William Wilde and the Necrosed (The Chronicles of William Wilde)

by Davis Ashura

  Isha grinned and wiped away a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

  He feinted for a single-leg takedown, but Serena slid to her left. As expected, he sent a straight left tunneling through the air where her head had been. It missed by inches.

  “Good,” Isha said. “Whatever changes you are going through, at least you still remember how to fight.”

  “What are these changes you keep referring to?”

  “Must I explain everything to you? Or can you not deduce it on your own?”

  “I can deduce truth, but what you see may only be your imagination or misinterpretation.”

  Isha nodded agreement. He wiped at his mouth again, but it was a ruse. Before Serena could dodge, Isha bull-rushed her. He clasped his arms beneath hers. Serena leaned down at the waist, making him carry some of her weight. She sprawled, doing her best to hold him back, but he pulled her off balance and snuck one foot between hers. A simple trip, and she crashed to the mat.

  Before he could gain control she slipped out from beneath him. She placed her feet on his hips and pushed. He twisted away from her thrust. She pushed again, but once more he moved aside. He fell back on top of her, a threat to gain control.

  “Contentment,” he said. “You like it here. You like your life here, and I sense your desire for what we both know can never be.”

  She recognized the truth in his words, and they fired an anger inside her. How could she have been so foolish? Worse, how could she have allowed Isha to see it? Stupid, stupid girl. Her sister might pay the price for her idiotic dreams.

  Serena made a grab for Isha’s wrists. When he worked to twist them free, she used the distraction to kick again at his hips. This time it worked. She got him off her and regained her feet.

  “Break,” Isha called.

  “There is no contentment, sir,” Serena lied. “I am as I was when we first arrived here, focused on the completion of my pilgrimage.”

  Isha shook his head. “You’re lying, but your secret is safe with me.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “I am your Isha. Do you really think you can lie to me on such an important matter?”

  Serena blinked, unsure what to say. Isha was right, and she tried to mask the sudden fear that filled her. What would he do with this truth? Would he tell her father about this failing?

  “Leave it be,” Isha said. “I know what’s in your heart, but your father, the Servitor, never will. Not from me.”

  His words allayed Serena’s worries; nevertheless, she shook her head again and denied Isha’s words. “There is nothing in my heart that is worthy of the Servitor’s attention.”

  Isha scowled. “You take me for a fool?” A moment later he sighed. “So be it. We will pretend that what I sense is merely my imaginings. Now, tell me. What do you know of these friends of our Mayna, William Wilde?”

  “I’m almost certain that Mr. Zeus and Jason are asrasins, both are magi, masters of the craft,” Serena answered. “I’m not as sure about Daniel and his family, though.”

  “Why Mr. Zeus and Jason?” Isha asked.

  “There was a quiet tension about Jason when I raised the notion of true magic once. His reaction was telling.”

  “What kind of reaction?”

  “A quick intake of breath, a narrowing of his eyes, and tension in his shoulders. The kind that told me he knows magic is real,” Serena answered. “Also, while his interest in Eastern martial arts isn’t exceptional, his training with the longsword is an oddity. He has apparently mastered a dead European fighting style, one hardly known by anyone anymore.”

  “Except those who remember it as it was originally taught,” Isha mused.

  “And if Jason is an asrasin, it would logically follow that his grandfather must be one as well.”

  “You may be right,” Isha said. He stroked his chin in thought. “If you are, then you must be extremely cautious around those two. All of them really, including Daniel, Lien, and the rest of the Karllson family.”

  “When have I been anything less?”

  “Do you truly wish an answer to that?” Isha asked. “Or do you not recall our earlier conversation about contentment? Or what your father would do if he knew.”

  Kohl Obsidian gradually woke and stared at the ceiling of his cave. He blinked. Stalactites, broken like his teeth, met his gaze, but no bats. They wisely avoided his cave. All animals did.

  Kohl had been dreaming again. It had been so pleasant, a true memory.

