by Clayton Wood
The man fell to the ground like a rag dog, bloody pink froth bubbling from his lips.
The other swordsman hesitated, glancing down at his fallen comrade. Darius reached for the hilt of his sword, slowly unsheathing the massive blade from its scabbard. The swordsman roared, swinging his sword at Darius. Darius stepped aside, the blade narrowly missing him, and swung his own sword, chopping at the man's neck. The man's head separated from his shoulders in a spray of red, falling to the ground. His headless corpse struck the ground next to it, limbs twitching once, then again. Darius stood over the body, staring coolly at the nine remaining men.
“What are you waiting for?” the bald man growled. “Get him!”
The men charged.
“Run!” Darius yelled, grabbing Kyle's arm and yanking him to the right. The bodyguard bolted, sprinting toward one of the swordsman rushing him. Darius swung his sword just as the other man did, his massive machete-like blade sending the man's sword flying from his hands. Darius shoved the man out of the way, sprinting past him, pulling Kyle along with. Kyle stumbled after the bodyguard, hearing shouting behind them. Pain shot through his ankle with every other step, and he cried out, his leg buckling underneath him.
“Darius!”
Darius cursed, stopping to pull Kyle up onto his feet.
“On my back, now!” he barked.
Kyle scrambled onto Darius's back, and the bodyguard sprinted forward again, running down the narrow corridor between the cliffs. Kyle glanced over his shoulder, seeing the swordsmen rushing toward them, only a few feet behind.
“Go, go!” Kyle yelled.
Darius picked up speed, bursting out of the corridor and into the open woods, dodging trees as he made a mad dash into the misty forest. Voices shouted behind them, men spilling out of the valley after them.
Kyle clung onto Darius's back, watching as they slowly pulled away from the men running after them, gaining distance with every step. He felt a surge of hope...they were going to make it!
Then he felt something slam into him, saw the world spinning madly around him. His shoulder smashed into the ground, air exploding from his lungs. He saw Darius land a few feet away, his temple bouncing off of the hard dirt.
The bodyguard lay there on the ground, lifeless.
Kyle gasped for air, loose dirt filling his nose and mouth. He coughed, his nose and throat burning, tears welling up in his eyes. He rolled onto his back, falling into a fit of coughing again. He blinked away his tears, seeing a shadowy figure descending through the mist from high above.
Black boots, then a hint of red fabric. A blood-red cloak, its thick fabric billowing in the breeze. Pulled tight at the waist by a thick black sash, a green diamond-shaped symbol sewn into it.
It was a man, Kyle realized. A man in a red cloak, his features hidden behind a deep cowl. The cloaked figure continued to descend, landing a few feet away from where Kyle and Darius lay. Kyle heard the clamoring of footsteps behind him, arched his neck to see the swordsmen forming a ring around them.
The man in the red cloak stared down at Kyle and Darius. The bald swordsman walked up to Darius, kicking him onto his back with a shove of his boot.
“Nice try,” he muttered. He glanced up at the cloaked man. “Bastard managed to kill Ricart and Goff.” He stepped on the bodyguard's right forearm, reaching down and taking Darius's sword from him. Or at least he tried to; he struggled to lift the massive sword, barely able to do so, even with two hands.
“He’ll be dealt with,” the cloaked man replied.
“I'll deal with him right now,” the bald man promised, dropping Darius's sword and grabbing the hilt of his own with both hands. He raised the sword above his head, then swung it down in a vicious arc at Darius's exposed neck.
“No!” Kyle screamed, turning away at the last minute and squeezing his eyes shut. He heard a loud clang, and then a shrill scream.
“Enough!” the cloaked man shouted. Kyle opened his eyes, staring up at the man. “Move again,” he growled, “...and these men will spend the rest of the day scraping you off of these trees.”
Kyle turned his head, seeing Darius kneeling on one knee, his sword in his right hand. The bald man stood a few feet behind, clutching at his right wrist. Blood spurted from the stump where his hand used to be, the ends of his forearm bones jutting from his flesh, gleaming impossibly white.
Kyle gagged, bitter fluid filling his mouth.
