Shackles of Light (The Mal'Ak Cycle Book 2)

by Christopher A. Nooner

  He made his way to the Land Rover and tried to look like he was oblivious to her. He rifled through his duffle just to seem busy.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  The world around him slowed and darkened as she created a pocket outside of reality around them.

  “He uses you,” her sultry voice hissed.

  He turned and casually sat back on the bumper as he searched for her. He found her quickly enough, his new eyesight easily pierced her contrived darkness.

  Her husky laugh sent his hackles up.

  “He’s made you his dog.” She paced the edges of the dappled light. “How fitting.” Her disdain for his new gifts dripped from her tongue.

  He shifted slightly to place his body over his feet and readied himself to spring. He reveled at the power he felt coursing through his muscles.

  It was another easy choice to let himself be changed again from a mortal man to something inhuman with the potential of immortality.

  Eskeilay, the woman, emerged from the deepest shadows, a sneer rooted on her sublime face.

  A new ecstasy filled him as he envisioned his teeth on her throat, her blood seeping between them.

  “You have no idea what I am now,” he teased.

  “Nor do you,” she replied. “I smell his foulness. He’s claimed you. He owns you, like the dog you are.” She paced to the side keeping her eyes firmly on him as if she knew what he intended to do. “You have no idea what you are doing. What your Master is having you do.”

  He grinned, a baring of teeth that suggested dominance. He shrugged. Talking was a waste of time and energy. Action was, after all, louder than words.

  Marks was a blur as he sprang. He relished the transformation, the fusing of man and beast. He was powerful and fast beyond anything he had experienced as a mortal. His grin turned to a snarl as his mouth extended and his teeth enlarged.

  Two can play this game, he mused as his maw stretched wide.

  His jaw snapped closed but caught only air. The force of the bite bounced his mouth back open and shot bright spots into his eyes.

  His feet tore the ground when he turned, his eyes searched, and his nose tested the air.

  Marks was fighting for purchase, feet churning, when she hit him. Her force knocked him onto his back and carried her down to his chest.

  He struggled and snapped at her, but her weight and leverage kept him pinned in the grass.

  She purred in his ear, “I will spare you this once. You have made me your enemy. Next time I feast.”

  She was gone, and the darkness with her when he regained his feet.

  He cursed and shook his fur covered head. Hot drool flung from his bared teeth. He clenched his fists in furious hate. His body shook with rage and adrenaline.

  He was only growing stronger. He had yet to gain full use of his gifts. Next time he would be the one to feast. Next time she would pay for her arrogance.

  He was in the same room when he opened his eyes, or at least one that looked the same. Something was different, though. It wasn’t just the clarity of it, but the feel. Damp cold replaced the dry warmth, blue light replaced orange.

  Eli’s movements were slow, his arms and hands followed by tracers as if he were in a room with a flashing strobe, or he was dosed with purple caps or LSD.

  He was steadier though, and the general pain was a dull throb, numbed or healing he couldn’t tell.

  He stood with a bit more ease. The head rush that followed was a pale comparison to the last one. He made it to the door without having to stop for air. It was improvement.

  I’ve been here too long. His stomach turned with the thought of Keezie and Ammonih. He closed his eyes and pushed the vision of the demon mauling them away.

  The tracers didn’t fade, but his head felt too clear to be pumped full of the psychotropics that would cause this level of hallucination.

  He pulled the door open and staggered backward as a strong gust of hot air blasted past him into the cold room. He stumbled forward as he was forced out of the room with the cold air and into the hall.

  His hands shot out to brace himself on the door frame. It was instinct, his injuries forgotten in the moment. His right shoulder collapsed simultaneously with a ragged cry of pain. He pitched forward onto the ground, not noticing or caring how the warm rock of the floor cracked against his knees and left palm, scraping the skin and bruising bone.

  He wiped the tears of pain that welled in his eyes and slowed his breath to take control of his body. He rolled onto his tailbone and leaned against the doorframe.