  A young asrasin, newly birthed to his power, had knelt helplessly before Kohl, begging for mercy. Kohl had pretended to consider it, and just as hope had bloomed on the youth’s face, he had killed the asrasin and feasted upon his pure lorethasra.

  It had been the last time he had tasted such a lush meal. In fact, he could count such occurrences on just one of his mangled, decaying hands, the one with four fingers.

  But something insisted on breaking into his repetitive litany of desires. He sensed a tremor on the wind, a stirring of lorasra that drifted across the world, a current only a necrosed could feel. Something to do with the boy. He remained nothing more than a potential, but . . . Kohl tasted something about him, something unfelt until now.

  Kohl frowned and focused on the boy. What was it? What was different about him? Kohl strained his senses, trying to piece together what he had felt.

  Minutes passed before the answer came to him.

  Carried along with the boy’s scent, for a single, easily missed moment, came the rich aroma of uncorrupted lorethasra, mature and vibrant. He detected asrasins about the boy, asrasins who were alive and powerful.

  Excitement built, and Kohl’s decayed heart beat faster, circulating the pus-like fluid that was his life’s blood, even as he struggled to hold onto caution. What he had briefly sensed had been as faint as a single flick from a dragonfly’s wings, and it might still be nothing more than his imaginings.

  With a soft hiss, Kohl straightened his stiff limbs and rose to his substantial height. The cave in which he nestled would have been considered large by most men, but the necrosed was no man. When he stood up, the cave seemed to shrink as Kohl’s head brushed the ceiling, and he crawled out of his barrow, like a massive, deformed wolverine. Outside, he held still and inhaled the cold air, trying to recapture the scent that had awakened him.

  His heart slowed to its regularly irregular, bradycardic tempo, and Kohl lifted his nose to the winter wind. He stood poised like that for hours. Snow dusted his head and shoulders, collecting at his feet, but Kohl remained unmoving.

  There! He sensed it again, the pure, potent lorethasra of a mature asrasin.

  Kohl’s heart beat faster once again, and hunger thinned the gelatinous pus of his blood. His thoughts, as sluggish as the rhythm of his heart, grew crisper and colder, more certain. As the fog cleared from his mind, his hunger, easily unheeded when he slept, grew more difficult to overlook.

  He had to feed, and if the sensations carried upon the lorasra were true, he soon would. The scents of asrasins, many asrasins, had been wrapped up in the feeling of the boy. Enough for Kohl to feast as no necrosed had in thousands of years. Possibly even enough to challenge Sapient Dormant for leadership of their kind.

  A tingle of pleasure sparked along Kohl’s pustulant heart.

  He would soon collect the boy, and it would be good.

  A realization came to Kohl, one that took away his budding pleasure. He was weak. He wasn’t prepared to defeat so many asrasins. They would overcome him in his present condition.

  His thoughts turned inward. Kohl needed to wait. He needed to ready himself with proper rest. He needed the dreamless state, the deepest sleep a necrosed could achieve. It was always a risky proposition. The dreamless state would leave him vulnerable, but it was a risk worth taking.

  The boy and those asrasins with him would make it so.

  November 1986

  The football season ended late for St. Francis because after defeating Archbishop Roman on Ha
lloween, they advanced to the playoffs. Two more grinding wins led them to the state championship game against St. Loyola, Cleveland’s powerhouse city champion. St. Francis won in a blowout, the school’s first state football championship.

  The Monday following the state title victory, a school-wide assembly acknowledged the football team’s success and prepared for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.

  For most folks it was a time of celebration, but for William, the holidays remained a time of melancholy. He missed his family, especially now around Thanksgiving, his favorite time of the year. There wouldn’t be any gathering in the kitchen in the morning, all of them cooking together, talking, laughing, and sharing in the feast. There would be no watching football in the afternoon while Mom read a book. There would be none of the joy of simply being together.

  And with football season finished and no other worries to occupy his mind, his family’s absence ached like a wound. William tried to console himself that maybe the holidays wouldn’t always be like this, that maybe with new memories and the passage of time it would eventually get better.

