That these powers would cost our memories makes sense. This power originates in our minds. Why, then, would it not also demand something of our minds? This theory cast fresh light on many small moments from early in our research. There were times when one of us would test a new application of the powers and then forget a simple detail mere seconds after the procedure ended. At the time, we attributed the forgetfulness to excitement. Since the others could always fill in the gaps of memory, it never worried us.
But now, as I think of Ansel regaining consciousness with parts of his mind blank, I wonder about my own mind. What holes have festered there since the day the purple glow enveloped us? What gaps have gone unnoticed? What are the things I don’t even realize I have forgotten?
This is the purpose for this record. I must put every thought to paper. I must explain every breakthrough and every technique, for my own sake, and for Samson’s and Ansel’s.
I fear what Merovech has wrought upon this world. I fear we are the only ones who can stop it. And I fear what might happen if we forget anything more.
x x x
After hours of writing, I have told our story as best I can. I wrote with only occasional periods of rest since Ansel created the second tryfnium blade. It is late, and my hand aches, but this project could not wait.
I explained to Ansel and Samson my theory about the link between our powers and our memories, and they found it compelling. They agreed to help me compile this, the Book of Memory. We sat around the work table, telling the same story to each other, and surprising ourselves with the gaps in our minds. This account features many details which I cannot remember, though Samson or Ansel remember them clear as day. I still wonder, how much of our story is gone forever? How many of the holes in my mind align so perfectly with those in Ansel’s and Samson’s that none of us notices the absence of memory?
Perhaps, years from now, I will pick up this tome, my mind wiped clean of all memory after using so much power. Perhaps that day I will ask whether the memories we put to paper are to be trusted. The only assurance I can offer—whether to myself, to Samson or Ansel, or to anyone else who reads this record—is that in this moment, as I write with sore fingers yet to burn with arthritis, I am satisfied with the account presented here. Surely details and events are missing, but what I have written in these pages is sufficient motivation to fight against the blight. It is sufficient motivation to stand against Merovech’s obsession with Tir Anhrefnus.
My eyes are drooping, and my fingers are growing stiff, but all this writing has been healing in a way I did not expect. Putting all these years to paper has clarified them in my mind. To tell these stories to Samson and Ansel—stories of which they are a part—and to listen to their own versions of the same stories, has released something I never realized was trapped inside me.
And so I will push onward, just a little further.
Ansel will continue forging an arsenal. He plans to create weapons and armor for each of us, though I fear there may not be time to finish the task. Every time we re-enter the city, we find it in worse repair. The blight spreads with alarming speed, and outside our tryfnium weapons, there is nothing that can stand against it.
Complicating matters even further is Merovech’s commitment to Tir Anhrefnus. As he continues to explore that terrible world, he invites more blight into ours, and that blight spreads just as fast as the blight which was already there. For this reason, I plan to confront Merovech as soon as possible. If anyone can convince him to stop his experiments, I must do it.
I fear my words will not be enough. I fear that world has taken hold of him and infected him. I fear he will only leave Tir Anhrefnus alone if he is killed.
And I fear I may have to be the one to do it.
x x x
I went to see Merovech today. Prepared as I was for a difficult conversation, I still left sick to my stomach and chilled to the bone. Until now, I had only theorized that Merovech survived that day in the arcanum, that he remained there to continue his dark projects. But now I have seen my fears made flesh. Now I know what is at stake.
I want to go to bed. I want to forget my experience, but I must share as many details as I can. If I lose this memory, if I sacrifice it on the altar of my powers, I will thank myself for recreating the scene as meticulously as possible within these pages.
It was easy enough to travel through the city to the arcanum. The blight had spread, and occasionally I had to hide from various poor souls who’d become infected, but I never found my way so blocked that I could not take a simple detour to avoid the blight’s deadly reach.
The closer I drew to the arcanum, the more I discovered pools of blight, called into this world during Merovech’s repeated sojourns into Tir Anhrefnus.
By the time I reached the arcanum, I was certain I would find the blight crawling up and down the walls, pulsing up and down our old arcanum. Instead, the small building was relatively clean. Whether this suggested Merovech’s authority over where the blight crossed into our world, or something else, I do not know. Those explanations are the least of my concerns, anyway. What was inside the house is what will haunt my dreams the rest of my days.
I entered to the sound of grunting and clanging tools. The representative’s infected body had wandered out of the arcanum, but his head remained where we left it, rooted to the floor by the blight leaking out of every orifice. I sidestepped it, avoiding the range of the infection, while also gripping the tryfnium dagger, willing its power to comfort me.
I called Merovech’s name. As I saw it, our conversation would go better if I did not startle him. I was already coming to ask something of him which he would find loathsome. Best to announce myself in the least offensive way possible.
But he did not answer me. The grunting and clanging continued, unabated.
I called again, drawing closer this time. When there was again no answer, I knew Merovech’s work commanded his full attention.