  Flashes of his encounter with the mantis assaulted him. He knew it was bad. Bad enough that he should be dead. Bad enough that he didn’t want to look at himself and see the evidence of that damage.

  What happened? The question kept repeating itself. Bouncing around in his battered skull. Everything had deserted him. Everything. Even Asahel.

  His fingers crept over his shoulder massaging and exploring the scar that bisected his arm from his torso. It was ragged and wide. At least three fingers wide from what he could tell. It must have almost completely removed his arm from his body. How it was even usable baffled him.

  His fingers wandered to his chest where the spikes on the creature’s limbs had trapped him while it chewed on his arm. A line of hard round scars ran from the right side of his neck down his chest to his stomach, maybe twelve, each one the size of a finger. He didn’t reach around to his back, but he knew that he would find mirrored scars there as well.

  He sighed and tilted his head forward. He cracked his eyes open and looked down at his left leg where the demon’s dagger foot had impaled him. Again, the wound was healed, but was pink and puckered almost like a burn. It was the size of a mason jar and almost as round. His body had been destroyed, and without his power to heal it should have been impossible that he was still alive; but, the intensity of his pain argued otherwise.

  He knew he there were other injuries, ones just as horrible as the ones he could see, maybe worse. The demon’s weight crushed his hips, and in the process had to have destroyed at least some of his organs.

  Eli’s shallow breathing rattled his chest. Why couldn’t I have just died? His face burned with shame as he thought it. He meant it. At least a significant portion of him did.

  There was a piece of him that didn’t. It was new and surprising in its strength. He sought its source, followed it down to the origin. He wasn’t prepared. How could he be? He had partitioned himself to avoid this very thing.

  Keezie.

  He needed to find her, and if she was dead, he needed to destroy those who’d made it happen.

  He raised his head, rage cleared his vision, and blessed his body for a moment with a surge of adrenalized energy.

  Three tiny beings stood silent at the end of the hall in front of him. They were, at most, three feet tall, but proportional not dwarfed. They wore buckskins decorated with tiny beads. Their long white hair that brushed the ground. Butterfly and dragonfly wings adorned their hair like feathers worn in the hair of his people. They were old, ancient even, as told by the thick wrinkles in the skin of their faces and hands.

  They looked at him with clouded eyes, mouths set to stoic.

  “Hello,” he rasped, forcibly pushing the word out of his dry closed throat.

  Without reply the pygmy trio moved down the hall closer to him. They walked with the deliberate pace of the elderly. Not from fear of harm, but with the knowledge that neither minutes nor seconds gained or lost would tip the scale of the world more than thoughtful action.

  They stopped when they were within arms’ reach.

  “Halito, Mal’Ak, chim achukma?” The middle one’s voice was high, but not piercing like Tomtum’s had been. It was odd hearing the birdsong of Choctaw in so high a tone.

  “Keyo, sa yashoba,” He answered.

  The right one chuckled. “Lost? I suppose that it true. Though I thought you would describe your aches and pains in some detail. You were virtually de
ad when I got to you.” The other two glared at the speaker, but not before Eli recognized Tomtum’s voice. Tomtum coughed and covered his mouth. His face showing something not quite contrition and not quite irritation at being silenced.

  The left one stepped forward, “It has long been since we have seen your kind Mal’Ak; or your kind ours.” His voice was decidedly low compared to his companions. It was the timber of a five or six-year-old human child. “We weren’t certain that we would. You have taken longer than your predecessors.”

  Eli stared at the trio. He didn’t know what was happening, but he was certain there was no immediate danger. Not that it would matter. Even these three little ones could overpower him at this point.

  He studied them with edged curiosity. Their size and voices put him distinctly in mind of Mamat. That was not in their favor. He could certainly picture the little beast standing in front of him like this, in the flesh, somehow exuding confidence and superiority despite the discrepancy in size.

