unnaturally inward. When his fingers reached his cheekbones, he stopped, dropping his hands to his sides.
Kalibar had never considered himself a particularly vain man, but now he knew that he'd been deceiving himself. He found himself desperately wishing that he could look in a mirror, just once. He wanted to see what he looked like, and at the same time, he was thankful that he could not.
Kalibar shifted in bed again, rolling onto his right side – his good ribs. It still hurt to take a breath in, but he ignored this as best as he could. His mind went once again to the glass of tea on his nightstand. He almost reached over to grab it, but stopped himself. If he started doing that now, he would do it every night. Then he would do it just to get through the day...would end up needing it.
Instead, he lay there, his mind starting to drift. He played with the images in his mind, the only images he had left. The last thing he'd ever seen was the Dead Man's fingers reaching toward his face again, after he'd pulled out the first eye. The bastard had been right about one thing; Kalibar never would be able to forget his face. He shuddered at the memory of it.
He forced his mind away from the ghastly image, the Dead Man's pale, gaunt face staring down at him, the green diamond-shaped crystal in the man's forehead glittering in the dim light of the Arena. It took a long time for his mind to wander again, swirls of color exploding in his mind's eye. Sleep crept over him slowly, pulling him away from his pain.
He jerked awake.
Kalibar laid perfectly still, straining his ears. Had he heard something? A few seconds passed, but the room was silent. He started to relax.
A soft click came from the distance, the sound of a door closing gently.
Kalibar's body went rigid, the hairs on his neck rising on end. No one else was supposed to be in his room. No one could possibly have entered without activating the newest wards Erasmus had just...
A bolt of terror twisted his guts, his heart pounding in his chest. Of course, he thought. They'd come for him again. Come to finish the job.
Footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, getting louder with each step.
Kalibar tried to sit up in his bed, but his muscles stayed limp, refusing to obey his commands. He felt a surge of sheer panic, sucking in a deep breath. He could still breath...but he could control nothing else. He could feel the bed beneath him, could sense everything inch of his body, but he could not move.
The footsteps grew louder as they came closer, clip-clopping slowly, almost casually toward him.
Kalibar tried to yell out, but his lips did not move, and only a harsh wheeze escaped his mouth. He lay there, a prisoner in his own body.
I'm going to be murdered in my own bed, he despaired, his heart thumping violently in his chest. And there's nothing I can do about it!
He heard the footsteps enter his bedroom, then stop.
Kalibar had a sudden flash of inspiration, gathering magic into his mind and weaving it into a tight pattern. His body might be paralyzed, but his mind was still his own! He threw the deadly pattern out in the general direction the footsteps had stopped in.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly Kalibar felt a force slam into his consciousness, an immense power coursing over his body. Waves of pure energy pulsed through his mind, power beyond any he had felt before. This was magic, he knew, but it was boundless, without limit. It filled his being, this power.
The sound of footsteps returned, coming right up to the side of Kalibar's bed, mere feet from where he lay. The power grew stronger, until it all but overwhelmed him. He knew beyond a doubt that whoever was standing at his side was the source of this energy, this unimaginable fount of magical power. It made his own power seem puny in comparison; he was a mere insect compared to this mountain of magic.
If Kalibar could have trembled, if he could have fallen to his knees before this being, he would have.
He felt something heavy press down on the bed beside him, making the bed sink slightly lower. A warm, calloused hand touched his forehead. He wanted to jerk away, but he could not. A voice whispered in his mind, soft yet firm.
You wanted to meet me.
Kalibar felt a shudder run through him. He was still paralyzed, only able to breath and swallow. He could not speak. He could not answer this being's statement. He could not ask any questions of his own.
Now you have.
Suddenly he was in rapture. The pain left his body, ecstasy coursing through him. He felt the rough hand slide off of his forehead, then felt a pressure on his face, over his empty orbits. The rapture intensified, and he cried out silently, his breathing fast and shallow. He felt his lips tingle, the tips of his fingers going numb.
