"Good news then. That is your fellow Kin. He's alive and attempting to establish his connection with you."
Max had recognized the man's face from somewhere. Down ten-nothing at the homecoming game a few weeks ago, he'd had a similar experience and hadn't been able to complete the scoring drive. Still a bit unsettled, he rose to his feet. Nausea turned his stomach for a moment, and though it passed, he remained agitated.
Riley massaged his neck. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, a little light-headed. Is the experience like that every contact?" Max looked up at Presage.
"Oh, no, they will get much less painful over time—akin to working your physical body into shape. You're sore in the beginning, and eventually, you build up stamina."
"Uh, Presage, what is my link's name?"
"Ah, your link—a good man, well-liked by the people. His fellow Assembly members consider him quite the socialite." Presage grinned. "That is Macklin Morrow who is trying to contact you."
"Macklin Morrow," Max whispered.
"Who is my link?" asked Riley.
"Yes, Rowan Letty would be your Kin. You have a striking resemblance to her, Riley." Presage placed his gaze next on Emily. "Emily, your Kin is Elita Ezmer—quite the politician. In fact, she—"
A terrible screech wailed from over the hill. The men around the Kin all went for their weapons and dashed toward the sound. Max shivered as a gust of wind whipped through camp. One man came running at them. Borgy, Max recalled.
"Sir," Vilaborg said and then gasped for air.
Presage shut his eyes for a few seconds as a noisy surge of bedlam carried from over the ridge. He opened them and gazed out to the huddled group.
"It has commenced," he whispered, and scanned the hilltop in the direction of the inhuman wail.
A few moments later, a shadow appeared at the crest of the highland and scampered down.
"That's Stuart!" Max jumped to his feet. His head still ached, but letting his companion get hurt wouldn't be a good play.
Stuart slipped and fell, clutching something in his hand. He rolled down the slippery slope, coming to a stop only when he hit a canvas tent. In a flash, he sprang up and bolted toward them.
"Should we saddle up the Kin and get a move on, Presage?" Vilaborg said.
As he stared at the approaching Stuart, Presage paused a moment before responding. "No, we will be just fine." He winked at Vilaborg.
"A min-oh-toor... Minotaur!" Stuart yelled with a gasp as he ran up.
"A Minotaur in the camp, you say? Now, now, Stuart, that is simply a game the soldiers play—some high sorcology, Dire Conflict. You scared the stars out of us." Vilaborg exhaled as he patted the crouching Stuart on his back.
Stuart shook his head as his chest heaved, sweat dripping off his forehead. Max walked over to the two of them.
"No, no, I know Dire Conflict is a game. I played against Boozer." Stuart paused again to catch his breath.
"You were playing Conflict against Boozer? Well, Boozer is always the Minotaur. Darn near unbeatable, he is. He did tell you it was a game, Stuart?"
"You aren't listening. I know it's a game. I was playing the Minotaur when he came to life. The soldiers are fighting him now!" Stuart pointed in the direction from which he'd come.
Men's distinct shouts reverberated throughout the camp, and the scrape of metal rang out as a hundred swords were drawn.
Though he couldn't see it, the sounds alone made the thought of combat real. Several voices raised in a cry against the Minotaur. For an instant, he remembered being on the field with the crowd cheering for him. A battle was no different than trying to score a touchdown—except the penalty was your life.
Vilaborg struggled to say something and hesitated. The soldier looked down at the joystick in Stuart's right hand and frowned.
"Presage?" Vilaborg glanced at the older man, his forehead scrunched.
A horrific screech thundered down at them again. Someone shouted. Another soldier hollered so loudly that Max's shivers became goose pimples. Uneasiness filled the air as they all gazed up the slope in the direction of the wild shrieking, advancing ever closer.
Mr. Dempsey ended the taut silence. "Presage, what in the world is that? I've never heard anything like it."
"Why, Stuart has told us. A barbaric, rabid Minotaur is descending upon us. We need to be strong in the face of evil, my dear Kin. This will be the first of many horrors we must conquer."
Shelby yelped. "Well, what are we supposed to do when this Minotaur comes crashing down on us, Presage? We haven't been given any weapons."
