Third Power

by Robert Childs

  “Fair enough. Now let’s talk about our future, you and I.”

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Steve snorted.

  Azinon smiled humorlessly at the young man’s sarcasm. “I think perhaps we have more to discuss than you might think. A change has come over you—one that I find most interesting. One that I think may come to serve us both well.”

  Steve arched an eyebrow stolidly, revealing more of the darkness swirling in his eyes. “Oh really? That’s a surprise coming from you.”

  “It should not be,” Azinon shrugged. “I admit the notion of the Third Power of Mithal, appearing in the body of someone as young as yourself, was difficult to embrace at first. But now that notion does not appear so farfetched. As the prophecy foretells, the savior of Mithal shall come from another world.” He shrugged then. “Why shouldn’t it be you?”

  Steve shrugged as well. “The point to all this?”

  “It’s simple: I want you to work for me.”

  Azinon’s expression did not change as Steve laughed in his face.

  “And why should I work for you?”

  “Because if you do not the death of an entire world shall rest solely upon your young, conscience-ridden shoulders.”

  Steve feigned surprise. “Oh really? A entire world? Well then, I guess we’d better get going.” He shook his head derisively.

  Azinon’s patience did not waver. “Surely the old wizard told you of the plague?” A glint of recognition appeared in the young man’s eye and Azinon smiled. “Ah, I see he has.”

  “He mentioned it,” Steve conceded.

  “Then let me make it perfectly clear. The plague is a disease of magical origin and does not discriminate over man or beast. Although sometimes differing in method, all those afflicted meet their end in a most terrible and agonizing manner. And even then, it does not stop. After death the body takes on a charred and withered appearance. Those who have already perished cannot be laid to rest in the ground; the people of Mithal fear, because of its magical origin, the plague will infest the very soil beneath their feet.” Azinon paused, as though reflecting, and then said, “Hundreds die each day from all the different races on Mithal.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Steve said, “that doesn’t bother you in the slightest.”

  “Undoubtedly the wizard’s words,” Azinon replied with a rueful smile. “Should it surprise you my enemy does not speak highly of me? His perspective is conveniently Manichean where I am concerned.”

  “He says you took the throne by force. I know that much is true. I saw everything in the Memsherar—right up to the point where you had the Emperor killed.”

  “His councilors, yes,” Azinon admitted. “They were influential within the kingdom, and that made them dangerous. But the former emperor yet lives, in the dungeons beneath the castle as punishment for his misdeeds.”

  “Okay then,” Steve said indifferent. “You say Haldorum is the bad guy; Haldorum says you are. Either way, I couldn’t care less. I don’t work for either of you. I’m only here for myself now.”

  “Then you would let Mithal die?” the sorcerer said, sounding unconvinced.

  “Maybe,” Steve shrugged.

  Azinon sat quietly for a time and then finally asked, “How can it be that you would risk your life to save the sister of your girlfriend, risk it again to save some hapless wench’s virtue, and still again to hunt down a nameless vagabond who robbed a clerk, only to refuse your help to an entire world which has prophesied your coming?” He pondered a moment and then said, “There is somehow a connection here, wouldn’t you say? Something between this and whatever power has changed you.”

  “Steve?”

  He turned at the sound of his name and was surprised to find Sonya standing over him, dressed in new blue jeans and a sapphire blouse.

  “I thought that was you!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You never mentioned it.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” he replied, and then self-consciously pushed his sunglasses to the top of his nose to hide his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m always here on Fridays—you know that.”

  “Of course, Steve, you knew that,” Azinon repeated. Rising from his seat he said, “Allow me, dear lady, for our friend appears in little temperament for introductions. I am Azinon. And you are?”

  “Sonya,” she finished. She blushed when Azinon raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

  “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he said.

  Steve rolled his eyes at the sorcerer’s unabashed flattery.

  Sonya seated herself beside her friend and asked, “Steve, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Not if it’s about what I think it is,” he replied levelly. In present company, he did not wish to discuss anything about the event in Mr. Nicoletta’s class. “Right now really wouldn’t be a good time.”

  Sonya glanced once to the stranger seated beside them and seemed to get the hint. “So what brings you guys out here?” she asked instead.

  Before Steve could capitalize on her attempt to change the subject Azinon responded, “Actually, Steve and I were just discussing plans for his future. It seems an old acquaintance of mine and I are at odds to employ him.”

  “Shut up,” Steve hissed. “She’s not a part of this.”

  “But our young friend here remains uncertain as to whose employment he shall court. Perhaps you could tell me something, my dear...”

  Steve moved with the speed of a striking serpent but the sorcerer caught his fist halfway across the table in the palm of his hand. Azinon’s grip was unnaturally strong and clamped down on Steve’s fist like a vice while his will flowed up the contact like a flash of electricity. Steve felt the sorcerer’s will reach into his mind, sifting through his memories and playing them back like a movie seen from behind his eyes. He fought back as Azinon paused over one memory in particular, and his anger flared anew as he relived it for the intruder in his mind.

  Their hands broke apart like snapping tension wire and Steve settled back angrily in his seat rubbing his hand.