“I told you,” the cloaked man said, turning his shadowy gaze to the bald man, “...that he would be dealt with.” He gestured at the severed hand lying on the ground beside Darius. “Did you learn your lesson?”
The bald man grimaced as another man pressed a wadded-up cloth against his stump, then nodded once, his eyes on the ground.
“Yes sir,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
The red-cloaked man turned to face Darius again, his face still half-hidden in the shadows thrown by his cowl. Kyle noticed a faint, familiar blue light surrounding the man. His eyes widened.
“Darius, he's a Weaver!” he warned.
“No shit,” Darius grumbled, rising slowly to his feet. Men surrounded him immediately, their swords bared.
“Rest assured,” the Weaver stated, “...that you will pay for those you've killed.” His jaw rippled. “With a greater cost than your own worthless life.” He turned to Kyle. “Grab him.”
Kyle saw two leather-clad arms reach down for him, felt hands grabbing him under the armpits and hauling him to his feet. A man grabbed his chin, forcing it upward and exposing his neck. Kyle felt cold, sharp metal press against his throat.
The Weaver stepped up to Kyle, pausing before him. The almost imperceptible gravity shield surrounding the man pressed up against Kyle's chest, forcing him to take quick, gasping breaths.
“Remarkable,” the Weaver breathed.
The pressure on Kyle's chest vanished.
The Weaver hurled backward through the air, slamming into a tree twenty feet away. The knife at Kyle's neck yanked away, flying straight toward the Weaver, burying itself hilt-deep in the man's chest.
“What the...!” the man holding Kyle yelled. His grip on Kyle's neck loosened, and Kyle ducked down and forward, breaking away. He made a mad dash toward Darius, hearing men shouting behind him.
“Darius!” he cried, nearly colliding with the bodyguard. Darius shoved Kyle behind him.
“Down!” Darius barked. Kyle ducked, turning around to see a swordsman rushing at them, sword bared. He felt the wind of the bodyguard's blade as it passed mere inches above his head, saw the dull flash of the metal as it cut in an arc toward the swordsman's neck. The swordsman's head toppled backward, a gaping red gash in his throat. Then he burst into flames, hurtling backward through the air like a rag doll.
Darius looked at the burning body rolling to a stop on the forest floor, then stared at his own sword in bewilderment.
“Darius!” Kyle cried, spotting two more swordsman rushing them. Darius raised his sword, but before the men could reach him, they too burst into flames, then flew upward high into the air, well above the treetops. Their burning bodies fell to the ground with a dull thud, their flesh spitting and crackling as the fire consumed them.
The six remaining swordsmen stared at their fallen comrades, their eyes wide. Then they turned and ran.
A shadow descended through the mist ahead of the fleeing men, bursting through the thick veil of white. It was a man dressed all in black, with short hair white as snow, a long metallic staff in his right hand.
“Kalibar!” Kyle cried, his heart bursting with elation.
Kalibar landed on the forest floor, cutting the swordsmen off. They skid to a halt in front of Kalibar, their weapons bared. The former Grand Weaver stared at the half-dozen men, his eyes as hard as steel.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he called out. His gaze swept over them. “Do you know who I am?”
One of the men glanced at the others, then turned to Kalibar, nodding. Kalibar's lips curled into
a smile, but his eyes remained hard.
“Good,” he replied. “Then you understand how very dead you are.”
Kyle felt a slight vibration in his skull, saw a faint blue gravity field appear around himself and Darius.
The air before the six men exploded.
Kyle flinched backward, colliding with Darius. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden flash of light, hearing what sounded like dozens of hailstones striking the ground and trees all around them.
Then there was silence.
Kyle opened his eyes, spotting Kalibar still standing there, fifty feet away or so. The swordsmen, however, were gone.
“Kalibar!” Kyle cried again, rushing forward as the gravity shield around him vanished. He ran up to the former Grand Weaver, slamming into him and giving him a big bear hug. Kalibar hugged him back, not even budging with the impact. After a moment, Kyle pulled away, grinning up at the man.
“Are you two all right?” Kalibar asked. Kyle nodded.