  The middle one held out his hand and turned it over, a small ancient blade of flint sat in his small palm. Tomtum held his out next, revealing a small brown pod, its red seeds bursting through the thin skin. The third turned his hand over and opened it. Inside were three purple berries, so dark they were almost black. “You must choose.” The first one stated flatly.

  Each footfall propelled Usok forward with speed and spectral silence. He could feel the skin move beneath the surface of his shaggy hair.

  He felt every change in wind and heat as it traveled the length of each individual strand of hair; down the follicle to tell its story to his nerves and from there his mind, though he knew it would be impossible to see the tiny flexions of muscle that kept them alert, they were nevertheless integral to his senses.

  The forest clamored around him, its buzz perpetual, he filtered for sounds that didn’t fit. All else was processed and discarded as unnecessary.

  The air was moist and heavy with decay. He could taste it in his nose and his tongue. Along with that was the faint but distinct scent of his quarry.

  He had to reach him soon. He had to be there in the moment he was needed.

  Not to guide him, no, he was never to do that. His was more a position of fellowship. A camaraderie with a common goal.

  He admired him. His struggle. His fight. His determination. Even when he fought against himself it was a worthy fight.

  He grinned.

  It would have been frightening if anyone had seen it. The great hound’s teeth bared, tongue lolling, the hair of his head blown back by the force of wind from his supernormal gait.

  He hoped his friend would not dally. He hoped he was well enough to finish this war without any power but that which was within his own mind.

  He doubled his speed. It would be better if he were waiting.

  He would not be late. Could not be late. Mal’Ak could not face the demon Kish alone, or he would die.

  Eli’s mind raced. Why must he choose? What right was it of theirs? A storm seethed inside him. It contorted his rage into a rampage that tested the bounds of his control.

  “No,” his voice was venom. How dare they demand anything of him. What gave them any right? The fuel of emotion pushed him upright. He glared down at them unconcerned with how his body shook and trembled.

  Tomtum stepped forward and placed a tiny wrinkled hand on his wrist, not in restraint but in sympathy. The kindness of it drained Eli entirely. He sank slowly down, his back pressed against the door frame.

  “He is not well enough,” Tomtum keened as he turned back to his peers.

  “He must be. There is no other choice for any of us,” said the middle one.

  “Let me speak with him first,” Tomtum’s voice was quiet, but shrill. “Please.”

  His companions nodded before they retreated out of sight down the hall.

  Tomtum sat cross-legged in front of Eli. He did so with care and patience that belied his shrill voice and loquaciousness.

  “You are Mamat’s people, aren’t you?” Eli queried, although he knew the answer.

  Tomtum nodded. “The ancient oracle is indeed of us,” he answered.

  Eli furrowed his brow. The little man spoke with an odd restraint, completely out of character from the voice that had badgered him in and out of consciousness. It was different even from the nervous rambling moments before. He was too tired for this. Too tired by half. “Just tell me what it is I don’t know that you are certain will save the world if I do.”

  Tomtum sighed, “That is the problem, Mal’Ak. It may not save the world if you know, but it will certainly doom the world if you don’t.”

  Eli blew out a breath, the sound that would accompany an impatient horse as it stamped its hoof.

  “You’ve certainly lived a strange life. Even for your people. I mean, goodness, you are so old for The Ablution. We thought you would never…” Tomtum giggled and covered his mouth. “I have such a hard time with conciseness.” He said by way of apology.

  Eli felt his body shake even seated as he was. A tiredness crept over him like the snaking tendrils of Wisteria in the summer sun to cover and strangle whatever it could reach. “You should hurry,” he prompted.

  “Oh, certainly. My apologies.” Tomtum cleared his throat and licked his lips in preparation for his recitation. “Your mantel is passed down from father to child, but not every child, just one per family. Some are never chosen, and some never pass the Ablution.” He paused and checked that Eli still paid attention. “The growth of the Mal’Ak is akin to a metamorphosis, there are four phases to gain your full power. First there is Kodesh, or the time of youth, where the Mal’Ak is protected with healing and other sundry skills to ensure he reaches The Ablution. You lived in the time of Kodesh longer than any Mal’Ak before you. Without guidance, it was never certain whether you could find your way to The Ablution.”