"Ah, but we have a powerful weapon, have we not, Stuart?" Presage fixed upon the shuddering teen.
Max frowned and examined Stuart.
"Huh? What do you mean?" Baffled, Stuart peered at Presage.
Presage's eyes fell to Stuart's right hand, where he still clutched the joystick. His white knuckles shook around the object. Max had no idea what the thing in Stuart's palm was, but figured it had something to do with the game Vilaborg had mentioned.
Stuart turned the joystick over in his hand, shaking his head. Max wondered what Presage was talking about. Men were fighting for their lives just over the hill, yet no one moved. He contemplated grabbing something—anything—and sprinting to assist, when Presage shut his eyes. The joystick began vibrating and a bright light emanated beneath the base.
A few feet away, a flash like that of a camera blinded him, and in its stead appeared a huge, brilliantly clad warrior. The Kin gasped at the sight of the muscular soldier. With his gleaming sword and battle chain at the ready, the combatant nodded at Stuart.
Max frowned. He didn't understand how a holograph could hurt something physical.
Atop the hill, the Minotaur came forth. Covered in blood with arrows sticking from its flesh, the beast rampaged. Tossing its huge head, the creature screamed at the night sky.
The thing loomed bigger than any linebacker he'd seen. "Holy cow," Max wheezed.
"Stuart, your responsibility is to defend the Kin. Remember, you are not alone. We're all here. But you must take the point on this offense, since you are best equipped to handle things."
The monster, wild-eyed and coated in blood, charged down at them, howling its treacherous attack.
Max had never seen anything run so fast. His legs cemented to the ground; he couldn't believe he'd wanted to charge in and fight this thing only a few minutes before.
Stuart pulled his joystick up and positioned the warrior. His palms shook. It wasn't every day you fought a real monster.
The adversaries met with a bang. The fighter Stuart controlled viciously clanged his sword against the Minotaur's axe in a savage parry. The noise left Max's ears ringing.
"Fantastic," Mr. Dempsey mouthed in wide-eyed disbelief.
The Minotaur hefted its axe away from the blade. With a grunt, he swung the weapon downward, aiming for the warrior's vulnerable side. In a flash, the warrior barred the attack. The strike made the warrior slip. In an instant, the Minotaur fell upon him, preparing to behead the stumbling man.
Stuart held his own as he furiously jerked his regulator back and forth in an effort to keep the monster at bay. He forced the warrior to his feet with a grunt.
Max gaped in awe as the soldier swung its chain. The enormous chain slammed into the Minotaur's side and wound around the creature's torso. With a yank, it was pulled toward the warrior, who aimed his sword at the creature's heart.
The Minotaur parried the warrior's blade. Metal rasped. The Minotaur yanked the chain from the warrior's grasp and threw it aside. Now the battle was even. Stuart struggled to stay each blow of the heavy axe, operating the joystick as though he were actually fighting.
The movements were more realistic than a Wii-mote's in any video game Max had ever seen. He wanted to help, but found himself taking a step back, too terrified to say or do anything.
The Minotaur grew stronger as the battle carried on. It grabbed the warrior's arm after dodging his t
hrust and flipped him to the ground. A crack resounded. For a moment, Max thought the warrior's back had broken. The armored soldier swung his massive blade up just in time to keep the Minotaur from striking him in half. The axe shook as the Minotaur pressed downward. The beast seemed determined to shatter the saber.
Presage stepped behind the Minotaur and aimed a large pipe at its back. The pipe blasted out a broad metallic net and entangled the Minotaur. It roared as it struggled with its steely snare. The axe dropped from its clutches and hit the ground with a thud.
Max couldn't tear his gaze away. The creature frothed at the mouth as it fought for freedom.
Stuart pounced on the opportunity. He forced the warrior to his feet. In a flourish of metal, the soldier thrust his sword into the Minotaur once, then again. A shriek pierced the night air.
Max trembled. It was a horrific wail, a scream of death. At last, the monster emitted a defeated groan and lay still before it evaporated. Seconds later, Stuart's warrior vanished as well.