  But that time had yet to come.

  With those doleful thoughts in mind, William attended Thanksgiving dinner, along with Jason and Mr. Zeus, at the Karllsons’ home. Their food and company proved to be exactly what William had needed.

  He found a way to laugh and temporarily put aside his sorrow.

  The only problem was that he ate too much. After the feast, he could barely manage a waddle, stuffed like the Thanksgiving turkey he’d helped consume.

  “Do you think you can make your way home?” Mr. Zeus asked him with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  William groaned. “Now? I thought we were going to see the new Star Trek today.”

  “Another nerdboy film?” Lien asked.

  “You say it like that, but we both know you want to see it, too,” William said.

  “Aren’t there whales or something in it?” Daniel asked.

  “It won’t take long,” Mr. Zeus said with a flash of annoyance. “You can see the movie later.”

  William sighed. “Yes, sir.” He levered himself to his feet.

  Jason already waited by the front door. The three of them said their ‘good byes’ and ‘thank yous’ to the Karllsons and headed back to their own place.

  “What did you want to talk about?” William asked after they settled into the family room of their home. Jason and Mr. Zeus both wore uncharacteristically serious expressions, and unease wormed across William’s mind. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” Mr. Zeus answered. “But it’s time you learned the truth about who you really are, and who we are.”

  William flicked an uncertain glance between Mr. Zeus and Jason. “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t mean to sound so ominous,” Mr. Zeus said with a rueful smile. “But what I’m about to tell you will tax your trust in us.” He cleared his throat. “Let me start at the beginning.

  “Jason and I are not from Louisiana, as we originally told you. Well, Jason is, but our true home is an island called Arylyn. It’s a secret place, hidden away in the South Pacific, and not recorded on any map you’ve ever seen. It is an island of magicians. Magi, or more generally, asrasins, is what we call ourselves.”

  William barked a laugh and waited for the punchline.

  None came. Mr. Zeus and Jason didn’t crack a smile. Their faces remained somber.

  William’s laugh trailed away. “Wait. This is just a joke, right? You guys aren’t serious?”

  Mr. Zeus shook his head. “This isn’t a joke, and we are serious. Maybe it would be easier if you saw what we mean.”

  Jason fetched five butter knives from the kitchen. “Watch.” He began juggling the knives, and they arched through the air. But not once did Jason touch them. The knives moved in slow and sedate arcs, supported by nothing but air. They came to a halt, shifting about until they formed a perfect circle in midair. Then they stopped moving.

  William’s mouth dropped open. What the hell? He blinked his eyes, rubbed at them, but the unmoving, unsupported knives mocked his attempts at rational thought. Impossible. It made no sense. William wanted time to rewind so he could figure out what Jason had done.

  “It’s a trick, right?” William asked, glancing between Mr. Zeus and Jason. “Some kind of illusion.”

  “No trick. No illusion,” Mr. Zeus said. “It is true magic. Asra, we call it. The Beautiful Art.” He held out his right hand, and a marble-sized ball of fire slowly formed on his palm, neon-purple with small streaks of crackling, white lightning. He transferred it to his left hand and rolled it along the back of his knuckles.

  A flick of Mr. Zeus’ wrist, and the ball flew to William. It orbited him, radiating heat like a miniature furnace. Then it dashed off, flitting through the room and lighting all the candles before popping out of existence in a puff of smoke. With its disappearance, a lavender scent filled the room.

  William realized his mouth had fallen open again, and he shut it. Mr. Zeus and Jason had his undivided attention.

  “We show this to you because when we came to Cincinnati it was for one reason and one reason only. You.”

  William’s heart beat as fast as a rabbit’s, cornered by a wolf. “Me?” His mouth was dry, and the word came out as a squeak.

  “You,” Mr. Zeus affirmed. “Those born on our island, Arylyn, are all magi, and those born in the Far Abroad, the rest of the world, are not. Lorethasra does not usually course through the ley lines of their lives, but sometimes it can and sometimes it does.”