“We're okay,” he answered. He turned around, seeing Darius walking toward them. A chill ran down his spine as he remembered what the bald-headed man had said.
We had an agreement.
“What happened?” Kalibar asked.
“A dozen men surrounded us,” Darius answered, stopping before Kalibar. “I killed a few, then ran for camp. The Weaver stopped us.” He glanced at the dead Weaver in his blood-red robes, still pinned against the tree trunk by the dagger in his chest. Kalibar followed his gaze, his jawline rippling.
“They're wearing the same uniforms as the men who attacked our carriage,” Kalibar observed. “We were followed.” He turned back to Kyle and Darius, shaking his head. “I can't believe I let you two leave the camp,” he muttered. “You almost died...and for what? Firewood?”
Darius said nothing, and Kyle lowered his gaze. Kalibar hadn't been the one to suggest that they go into the woods, after all...that had been Darius.
Give us the boy.
“I apologize,” Kalibar said, turning to Kyle. “I allowed myself to grow complacent, and it nearly cost you your life. I will not make the same mistake again.”
“It's okay,” Kyle said, not looking up. “You saved us.”
“Barely,” Kalibar retorted. “It was pure luck that I managed to hear your screams and get here in time.” He sighed, then turned around, gesturing for them to follow him. “Let's get back to camp.”
Kyle walked beside Kalibar staying close to the man. Darius walked ahead of them, his golden armor gleaming dully with each step. The bodyguard passed the red-cloaked Weaver's corpse, kicking it as he passed. It fell from the tree, landing face-first in the dirt with a thump.
They walked through the dense fog back toward the camp, Kyle's eyes on Darius the entire way. He had to tell Kalibar about what had really happened...about Darius. Not now, of course...not with the bodyguard present. But the minute Kyle and Kalibar were alone, Kyle would tell the former Grand Weaver the truth.
* * *
The camp was just as they'd left it, with the bag of sweetroot still laying on the ground next to the burnt-out campfire. Darius walked into the ring of wards, Kalibar and Kyle following close behind. Kyle glanced up at Kalibar; the older man was lost in thought, his eyes downcast. He hadn't said much of anything since the attack. Kyle was about to ask what he was thinking when Kalibar cleared his throat.
“I'm activating the wards,” he warned. The wards flashed a faint blue, and the half-dome of the camp's gravity shield appeared all around them. Kyle sat down on his still-floating sleeping bag, feeling a little lightheaded. He looked down at his hands, realizing they were shaking a bit.
“Are you all right?” Kalibar asked. Kyle nodded.
“I'll be okay.”
Kalibar sat down next to Kyle, putting an arm around his shoulders.
“You haven't seen much death in your life, have you,” Kalibar stated. Kyle nodded again. He'd seen the bodies littering the ground after the attack on Kalibar's carriage days ago, but it'd been dark...he hadn't really seen much. But today...
“Combat is nasty business,” Kalibar admitted. “But the deepest wounds are often to the mind.” He sighed. “If you don't tend to them, they can leave scars far more damaging than any to the body.”
Kyle said nothing, remembering the swordsman that Darius had decapitated, how the man had gone from alive to dead in a fraction of a second. He touched his throat, remembering the knife that had been pressed there. To think that he could have died that easily...that if Kalibar had been a few seconds later, he'd almost certainly be dead.
“We soldiers don't win wars,” Kalibar said, interrupting Kyle's thoughts. “Politicians do. Soldiers survive wars. Wounds to the flesh heal with time, and wounds to the mind heal with words.” He patted Kyle on the shoulder, smiling at him. “If you ever want to talk, I'm here.”
“Thanks,” Kyle mumbled. He shot a glance at Darius. The bodyguard was staring off into the forest, his massive sword back in its sheath on his back. Blood stained his golden armor.
“Can I talk to you?” Kyle asked Kalibar, turning to the old man. Kalibar smiled.
“Of course.”
“I mean, alone,” Kyle added in a near whisper, glancing at Darius again. Kalibar nodded.
“Yes, we...” he began.