I followed the sounds through the wreckage. Less-used supplies still littered the arcanum’s floor. There were markings on the wall here and there, a collection of strange symbols I’d never seen before, all carved hastily into the plaster. I ran a hand along the familiar surfaces, remembering not only our harrowing bout against the infected representative, but also the years of excitement and progress.
Even as I write these words, even with the knowledge of Merovech’s plans in mind, my heart aches for the days before we left him behind. Losing our friendship disturbs me nearly as much as knowing his intentions.
I reached the door to Merovech’s chamber, feeling like it had taken an eternity to arrive. I placed a hand on the knob, turned it, and entered.
The first thing that struck me was Merovech’s appearance. He was completely disheveled. His hair hung about his face, oily and knotted. The stench of sweat and urine emanated from his clothes. He was bone-thin, with wide, wild eyes.
I spoke his name once again, now a statement of pity rather than a greeting.
He looked at me. The intensity burning in his eyes was such that I took an involuntary step back.
“Merlin,” he said. His voice was hoarse and exhausted, but it also carried a determined urgency. “You’ve come back.”
All I could say was, “It’s been a long time, Merovech.”
He studied me, then asked, “How long?”
“Months.” I think it has been months. It has been longer than days. It cannot have been a year.
He nodded, the weight of my statement sinking in. He said, “I have been busy.”
With a wave of his skeletal hand, he indicated the chaos of his chambers. A smattering of tools lay scattered about the floor. He’d pushed his bed and desk against the wall to make space for a structure in the center of the room. It was an archway, covered with symbols similar to those carved into the walls outside his room.
“What are you building, Merovech?” I asked, afraid to hear his answ
er.
Merovech stared at his creation, hunger sparking in his hollow eyes. He said, “A door.” He caressed one symbol-covered end of the structure. A smile pulled at the corner of his lips.
I asked, “A door?”
Even then, I knew his response. Perhaps the only reason I asked was out of some misguided prayer that I had misunderstood him. I hoped he would respond with something innocent, or even something noble—that this terrible structure would help destroy the blight, not do what I feared it would.
Instead, he said, “A door to Tir Anhrefnus.”
My bones grew as cold as ice. My stomach became as heavy as a weight.
Merovech turned. Excitement blazed over his features, and behind it, a raging hunger growing stronger by the second.
He said, “Until now, I have not truly traveled there. I have sent my mind, perhaps even my soul, and I learned much.” A perverse shudder wracked his frame. “I cannot help but wonder...what more could I discover? What more am I capable of? What more could I unlock simply by traveling there, soul and body?”
Merovech looked back upon his creation and continued, “On my own, I cannot create a doorway large enough for my physical body. I can create only the tiniest of holes, and even these take a great deal of energy to hold open. This would store my energy. It would help me create a doorway and hold it open long enough to pass through.”
He whirled back, holding my gaze a moment, perhaps praying for my approval the same way I’d prayed for his denial. But neither of us would answer the other’s prayer. I wish I could say I argued with Merovech. I wish I could say I tried to speak sense to him, or even that I fought him and tried to end his research. But I did not. I am no hero. I am an old man who gained the powers of a god by accident, and I am unqualified to bear this mantle. The weight of what I have become is overwhelming.
I ran away.
I did not speak another word. I did not stop until I was in my room, where I sat immediately and began to write.
Merovech’s face still looms my mind. I want to cry. I want to vomit. How could the youth who begged me for an apprenticeship a century ago turn into this demon of a man? This power has warped him, and if he is not stopped, the consequences will be disastrous. One hope remains for our world. I have fought this idea since putting pen to paper this evening, but I see no other way.
I must kill Merovech.
x x x
Merlin is dead.
He came to us last night, waking first me, and then Samson. When Samson heard Merovech was attempting to build a portal to Tir Anhrefnus, he wanted to attack Merovech that very evening. He wanted to storm the arcanum. I cautioned against this, but Merlin’s panic and Samson’s passion only fueled one another. I was overruled, and the three of us went to confront our old companion.
But Merovech is too strong. There is a power in Tir Anhrefnus that he has learned to channel, and it makes our power look like a child’s magic trick. We were no match for him. Samson and I escaped, but Merlin was not so lucky.
I will never be able to erase the expression on our old mentor’s face as he died. This power wipes our minds clean, but no amount of power can lift his face from my memory.
I, Ansel, commit to writing in this Book of Memory in Merlin’s absence. Samson and I must stop Merovech, but it will require more power than we have ever used. It will cost more of our minds than we have ever given.
Even if nothing remains of us but blubbering, mindless husks, we must persevere. We must not allow Merovech to complete his portal.
THE TIN CAN MAN
1
Brendan stared at the yellowing pages of the Book of Memory. Two-thousand-year-old pen-strokes swam before his eyes. Before, the ramblings had been clinical, an eyewitness’s collection of facts about the tar’s origins. But something in this last passage grabbed hold of his heart. Merlin’s passion bled through the last words he’d written, and Ansel’s determination stoked a fire in Brendan's belly.