  William recognized most of the words Mr. Zeus used, but taken together they sounded meaningless. Lorethasra? Ley lines? What was Mr. Zeus talking about? William struggled to make his mind work, to bring order to a suddenly disordered world, but it was hard to think with so many random questions flooding his thoughts. Of course, Jason’s floating butter knives made it that much harder.

  “At its most basic,” Mr. Zeus explained, “there is lorethasra, the inner magic, what’s inside a person, and lorasra, the outer magic, what’s inside a place, like a field or an island. The inner magic cannot survive without the outer, and in such a situation the magus dies.”

  William finally got his mind moving. “Cincinnati has enough of this outer magic?”

  Jason chuckled. “Cincy is a great town, but no, it doesn’t have enough outer magic. There’s one place here that has some of it, but it isn’t enough for what we need. Thousands of years ago it was different. Places with lorasra, the outer magic, we call them saha’asras, were all over the place, but not anymore. Now they’re rare.”

  “Why?”

  “An explanation for another time,” Mr. Zeus said. “Let’s return to why we’re telling you this in the first place.

  “We came to Cincinnati because you are one of those rare individuals who, should you be exposed to a saha’asra, your lorethasra—your inner magic—will kindle to life. Your priming.”

  Surreal didn’t begin to describe how this Thanksgiving had ended up, and William shook his head in disbelief. “If I go to some place that has this outer magic, my lorethasra,” he stumbled over the unfamiliar word, “will change or something?”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Zeus said with a nod. “Your lorethasra will come to life, and you will become a magus.”

  William kept thinking he’d wake up, that all this would turn out to be a very vivid, eating-too-much-Thanksgiving turkey-induced dream. But nothing changed. Mr. Zeus and Jason continued to wear solemn expressions as they stared at him.

  “But it comes with a price,” Mr. Zeus continued. “Once your lorethasra comes to life, you can only ever live in a saha’asra. If you go too long without the outer magic, you will die.

  “As far as we know, there are only two such saha’asras on Earth that can support our kind,” Mr. Zeus continued. “Arylyn is one. The other is a place called Sinskrill. It is the home of humanity’s mortal enemies.”r />
  Mortal enemies? A fog blanketed William’s thoughts. He nodded stupidly, but he knew a million questions would come as soon as the shock of all this wore off.

  “Those of Sinskrill are jealous, cruel, and vindictive,” Mr. Zeus said. “Think of goblins and orcs from Lord of the Rings, and you will understand the kind of people who call Sinskrill home.”

  Understand? William wanted to laugh at such an absurdity. He remained as far from understanding Mr. Zeus’ story as an ant might understand the sun.

  “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Jason asked.

  “You think?” William scoffed. “You’re telling me magic is real. I have it, and if I want to stay alive I have to go to some place that no one’s ever seen because of something I’ve never heard of.” His eyes narrowed, and his slumbering anger stirred. “If all that’s true, then how do the two of you get by?”

  “We have a way, but it isn’t easy.” Mr. Zeus grimaced. “Our lives here are pale shadows of what we experience on Arylyn. Here we always feel less than we should, a little slower, weaker, and duller. It is unpleasant. You would understand what we mean should you decide to trust us and choose what we offer.”

  “Trust you?” William’s anger burned hotter. “The two of you have been lying to me for two years, and you think I should trust you? Give me one reason why!”

  “We’ve had reasons for our secrets,” Mr. Zeus answered.

  “We would have told you the truth a long time ago, but then your family . . .” Jason said.

  His words did little to mollify William’s growing outrage.

  “We truly would have spoken earlier, but we needed to get to know you,” Mr. Zeus said. “We needed to learn if you were worthy of a magus’s power. By the time we determined that you were, your family had tragically died and you were in no position to hear us out. I’m sorry we had to hide this from you. Believe me, we would have spoken to you sooner if we could have.”

  William’s anger simmered down some, but his sense of betrayal lingered.