They stood in a stupor for a short period. Max glanced around and his eyes landed on Shelby. She was shaken, too, as were the others. Some small part of him was relieved he wasn't the only one scared to the core.
"Excellent, young Stuart. A gritty battle," said Presage, applauding.
The Kin followed suit and clapped languidly, still in awe. Max began to wonder if they had ever been in any true danger. He'd figured Presage would have tried to defend them, but he seemed to be mistaken. He realized rather suddenly that this was all too real.
They weren't here to be chaperoned. They were here to protect themselves, their Kin, and everyone else.
Max turned to his fellow Kin.
Stuart surveyed his surroundings, rubbing his hair with both hands. "This world is my world now."
Max nodded.
The cordless phone rang, smothered somewhere in the sheets. Nick had been in a deep slumber, and now he patted the blankets for the moaning phone he had taken to bed. He groggily glanced at the caller ID, and read, "out of area."
His mind darted to his sister. Calls this late were usually grave. He hit the green button.
"Hello?" he grumbled, his throat dry.
"You have been chosen, Nick Casey," a robotic voice said.
Nick gurgled to clear his windpipe. "For... what?"
"You already know. And you will understand more when the time has come."
The dial tone blared before his sluggish mind computed a response.
As he lay looking at the phone, his bed shook and a thick fog materialized around him. He stepped off. The hardwood floors were as slick as ice. He advanced toward the door, but slipped and crashed down, immersed in the mist. His body shook, and the room dissolved.
Spiro stood over him, prodding Nick's chest. The pounding of hooves echoed close by.
He stared at his hands, which were bound by handcuffs. A trickle of blood and sore skin made his head spin. The manacles chafed his wrists. They didn't resemble the sort of cuffs he'd seen on television or that police officers carried. Thick, heavy rust covered the shackles.
"Wake up, outlander. A fog is upon us, and this is not natural. Thieves' fog and we must bolt," Spiro bellowed.
Nick recalled saving the young woman, Emily Lawson. The name rang loud and clear as memories flooded his mind. He'd awakened on the grass and stumbled over a strange campsite.
He rubbed his head. Chains clanked when he moved.
"Wha-what do you mean 'thieves' fog'?"
"What I mean is this mist is manmade or, more precisely, Nightlander-made."
Something about the way he talked made it sound like Spiro himself didn't believe their plight. "Now, we need to hasten." Spiro grabbed Nick by the arms and hoisted him to his feet.
Nick stumbled forward, trying to follow the captain. Spiro stopped abruptly and stared into Nick's eyes. The glare made Nick's blood run cold.
"Outlander, I am going to unshackle you. I'm doing this because you may be easy prey if I do not." He leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Stay close behind now."
Nick wanted to ask where the rest of the soldiers were, but decided not to. The captain was already on edge, and Nick didn't want to risk upsetting him more. He was content to be rid of the heavy cuffs and chains.
He stumbled as if wearing two left shoes behind Spiro, in an effort to keep pace. Although he considered running, Nick had no intention of losing his former captor. The idea of being alone out in the mist—with Nightlanders, thieves, and the fog—didn't sound appealing.
Nick's heart beat hard in his chest, as he glimpsed a shape out of the corner of his eye. Sprinting and panting behind Spiro, the figures emerged with greater frequency. He wondered at first if they were Clayborn and the other soldiers.
Something was not right with the shadows. They darted in and out of the gloom around him.
Spiro turned to check if he kept up, but hunger and thirst made it hard to follow. Exhaustion clouded his mind as the awful shapes contorted at close range in the dark mist. His ribcage tightened and a head rush overcame him, and he fell.
He rolled a few feet and settled onto his back. Chest heaving, Nick tried in vain to stand. Spots danced in his vision and his head swam.
"Outlander, Outlander!" Spiro cried in his booming voice, lost somewhere in the woods.
Nick strived to respond, tried desperately to call out to Spiro, but his tongue was thick and dry.
A shadow moved toward him. His vision blurred and, even squinting, he couldn't focus on the murky shape.
"S-Spiro?" he murmured.