  “Interesting,” Azinon said, looking thoughtful as he dabbed at a line of sweat that had formed on his brow with a kerchief. “Somehow, Amy is responsible for bringing out this callous, vengeful side of you.” He smirked. “How very interesting, and so very pathetic, all at the same time.”

  “Steve, what just happened?” Sonya asked slightly wide-eyed.

  Azinon went on as though Sonya were not even there. “Why deny it?” he asked. “Amy may have betrayed you, but look what it has done for you. You are free! Look in the mirror and tell me I am wrong.”

  “What happened between the two of us has nothing to do with you,” he growled.

  “I am not your enemy, young man. I came here because we need each other. If you restore my kingdom, as you are already destined to do, I will ensure no one ever hurts you again. On my world you will be revered; your power shall grant you the highest station in the realm, second only to my own.”

  Sonya looked from one to the other uncertainly. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Steve, has something happened between you and Amy?”

  “Nothing!” he barked. The force in his voice shocked her visibly, and to Azinon he said, “Amy betrayed me, yes, and I’m going to make damn sure she pays for it, but I don’t need your help with that.”

  The sorcerer effected a viper’s smile. “But help with Haldorum is another matter.”

  Steve could feel the First Power’s presence drawing closer, as Azinon undoubtedly did too. He closed his eyes and only with a maximum of effort did he prevent his rage from fulfilling its desire for him to stand and lash out at everyone around him; to prepare a battlefield of destruction until the wizard could get there. But he did not, though the next few words of his sentence were spoken through gritted teeth. “You want me to fix your world, fine, but you help me settle my score with that one. I’m not strong enough to do it alone.”
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  Azinon leaned back in his seat with a Cheshire smile, slowly folding his hands on the table before him. “Of course.”

  Sonya tapped Steve lightly on the shoulder and seemed to surprise him that she was still there. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He blinked several times, uncertain what to say for a moment, and then, “I don’t have any time for that.”

  Without another word, Sonya stood and left the table. Steve did not move for long moments, telling himself it didn’t matter, but he nevertheless watched her back as she maneuvered through the crowd away from him. He didn’t understand exactly why, but he did not want this to be the way he said goodbye. With a sigh, he rose to his feet.

  “Let her go,” Azinon said without emotion.

  Steve hesitated, conflicted.

  “You owe her nothing,” Azinon said. “She is nothing. Let her go.”

  If there was one thing she could certainly never be to him, it was nothing. Steve walked away and followed Sonya into the crowd. He caught up with her at the guardrail surrounding the sunken dance floor as she stood silent and unmoving, looking over the side.

  Now in the direct line of the blaring speakers he had to shout nearly at the top of his lungs to be heard. “I’m sorry, Sonya.”

  She did not turn.

  “Look, I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean it towards you.”

  She answered without looking up. “Does this mean you’re going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “About Amy?”

  Sonya shook her head. “I understand she hurt you somehow, but that’s your business. What I want to know is what’s going on with these strange people who keep popping up. And what the heck happened in class today?”

  “I—I can’t tell you that,” he said.

  Sonya whirled on him; beautiful, he noted, even when angry. “And why not? Steve, you’re into something that’s really starting to scare me. People don’t just pop in and out of rooms, and this latest friend of yours…” She shook her head. “What the heck is going on?”

  “I really don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

  Sonya tilted her head and gave him a look that told him exactly how ridiculous that sounded. “Not believe it? Steve, I’ve seen a tiger behave like you were the most important thing in the world to it, and an old man who makes people disappear with better special effects than Steven Spielberg. What’s left not to believe?”

  Steve’s life was growing ever more complicated and it was starting to wear. He wanted to tell her, truly, but telling her meant involving her—which he was sure they would both regret. But not telling her would leave her feeling he did not trust her—that he was selfishly keeping her in the dark—even if he was actually trying to protect her. She would resent him, and for some reason he could not readily identify that thought bothered him profoundly.

  Finally, he shrugged. “All right, fine. You want to know the truth? Then I’ll tell you, but not here. I’d prefer not to scream all this at the top of my lungs.”

  Sonya nodded and then Steve turned to go—only to find his way blocked by three tuxedoed men built like linebackers. The center man Steve recognized as the same bouncer who had attempted to bar his entry to the club. The other two were new faces: one a dark-skinned man sporting a head full of dreadlocks; the other a red-bearded, red-haired bruiser with a military crew cut.

  “Hiya’, kid,” Lyle said with eyes like a housecat that just found a flopping goldfish on the floor. “This is Dozer,” he said inclining his head first left—“and Brock,”—he finished with a tilt to the right. “They’ll be escorting you out—“ his eyes narrowed—“as soon as I’m finished.”

  Steve didn’t need to hear any more. This was just another headache he did not need, and his anger flared, flooding his every cell with blood-born magic.

  Lyle never even saw the front kick that felt like it could have launched his testicles to the back of his throat. Steve then pivoted on the ball of his left foot and side-kicked the big man in the chest with such force the bouncer left his feet for the second time that night, knocking down a half dozen club patrons like bowling pins as he went. The combination attack happened in less than a second and Steve was not finished yet. He seized the wrist of the man to his left—the red-haired man Lyle referred to as Brock—and simultaneously pulled the man’s arm to full extension while wrenching his wrist sharply clockwise. The suddenness of the move bent Brock over at the waist. Steve’s foot lashed out again, connecting with the man’s nose in an upward kick that snapped him up and over onto his back.