But more than either of them, Brendan understood Merovech the most.
He’d clearly gone insane. He’d brought the tar into the world, but he’d done it in pursuit of power. Could Brendan blame him? Merovech and his companions had tapped into something stronger than anything anyone else had ever encountered. Why wouldn’t they explore every possibility?
Brendan leaned into the musty backseat of Samson’s car. Krystal dozed next to him, stained with sweat and grime after repairing the tires.
Brendan caught Samson’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“Your friend killed Merlin.”
Samson’s body stiffened, his forearms bulging as he gripped the steering wheel.
“Merovech is not my friend.”
“No?”
“I have no more friends. I’ve lived too long for all of them.”
“What about Ansel?”
“I have not spoken to Ansel for centuries,” Samson grunted.
“And in all these years since, you haven’t made a single friend?” Krystal joined the conversation now. Her eyes were half-lidded, and her voice came out soft and slow, but a smile played at her lips. It wasn’t a mocking smile. It was the look of kindness she wore by default.
“No. All of my friends grew old and died. All of their grandchildren grew old and died. And I have remained the same. People are born around me, grow old around me, and they all die before me.”
A hush fell over the car. Even Krystal knew better than to push Samson further. But eventually, he spoke again, unprompted.
“I should have listened to Ansel. A full-on assault on Merovech had no chance of succeeding. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Merlin was blinded by his fear, and I was blinded by my passion. Ansel came with us, but only because he knew three of us had a better chance than two.”
The highway yawned before them, stretching out and screaming past. There was nothing but emptiness here, mile after mile of rolling hills and ragged trees. It was one of those rare stretches left mostly unmarked by humanity’s telling footprints, and so it went untouched by the tar. Looking over the expanse, Brendan tried to imagine a world before the tar—a safer world where it wasn't foolish to trust, to love, to venture out after dark. Where society held more complexity than those who held power, and those who depended on them.
But if Samson was correct, that world was only possible if Brendan gave up his powers over the tar. Brendan remembered how it felt on top of his throne of tar in the Hotel Shalom. He remembered the expression on Marcus’s face as he’d threatened him with infection. He remembered the knowledge that he could become a god and the rushing thrill of power. He imagined a world where all the tar served him.
Brendan weighed the two worlds in his mind. He could not say immediately which he preferred.
2
“Now would be a good time to fasten your seatbelts.”
Brendan’s attention snapped from the scenery racing past the window to Samson’s face in the rearview mirror. The old man’s eyes glittered, and his voice surged with intensity. The command was so forceful, Brendan took the musty strap and snapped it in place almost automatically. Next to him, Krystal did the same.
Samson revved the engine, and the car lurched ahead.
“What’s going on?” Brendan asked.
“Behind us,” Samson replied.
Brendan twisted in his seat. A mile or two behind them, a vehicle sped along the highway. Bigger than Samson’s car, it rolled on massive tires with spikes jutting out from rusted-over hubcaps. The vehicle was painted a matted black that reflected no light in spite of the bright afternoon sun. Its front windshield was tinted as dark as the rest of the vehicle.
But most importantly, it kept pace with Samson.
“What is that thing?” Brendan asked.
He’d never seen a car move as fast as Samson’s, not in this era of bio-power. No matter how efficient the transfer of energy from man to mach
ine, nothing had yet matched the power of gasoline. And as far as Brendan knew, the only gasoline in the world was the stuff Samson conjured in his own gas tank.
So how did the car behind them move so fast?
Brendan turned ahead. Samson either hadn’t heard his question or had chosen not to respond. The gray-haired wizard squinted at the road and leaned into the steering wheel, willing the car to pick up speed. The old vehicle ate up highway, but as Brendan glanced behind, there was no more distance between them and their pursuer. If anything, the large black car had gained on them.
“Can’t you go faster?” Krystal asked.
Samson shook his head. “This car couldn’t take it. It’s barely holding together as it is.”
He was right. Every part of the car rattled. Brendan wondered if even this speed was too fast. If they kept this up much longer, the whole thing might shake itself to pieces.
Samson set his jaw, Brendan settled back into his seat, and tense silence fell over the car. There was nowhere they could go to lose their pursuer—no alleys to duck into or streets to dart through. There was only mile after mile of open road, lined on either side by thick forest.
And then, from the dark tangle of trees, burst two more cars.
They were identical to the one behind them, large and black with spiked tires. Up close, Brendan heard their engines. Rather than the industrial roar of Samson’s gas-powered vehicle, they made a familiar high-pitched hum. These things ran on bio-power, but they were bigger and faster than anything Brendan had ever seen. The two hulking vehicles kept perfect pace with Samson’s car, a few feet behind him on either side.
“PROVE TO US YOU’RE CLEAN.”
Unseen speakers amplified the voice, so loud it might as well have come from inside Samson’s car. Brendan couldn’t tell which black car the voice came from, but it didn’t matter. Especially since Samson had no intention of complying.
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