by Kira Wilson
Thomas's eyes widened in surprise, but his expression quickly darkened. "What are you doing here?"
Clyde scowled. So it was going to be like that, was it? "I came to pay my respects. Let go of my regrets for what my folks did."
"Regret does not change the past, nor does it absolve someone of their guilt." Thomas looked away, studying a place on the memorial stone. Clyde followed his gaze and found the names of Bruce and Andrea Childs.
"They could have saved themselves," Thomas said hoarsely. "When the explosions first started, they got their crews to safety, then went back into the station to search for others. They died as heroes." He reached out toward the stone, but his hand trembled and he made a fist. His eyes squeezed shut. "Yours—"
"Mine died as villains, political zealots. In the end, I don't think how they are remembered really makes a whole lot of difference to them. Once you're gone, you're gone."
"It matters."
"It matters to you. It used to matter to me too, but you know what? The only thing that really matters is what someone does in the present."
Thomas kept his eyes closed and his jaw clenched. Clyde sighed and shook his head. He could almost pity the guy. "You really can't let any of this go, can you? You're going to hold onto your anger until it consumes you. All right…" He got to his feet, took off his jacket and stood directly in front of Thomas. "Hit me."
Thomas blinked and frowned at him with suspicion. "What?"
"I said hit me. It's obvious you need to hit something, Lancelot. Might as well be the son of your 'mortal enemies'. Just get it out of your system so we can stop acting like teenagers and get back to the rest of our lives."
Thomas advanced a step, and the suspicion on his face gave way to anger. "I am warning you, Clyde. If this is some kind of trick—"
"It's not a trick, you stupid jackass," Clyde snapped. "Don't tell me you're afraid to hit me."
That did it. Thomas pulled back his fist and slammed it into Clyde's face. He felt his jaw pop, and a salty flood filled his mouth. Staggering, he nearly dropped to his knees and tried to blink the flashing spots away.
"There, you see?" Clyde mumbled. Just moving his jaw to talk sent waves of dizziness rolling through his head.
He looked up. Thomas was staring at him with a mixture of rage and horror in his eyes. Without a word, he turned and ran.
Clyde sat down on the grass and wiped the blood from his lips. "Even that wasn't enough for you, was it?" he whispered at Thomas's retreating form. "I pity whoever you run into next." He spat out the rest of the blood in his mouth and gingerly popped his jaw back in place. "Damn me and my cleverness." He sent a thought at the link in the back of his mind. "VERA, the next time I have a bright idea, slap me, will ya?"
***
"Are you certain he will come, my Sage?" Varlath asked. He stood near the edge of the clearing and shielded his eyes against the rising sun.
"He is already here," Shalaron answered. With his eyes closed, he could detect the sound of footfalls on the grass, drawing steadily nearer. Soon a cloaked figure appeared around a tree, and Varlath stepped back into the sheltering ring.
Shalaron stood up as Halathas approached and cast back his hood. In all the years he had known his Seneschal, he had never seen him look so relieved, and Shalaron spared him a welcoming smile.
"I had suspected the Siathrak were corrupt, but never to this extent," Halathas growled, then sank to one knee before the Sage. "They told us all that you had succumbed to your injuries. If I had only known…"
Shalaron rested a hand on Halathas's shoulder. "It is good to see you, my friend. Do not trouble yourself with their machinations. They will reap their rewards soon enough."
Halathas lifted his head and nodded, a determined glint in his violet eyes. He stood up. "My heart leapt when I saw the mark you left. I came as soon as I could slip away unnoticed. You mean to retake the city, my lord?"
"I do. And unlike the last Sage to try, I shall not need an army of honorless warriors to do so." Shalaron's gaze shifted between Rupu and Varlath before coming to rest back on Halathas. "Are you with me, my friend?"
"Until the world's end, my Sage."
For the next several minutes Shalaron discussed the details of his plan, questioning Halathas on the locations of the Holy Army's camp and Sarolkh's garrison within the city. "The only remaining unknown is whether Nathalion will lend us his support as well," he concluded.