Then the rapture left him, and the weight lifted off of the bed. The wellspring of power vanished.
Kalibar lay there for a long while, staring into swirling darkness, unable to move. His heart, still hammering in his chest, began to slow, sweat beading up on the tops of his arms. He listened, waiting for whatever was to come next.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, Kalibar's left hand twitched, then spasmed, clenching into a fist. His right hand soon followed, and then his legs. One by one, his muscles came back to life, back under his control. He bent his legs, flexing his toes against the soft fabric of the bedsheets. Then he flexed his arms, twisting his wrists in a slow circle. There was none of the usual pain in his joints. He reached over to feel his ribs, and found that they no longer hurt to press on. In fact, there was no discomfort in his body whatsoever.
Kalibar paused, then sat up slowly, placing his palms on the bed to brace himself.
Then, very slowly, he opened his eyes.
A pair of familiar blue eyes stared back at him.
Chapter 5
Ampir stands in the large chamber by the central dais, cradling Vera in his arms. The light cast by the lanterns on the walls gives her pale face an otherworldly glow, and he gazes down at her, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Boom.
Ampir looks up just in time to see the ceiling caving in far above his head, the Behemoth's foot falling through the shattered ceiling toward him, filling the entire chamber with its enormous size.
With not a shred of magic left in his mind or armor, there is nothing he can do.
He looks down at Vera, holding her tightly to himself. Her face is serene, her pale skin seeming to glow the faintest of blues. He frowns, his breath catching in his throat.
Magic!
He lowers his forehead to hers, pulling at the magic within her. Cords of power fill him, and he weaves the magic rapidly, forming a tight, throbbing pattern in the center of his mind's eye. He throws it at his feet...just as the Behemoth's foot slams down on him from above.
Ampir cries out, feels himself falling, his feet striking something hard below. He loses his balance, falling onto his back, utter darkness surrounding him. The deafening boom of the Behemoth's foot slamming into the floor of the chamber blasts his eardrums, a shockwave pinning him to the hard rock below, blasting the air from his lungs.
He lays there in utter darkness, gasping for air, dust raining down on him, getting into his nose and mouth. He coughs, then sneezes, covering his face with one hand and turning his head to one side. He holds his breath; moments pass, and eventually the dust settles, letting Ampir breathe again.
He lays there in the darkness, Vera atop him, his ears ringing loudly.
Suddenly the earth trembles, and the Behemoth's foot rises upward, rays of starlight piercing through the blackness. They illuminate the pit he'd made in the ground below his feet with Vera's magic, a pit they'd fallen into right before the Behemoth's foot would have destroyed them.
The Behemoth's foot glows a
faint blue, rising further upward, until it passes back through the massive hole in the ceiling some forty feet above. It vanishes from view.
Boom, boom.
The chamber vibrates with each of the Behemoth's footsteps as it retreats from the chamber. Ampir grunts, sitting up, then rising to his feet. He sets Vera in the pit beside him, kneeling before her. Starlight outlines her slender form in a ghostly hue, caressing her gentle curves. Ampir gazes at her, taking in her otherworldly loveliness, knowing that this will be the last time he ever sees her.
“I'm sorry baby,” he whispers. “I'm so sorry.”
He pictures her when they'd first met, so full of life. She'd rescued him from the hopelessness of his final days in the military, softened him with her vivacious spirit. War had transformed him into a heartless killing machine; Vera had turned him back into a man. Made him believe that he was still worth loving, even after all the terrible things he'd done.
She'd saved him in life, and now she'd saved him in death.
He leans over, kissing her on the lips, finding them cooler now. He gazes down at her face, her body, drinking in every detail. Minutes pass, and still he kneels over her, running a gauntleted hand through her hair.
I love you, he states silently. Then he rises to his feet, struggling against the incredible weight of his armor. Without magic, it weighs over a hundred pounds; sweat pours down his chest and flanks, the armor's temperature-regulating runes non-functional. He stands there, gazing down at his wife, picturing their son vanishing through the portal.
I'll find him, he vows silently. I promise.