  Eli’s head spun. Full power? He had wandered the world for two hundred plus years without the full power of his kind?

  “You have entered the second phase, The Ablution. You were accepted, your name written in the book, and now you traverse the deadliest portion of your existence.” Tomtum paused again to let the information settle. “For seven days you have no power, no healing. You are mortal. Many have never passed this portion. Very, very few, indeed, have survived.”

  Eli swallowed hard. That explained some things. “How many days have I been here?” It was a double-edged question. One, he would know how much longer he was vulnerable, and, two, he would know how long he had left his friends alone and exposed because of his mistake.

  “Two,” Tomtum stated.

  The corners of Eli’s mouth lifted slightly. It must have been the shortest sentence of Tomtum’s long life. Still, it was packed with nuance and too much information for him to process quickly. “Go on,” he prompted.

  “If you live through The Ablution you would normally pass to an age of apprenticeship, or Quasgi, where you slowly learn your place, rights, and responsibilities; but there is no Danawa Mal’Ak to guide you. That means after The Ablution you will be the Danawa Mal’Ak and inherit your full power.” Tomtum stood and somehow managed to look down at Eli’s slumped body. “That is, if you choose wisely and survive the next five days.”

  Eli was furious. Once again, the complete unfairness and betrayal of his life slammed down on him. He was enslaved to a family, a responsibility, he never knew or chose. Now he was powerless and expected to carry on like he was not. What made him the most furious, though, was the knowledge that he would.

  Tomtum touched his forehead gently. “Part of your choice starts here, in Kwanokasha, with us.”

  “Fine,” Eli whispered.

  Tomtum turned and waved to the empty hall. He turned back to Eli. “You’ll have to choose. Without explanation.”

  Eli nodded his head and watched Tomtum’s companions as they appeared from wherever they hid and walked down the hall to them.

  The trio resumed their positions in front of him,
and once again extended hands that held their offerings.

  “You must choose,” the middle one intoned.

  It wasn’t a choice in Eli’s estimation, more a feeling or instinct. He really had no idea what the consequences of each choice would be, but it hardly mattered in such a blind test as this.

  He stared at the offerings more to give the impression the choice was a tough one than anything else. The knife was intriguing because of its obvious age and the perfection of the flint knapping itself. The Red Rosary Peas had their uses, if you wanted someone dead and quick. It was the berries that drew him though. The memory of their tartness filled his mouth. Elderberries. They had been Crooked Beak’s favorite remedy for colds and the croup. The old man kept a jar of them at all times.

  He took the berries from the little hand that held them and casually tossed a few into his mouth. He relished the burst of flavor that filled his mouth, the juice as it moistened the dryness and slid down his throat.

  Absorbed as he was he almost missed the subtle relaxation of the three little men. A relaxation that confirmed, whatever the point of the test, he had chosen correctly in their eyes.

  He looked into the eyes of the curious trio. They met his stare with steadiness, kindness even.

  The middle one stepped forward and bowed. “I am Chukka.”

  Chukka stepped back and the yet unnamed one stepped forward. He bowed as well before he spoke. “And I am Tubba. We of Kwanokasha are at your disposal, Mal’Ak.”

  Tomtum snickered. His companions turned disapproving eyes on him. He shrugged. “It’s not as if there are many of us left to be at his disposal now is there? I mean, thirteen does not a horde make. Not to mention the Ogress and the Dagwanoenyent. They certainly don’t make it any easier to aid him.”

  Chukka snorted. “We can help. Sort of.”

  “He doesn’t have much time. He’s already been here two days,” Tubba reminded them. “I’ll bet he’s starving. I know I am.”