Rupu looked thoughtful. "I believe he will, my lord. The Siathrak tried to execute his pupil, and I can't imagine that they've shown respect or gentleness to the Rethkor. He holds no love for the Siathrak's incursion and would aid us gladly, I think. All we need to do is get the word to him."
"I will see to it that he knows of our goal," Halathas rumbled. "Once the Rethkor has begun its attack, I shall meet you at the temple stairs, my lord."
Shalaron nodded. "Then go now. Be safe. We shall follow shortly and await your signal."
Halathas departed, and Varlath set about hiding all traces of their meager camp. Shalaron drew Rupu aside. "You are prepared to do your part, adept?" he asked sternly.
As he'd expected, Rupu's nod was somewhat reluctant. "Yes, my Sage. I simply wish that I didn't have to remain behind when you face Sarolkh."
"The heartroot is nearly defenseless on its own. If the Siathrak discover the source of their assault, they will attack you and try to destroy the townsfolk in the process." Shalaron sighed and gazed into the distance. "A Sage's first duty is to the people of his city, no matter his own personal wishes… they will need you."
Rupu watched him intently, then nodded his acceptance, a tiny smile cracking his lips. "Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but I see a story behind your eyes. Perhaps someday you might share it with me?"
Shalaron looked at Rupu with an unreadable expression, before his face returned to its grim demeanor. "We have much to do before such things can be considered." He turned to Varlath. "Halathas will have set things in motion by now. Let us to the city, so that our part in these events will not be delayed."
They set off, watching carefully for any patrols outside the city. They hid themselves within a sheltered copse in view of Ilinar's walls. Shalaron watched the knotted, ancient vines for any signs of movement. Behind him, Rupu kept the entryway propped open; Varlath was already inside the hidden tunnel he had spoken of last night. The morning sun filtered through the hanging branches above, and it felt as if all of nature waited with bated breath for the attack to begin.
A loud snapping sound filled the air as vines began to uncoil like flexing fingers. The nearest Siathrak warriors shouted in surprise as they were grabbed and hurled from the walls. Shalaron jumped into the tunnel beside Varlath, filling his palm with light as Rupu let the trapdoor slam shut. They hurried along behind Varlath and emerged in an empty room of the patriarch's house.
At the front door, Shalaron gripped them both by a shoulder. "Protect our people!"
"Siath be with you, my Sage," Varlath said. Rupu nodded and the two of them ran toward the city center. Varlath would gather the people of the city near the heartroot, where Nathalion was already coaxing the Rethkor to assail the Siathrak. If the worst should come to pass, Rupu would be able to hold off the soldiers until Sarolkh could be dealt with.
Shalaron ran toward the temple. True to his word, Halathas met him at the steps. He had already wrested the weapons from a pair of unconscious guards and was testing the spears for balance. Shalaron appraised him. "The years have not dulled your fighting edge, old friend."
"Though Seneschal I am happily, I was born a fighter." He discarded one of the weapons and flourished the other, his eyes blazing with purpose. "I will keep the bodyguards from distracting you. Lay my vengeance with yours upon Sarolkh's corpse, my lord."
They charged up the steps, Halathas a few paces in front. Another group of Siathrak appeared at the temple entrance, and they paused in shock. That moment was all Halathas needed. Two fell to his spear before the others c
ould even raise their weapons. Halathas dodged the answering blows with an agility that belied his large frame, and his spear deftly slipped between their defenses to deliver fatal counterattacks. Shalaron stepped over the fallen bodies and continued in.
They emerged in the main chamber of the temple. A shout rang out, and Sarolkh's head snapped up, his eyes betraying his shock and fear. Shalaron saw that fear turn to rage. "Heretics and pagans," Sarolkh snarled. "By Siath's will, you shall die."
"Hear me, Siathrak worms!" Shalaron cast off his tattered outer robe, and the stones around him began to burn. "I am Shalaron, Sage of Ilinar. I am world shaper and mind breaker. Any who choose to oppose me shall perish. I give you this single chance to escape your doom. Leave my city now, and vow never to return, or face the oblivion that awaits at my command."