“Guys,” Darius interrupted, his voice terse. Kalibar frowned, turning to face the forest. Then he stood abruptly. Kyle followed Darius and Kalibar's gaze.
There, at the edge of the forest, white fog was flowing toward them. It wrapped around the tree trunks, spilling onto the ground beyond the forest, forming misty fingers that hovered low to the ground. Onward it came, until it struck the edge of the camp's wards, wrapping around the protective dome. Within moments it had completely encircled them, a sea of fog no more than a foot tall, but so dense that nothing could be seen beneath it.
And there, at the edge of the tree line, a man in a black cloak stood.
Kyle felt a chill run through him.
The man stared at them, his black cloak rippling in the breeze. Mist surrounded his black boots, licking at the edges of his cloak. The hood of his cloak was pulled forward, hiding his face in shadow.
And then he began to move toward them.
“Kalibar...” Kyle warned, taking a step backward. Kalibar said nothing, watching as the cloaked man approached. He didn't walk through the fog toward them, he floated over it, as if he were standing on an invisible conveyor belt. The fog swirled behind him, stirred up by his passage.
He reached the edge of the wards, and stopped.
“Identify yourself,” Kalibar commanded, his tone icy. “Or die.”
The cloaked man paused, then reached up with both hands, grasping the front edges of his hood. His fingers were long and thin, and terribly pale. He drew the hood back.
Kyle gasped.
The man's face was as pale as his hands, his skin appearing as if it had been pulled tight against his bones. His cheeks were hollowed, his lips thin. His hair was short and black, and impeccably groomed. And in the center of his forehead was a large, diamond-shaped green crystal, its innumerable facets shimmering dully.
He stared at them silently, his black eyes moving from one person to the next, until they rested on Kalibar.
“You can call me,” he stated, his voice surprisingly deep, “...the Dead Man.”
“We will,” Darius growled.
The Dead Man ignored Darius's remark, his eyes still on Kalibar. Kyle swallowed in a dry throat, unable to help himself from staring at the man. He carried himself with an eerie sort of calm, and would have been considered handsome if he hadn't resembled a freshly exhumed corpse. The Dead Man's eyes flicked over to Kyle, and Kyle drew back involuntarily, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end.
“Do you know who I am?” Kalibar asked, holding his staff before him. The Dead Man's lips twisted into something that resembled a smile.
“How could I not?”
“Then you know what I
'm capable of,” Kalibar warned. The Dead Man said nothing for a moment, his eyes dropping to regard Kyle. Kyle found himself unable to hold the man's gaze, and dropped his to the ground.
“You are capable,” the Dead Man replied, his eyes turning back to Kalibar, “...of greatness.” He smiled again. “And unlike most men, you have achieved it.”
Kalibar frowned.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I admire you, Kalibar,” the Dead Man stated. “You must understand that I hold you in the highest respect.”
“I asked you a question,” Kalibar retorted. The Dead Man paused, then nodded.
“Of course,” he apologized.
“Then answer it,” Kalibar growled.
“I am here,” the Dead Man replied, “...because of Orik.”
Kalibar took a step forward, his eyes locked on the Dead Man's, the gravity shield of the camp's wards shimmering between them.
“So you work for Orik,” he deduced, drawing himself up to his full height. The Dead Man smirked.
“Quite the reverse,” he replied. “Orik was my student,” he added. “...and like any good teacher, I want for him to succeed.”
“So you ordered my assassination?” Kalibar pressed. The Dead Man shook his head.
“Not at all,” he countered. “Orik disobeyed a direct order when he moved against you. He was not to disturb you, or interfere if you sought re-election. But he is unwise, and has exercised his free will. What is done is done.” He sighed. “Now I have to clean up the mess he made.”
“And who do you work for?” Kalibar inquired.
“That,” the Dead Man answered, “...is...complicated.”
The fog around the camp grew heavier, now rising several feet above the ground. It spilled over the lake behind them, obscuring the water. Kyle stared at the Dead Man, realizing that the fog was pouring out from all around the man...that it was coming from him.
“I've got time,” Kalibar retorted. The Dead Man shook his head.