The figure drew closer—a foreboding man wearing charcoal armor with the emblem of a skull on his chest. The dark form stalked him, sizing him up. A gleaming blade raised high in preparation to smash upon him. A black cape fluttered behind the soldier.
Nick compressed to the fetal position. How many times could one person die in a day? Had he actually died after being stabbed with that ice pick? Was this some strange afterlife? Perhaps he'd go home now. He shut his eyes, expecting the painful deathblow.
The strike never came.
He heard a crash and a yelp. Someone moaned in pain. When Nick opened his eyes, the dark man-thing curled recumbent on the ground a few feet away. His sword lay nearby.
Another shape stood close by and peered down at him. The figure walked over, reached behind Nick, and hauled him up.
Nick exhaled, the tightness in his chest and the throbbing in his head both gone.
"Thank y-you." He doubled over, panting.
"Shh, Nick, be silent and travel this way. This way is safe. Now go," the man whispered, and then walked off.
Nick stared at the back of the mysterious figure as he disappeared into the thieves' fog. A strange shock of recognition struck him. The man who'd saved him was famous—Nick couldn't believe it—or had a striking resemblance to Lucas Denon, one of the greatest poets and rock musicians in American history. Nick shook his head, trying to clear it.
The man may have passed for Denon, but the world still mourned Denon's tragic death in a car accident almost fifteen years ago. Nick thought for a brief second; Denon saving his life from some bizarre knight showed how unhinged he'd become. This all had to be an insane delusion.
Denon, or whoever he was, had said Nick's name clear as a bell. Didn't that make what Nick saw a delusion? How else would Denon know Nick's name? His temples pounded again. Regardless of the man's identity, he'd saved Nick's life. Even if he weren't real, Denon had shown Nick the way to go.
Shaking his head once more, he stumbled after his Good Samaritan.
Nick shuffled along, but he lost his sense of direction. By this point, he didn't care. His exhaustion had doubled, and he welcomed death. The fog had an eerie odor and even a creepy flavor to it. The more he inhaled this thick air, the further he became disheartened.
A morbid depression subdued him. He trudged, contemplating why he didn't just ball up and allow whatever followed him to complete its task. He pushed on, despondent
and spiritless.
Wait. Maybe I've already died. The ghost of Lucas Denon had appeared to him. Perhaps he should go back and find Denon's spirit—if Nick were dead, why couldn't Denon be here, too? He stopped and laughed hysterically, raising his arms to the sky. He dropped to his knees, rubbed his face, and then rustled his hair.
He always tapped an inner strength, which seemed to materialize when he needed it. Nick never reflected much on it. As dangerous as the action was, he hadn't thought twice back in the van about saving Emily.
Weary with confusion, his inner strength now rose, and the madcap laughter ended.
Whatever lay ahead, he would deal with it. He strode forward.
Throg guided the boat downriver.
Zach, his stomach full, nodded off into a deep and much needed sleep. With the problems he faced at home, he rarely slept. A long while had passed since his eyes felt as heavy as they did the seconds before they shut.
Hours later, he awoke revitalized. He'd had no dreams or nightmares this time. The glow of the sun warmed the deck of the ship. He smiled and stood, but a piercing pain erupted in his head and he doubled over.
"Stay calm. Let the communication happen," Throg said.
A face took shape when he closed his eyes: a man, someone he thought looked familiar. Smooth skin, dark hair, and glimmering eyes were all Zach could make out. The image tried to speak to him, but like a car radio under a bridge, the message broke up.
"We... m-morning... v-valley," the man murmured. He disappeared as abruptly as turning a television off.
Zach's vision dissolved, and then focused as his head captured the experience.
"Wha-what just happened? I saw s-someone."
"Your link to the Assembly contacted you. He is trying to send a message. Did he say anything?" Throg asked, as if such correspondence was commonplace.
Zach rubbed his temples because a slight throbbing remained. "I couldn't make out most of the words. He did say something about a valley."
Throg patted his back. "The irritation will pass, and the next connection will be easier. Valley, eh? I hope it's not Tomb Valley. We must hike through the Cark to get there—a death trap."
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