With an ugly sneer Sarolkh pointed at Shalaron. "He dies first."
Shalaron's answering gaze was grim. "Sarolkh, your fate is sealed. No trace shall remain of you when my judgment is complete."
The four elite guards marched forward, weapons drawn. With a ringing shout, Halathas leapt toward them, his spear flickering through the air at his foes. Shalaron stepped around the melee and approached his target.
"This display only delays your end." Sarolkh drew his karta sword from its sheath, the polished stone blade gleaming malevolently. "I have been trained against powers such as your own. Siath's might will not be overcome!"
Shalaron sent a stream of fire coursing toward the captain. Sarolkh raised the blade in front of him and when the fire struck, it divided to either side. A spear of ice met the same fate, shattering and liquefying on contact with the blade.
Shalaron felt more than saw the sword swing toward him. He leaned backwards, and the blade passed scant inches over his skin. Leaping away he heard a shout from the other end of the room. One guard was down, but Halathas was slowly being driven back by the remaining Siathrak. Shalaron launched a dart of ice at a guard's unprotected back, felling him.
The karta sword flashed into his peripheral vision. He ducked again and rolled to the side. Sarolkh sneered at him. "You truly are nothing without your vaunted powers."
A burning staff appeared in Shalaron's hand. He dodged Sarolkh's sweep and struck back with his own weapon. Faster than a lashing feranal, he shifted his attacks, quickly driving Sarolkh across the chamber. With a snarl, Sarolkh lunged at him. It was the move that Shalaron had been waiting for. Quickly dashing to the side, he drove the staff, tip first, into the side of the stone blade. A resounding crack echoed through the room, and the sword shattered.
Sarolkh cried out and dropped the hilt of his broken sword. Shalaron let the staff vanish, and stared doom into the captain's wild eyes.
"Let my actions be testament to virtue, that my people may know peace," the Sage whispered.
He raised his hands, palms inward, and Sarolkh started to burn. The white tabard blackened and charred, and the shrieks of the captain filled the chamber as Halathas limped toward them, his fight finished. A minute passed, and Shalaron turned his hands around. A freezing chill rippled through the room, and Sarolkh's jerking body began to slow. Beneath the flames, crystals of frost formed, and soon, the captain was a frozen statue, flames still flickering over his icy skin. Shalaron drew back his fist and smashed it into the burnt remains of Sarolkh's face. With a crack, his body shattered into a hundred pieces, which slowly melted and evaporated under the dancing fire.
Shalaron's eyes gazed stonily as the last piece of Sarolkh vanished. "No trace shall remain. The same fate awaits all those who threaten my people."
***
The park bench was cold, and a chilling breeze rolled through the trees overhead. Thomas listened to it whisper and moan, imagining that he could hear sorrowful voices crying out for respite. The wind could find no more solace than he, it seemed.
The events of the Quicksilver game, the confrontation with Clyde that morning, each memory weighed on Thomas like burning coals. As the cold deepened in the air around him, he found himself wishing he could draw it inside, to drown out the smoldering grief and the pain.
With heavy clouds obscuring all traces of the setting sun, the world took on a tinge of blue as the light faded. It would be night soon. Thomas rose from his seat and began walking home.
Jessica had liked this park. It was a short distance from the apartment building, quiet, with a small pond in the center. The two of them had come here frequently. The last time, it had been near sunset, and the final beams of daylight had caught her hair, turning it into a halo of gold.
Thomas's stomach clenched. His eyes stung, but he clamped down on his tears. Jessica was gone. She was lost to him. What good would come from reliving those memories?
He entered the apartment building and walked to the elevator. He punched at a floor number, then leaned back in the corner and tried very hard not to think of anything at all. He dreaded reaching his own apartment. Sleep held only more nightmares for him.
When the doors opened, Thomas stepped into the hallway and stared in surprise. It was not the hallway he had expected to see. The numbers were all wrong, and the layout was similar to…
It was Jessica's floor. Her family's apartment was here. Now everyone that had lived there was gone. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut against the fresh wave of anguish, and the surge of fierce heat that came after. Could he find no refuge anywhere? Was fate mocking him, casting everything in her shadow, and reminding him constantly of all that he had lost? He missed her so much.