  Steve turned and the lights dazzled as Dozer’s fist met with his cheek. The blow rocked him off his balance, sending his sunglasses flying, and he staggered backwards into and over the railing behind him.

  Sonya shrieked as Steve disappeared over the side. Dozer was rubbing the knuckles of his fist with a smirk when Sonya swung at him. The bouncer caught first her right wrist as she attempted to slap him, then her left, and then smiled leeringly in her face before shoving her hard to the floor. Sonya landed painfully on her side, grimacing against the pain, but did not cry out.

  Steve soared back up over the rail as though rebounding from a trampoline below, tucking his legs up nearly to his chest as he cleared the handrail. He landed nimbly with the light of the crystal blazing on his chest. Dozer stepped forward with a wide right hook but his younger adversary dropped under this and struck him square in the abdomen with a fist like a sledgehammer. The bouncer’s knees buckled but Steve’s left hand shot straight up and seized him around the throat before he could hit the floor. The man’s eyes bulged as the young wizard tightened his grip and slowly stood upright with his arm at full extension. Feeling the power of the crystal coursing through his very blood, Steve lifted the bouncer off the ground and sneered at his prey’s desperate attempts to break the vice-like hold.

  The reflection of the crystal shined like distant twin stars in the pupils of the man’s bulging eyes as pure magical energy fueled Steve’s muscles and heightened his senses, feeding his rage. A wild-eyed smile split his face as he reveled in the feeling that nothing in the world could stand against him.

  Sonya watched from the floor open-mouthed at what should have been impossible. Steve should not have had the leverage with both hands—let alone the strength in one—to hold the huge man up at arm’s length.

  “Steve, don’t!” she cried.

  But he did not hear. Even the blasting music of the club could not match the roar of mystical energy flooding him.

  Sonya jumped to her feet and then stepped between Steve and the man he held in a murderous grip—and then gasped when she saw his eyes. “My God! Steve, what is happening?”

  She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. “Steve, please! Please don’t do this!”

  He did not move. He may well have been a stone statue for all outward signs of acknowledgement—but he could feel Sonya’s warm body against him, and it edged him away from the madness.

  Why did it matter? What does she matter? He tried to force all other thoughts from his mind but the answer to his question echoed repeatedly in his thoughts.

  Because she is your friend. And she means something.

  Steve opened his hand and Dozer slumped like a two-hundred and fifty pound sack of potatoes to the ground. The fitful gasps of air he drew in told everyone the bouncer was going to the hospital, but he would be all right.

  Sonya held him even tighter and placed a hand soothingly on the back of his head. “It’s okay, Steve. We’re going to figure this out.”

  The sweet smell of her hair filled his nostrils and he slowly, hesitantly, raised his arms and hugged her back.

  At their feet, a shimmering blue line traced a large circle around the two of them. In the next moment, startled screams erupted from the crowd as a column of intense blue light erupted like a geyser and swallowed the two young people in an instant. And then it was gone.

  Azinon’s
voice resonated with magical power as he flew up from his chair like a charging lion. “You dare!” he boomed. “He is mine!”

  “Was yours,” Haldorum returned just as loudly, his own voice an auditory illusion perceived by all within line of sight. “When next you meet him he shall be as he was before! I’ve seen to it.”

  Azinon looked to speak again, but instead reached down and wrapped his fingers around the shaft of one of the stone tables near him. He tore the furniture from the floor, the bolts securing it in place tearing like clay, and then hurled it at the elevated sound booth to the right of the gyrating pit of adolescent bodies. The disk jockey’s eyes widened a split second before he dived out of the way. The table smashed through the front glass wall of the booth, rending electrical equipment to fragments and cutting the music off abruptly amid a wild shower of sparks and falling safety glass. Young people on and off the dance floor looked shocked at the sudden wreckage.

  Over the murmurings of the crowd Azinon asked, “How did you find him?”

  Lurin and Haze moved from either side of the wizard but he motioned them still. “Does it matter?”

  Azinon snorted. “And where are the rest of your warriors, old man? You’ve never dared face me before without the whole of your precious Resistance at your back.” He turned his head and looked at him sidelong tauntingly. “Have you finally gone senile?”

  Haldorum appeared unphased by the taunt. “Your insults betray you, sorcerer; a paltry attempt to hide your fear, if ever there was one. Tell me, does the prophecy really have you so shaken?”

  Azinon laughed shortly. “The prophecy says the wheels of destiny shall be set in motion with the coming of the Third. Exactly what do I have to fear in that?”

  “Read the signs, Azinon. They speak for themselves.”

  A bald man with a salt and pepper mustache, dressed in a black suit, stepped up to Azinon clearly angered. Either a manager, or perhaps the owner himself, he pointed to the wreckage of the sound booth. “That was forty thousand dollars worth of equipment in there! I’m going to sue your ass for every penny of it and then some! You’ll wish you—“