The sound of laughter jarred him. A door opened at the far end of the hall. David stepped out, still laughing while speaking to someone. He reached back through the door, smiling.
Jessica had died because David had asked her for help. What right did he have to laugh? What right did he have to smile, or be happy?
This was David's fault. All of the pain, the grief, the loss… David had started it all. Thomas's world was broken, and David was laughing.
Thomas's feet began to move on their own; all he could feel or think about was the open wound in his heart. David's fault. Jessica was dead. David's fault!
David turned at the last moment. Thomas's fist shot out, and suddenly the mirth was gone. Now it was only pain, flowing out like a ceaseless river. Thomas struck again and again. His knuckles cracked against bone. David staggered back, tried to raise an arm against the next blow, but nothing could stop Thomas's fury. The pain was a living thing now, and it would not be silenced.
Thomas struck yet again. His fingers came away sore and sticky. David cried out, but the words sounded distant. There was no laughter in them now. No more laughter ever again.
The next blow met only air as David finally dodged to the side. His face was bleeding from several places, but his eyes were focused only on Thomas. He looked concerned. Concerned! Thomas struck at him again, and David dodged away. Thomas chased his prey around the hallway, but David was quick. He ducked and weaved but refused to strike back. Thomas's rage boiled over. "Fight me, you coward!"
Finally Thomas pinned David in the corner, his fist again meeting flesh. He pummeled his victim mercilessly. Shocks ran up his arms with every impact. His joints screamed with pain. Something yanked at his arm, and a voice yelled in his ear. "Thomas, stop!"
With a snarl Thomas lashed out. His fist connected and sent the obstruction careening into the opposite wall. A sudden flash of gold distracted him, and he paused, turning around.
Jessica lay in a heap on the ground, her hand pressed against a bloody mark on her cheek. Her eyes streamed with tears as she looked up… looked at him.
Thomas blinked, and for some reason it was suddenly hard to breathe. He stared down at his hands, his knuckles stained with blood, and he realized what he had done.
A sharp pain blossomed in his stomach, and he whirled in time to receive another blow to the chin. David, one eye swollen shut, blood flowing down his face, glared at Thomas with fury. Thomas was paralyzed with indecision, even as David delivered a bea
ting of his own. A quick punch to the nose filled Thomas's eyes with stinging tears. He screamed at his muscles to stop, but he retaliated before he could halt the motion. A vicious punch snapped David's head back, and it hit the wall behind him with a thud. David's eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed to the ground.
Thomas's throat and eyes burned. His body groaned from the beatings he had received and delivered. He looked at Jessica, and the apology caught in his throat. He took a step forward, and she flinched away from him. The terror on her face was like a bucket of ice water, chilling his soul to the core. With a wordless cry, Thomas fled, leaving David collapsed against the wall, his blood already drying on Thomas's hands.
Chapter 33
David's first conscious thought, once he could formulate one over the pain of the headache, was how familiar he was becoming with waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. It was mildly disconcerting.
The room was painfully bright, and David realized the bed he was laying in was next to a sunlit window. He reached for the curtain controls, but moving caused aches in his ribs and made the headache flare up. With a groan, he lay back on the bed.
"David?"
He felt a hand stroke his forehead. It took a second for the face hovering over him to come into focus. "Mom?"
His mother gave a tearful laugh. "How do you feel, honey?"
David pointed at the window and winced. "Can we cover that?"
She pressed the button, and the curtain extended over the window, extinguishing the worst of the light. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I'll be back in a moment."
When she was gone, David propped himself up and looked around the room. Bare walls, uncomfortable-looking furniture, cabinets and equipment: a medical facility.
Great. I hate hospitals.
There was a chair next to the bed. Analara was curled up in it, fast asleep. An ugly bruise covered one of her cheeks.
The door opened again, and Roger and Lucas followed David's mother inside. Lucas immediately pulled a chair up to the bed. "Hey, bro. How you doing?"