by Clayton Wood
Of course, he hadn't. He'd suffered through the pain, the realization that his life was now irrevocably changed, and pulled himself slowly together. He'd done it for Kyle, the boy who he now thought of as his son. He'd done it for his real son, a boy who'd died at birth because his father had failed to save him. Most of all, he'd done it for himself.
He laid down on the bed, kicking the sheets down with his legs, then sitting up to pull them up over his body. He cursed silently; he should have pulled the sheets down first, before he'd gotten into bed. If he'd been able to see, he wouldn't have made that mistake. Still, it was getting easier to live with his blindness. He'd found himself dwelling on it less and less with each passing day, slowly coming to accept his new reality.
He sighed, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed. His doctors had mixed the extract of a narcotic-producing plant with some herbal tea. He knew without a doubt that a glass of the pain-killing tea had been placed within his reach, on the nightstand to his left. Jenkins had, of course, seen to it. The man was brilliant, in his own way...anticipating Kalibar's every possible need. Even a half-glass would ensure him a pleasant night's sleep.
He left the glass on the nightstand.
He sighed again, bringing his hands up to his face. A nightly ritual, this. He ran his fingers over his lips, then up along either side of his nose. When he reached his lower eyelids, he paused, his heart skipping a beat. He'd promised himself he'd stop doing this, stop torturing himself, but every night he completed the ritual. He continued onward, running his fingertips lightly over his sunken lids, grimacing as they dipped sickeningly, unnaturally inward. When his fingers reached his cheekbones, he stopped, dropping his hands to his sides.
Kalibar had never considered himself a particularly vain man, but now he knew that he'd been deceiving himself. He found himself desperately wishing that he could look in a mirror, just once. He wanted to see what he looked like, and at the same time, he was thankful that he could not.
Kalibar shifted in bed again, rolling onto his right side – his good ribs. It still hurt to take a breath in, but he ignored this as best as he could. His mind went once again to the glass of tea on his nightstand. He almost reached over to grab it, but stopped himself. If he started doing that now, he would do it every night. Then he would do it just to get through the day...would end up needing it.
Instead, he lay there, his mind starting to drift. He played with the images in his mind, the only images he had left. The last thing he'd ever seen was the Dead Man's fingers reaching toward his face again, after he'd pulled out the first eye. The bastard had been right about one thing; Kalibar never would be able to forget his face. He shuddered at the memory of it.
He forced his mind away from the ghastly image, the Dead Man's pale, gaunt face staring down at him, the green diamond-shaped crystal in the man's forehead glittering in the dim light of the Arena. It took a long time for his mind to wander again, swirls of color exploding in his mind's eye. Sleep crept over him slowly, pulling him away from his pain.
He jerked awake.
Kalibar laid perfectly still, straining his ears. Had he heard something? A few seconds passed, but the room was silent. He started to relax.
A soft click came from the distance, the sound of a door closing gently.
Kalibar's body went rigid, the hairs on his neck rising on end. No one else was supposed to be in his room. No one could possibly have entered without activating the newest wards Erasmus had just...
A bolt of terror twisted his guts, his heart pounding in his chest. Of course, he thought. They'd come for him again. Come to finish the job.
Footsteps echoed off of the stone walls, getting louder with each step.
Kalibar tried to sit up in his bed, but his muscles stayed limp, refusing to obey his commands. He felt a surge of sheer panic, sucking in a deep breath. He could still breath...but he could control nothing else. He could feel the bed beneath him, could sense everything inch of his body, but he could not move.
The footsteps grew louder as they came closer, clip-clopping slowly, almost casually toward him.
Kalibar tried to yell out, but his lips did not move, and only a harsh wheeze escaped his mouth. He lay there, a prisoner in his own body.
I'm going to be murdered in my own bed, he despaired, his heart thumping violently in his chest. And there's nothing I can do about it!
He heard the footsteps enter his bedroom, then stop.
Kalibar had a sudden flash of inspiration, gathering magic into his mind and weaving it into a tight pattern. His body might be paralyzed, but his mind was still his own! He threw the deadly pattern out in the general direction the footsteps had stopped in.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly Kalibar felt a force slam into his consciousness, an immense power coursing over his body. Waves of pure energy pulsed through his mind, power beyond any he had felt before. This was magic, he knew, but it was boundless, without limit. It filled his being, this power.
The sound of footsteps returned, coming right up to the side of Kalibar's bed, mere feet from where he lay. The power grew stronger, until it all but overwhelmed him. He knew beyond a doubt that whoever was standing at his side was the source of this energy, this unimaginable fount of magical power. It made his own power seem puny in comparison; he was a mere insect compared to this mountain of magic.
If Kalibar could have trembled, if he could have fallen to his knees before this being, he would have.
He felt something heavy press down on the bed beside him, making the bed sink slightly lower. A warm, calloused hand touched his forehead. He wanted to jerk away, but he could not. A voice whispered in his mind, soft yet firm.
You wanted to meet me.
Kalibar felt a shudder run through him. He was still paralyzed, only able to breath and swallow. He could not speak. He could not answer this being's statement. He could not ask any questions of his own.
Now you have.
Suddenly he was in rapture. The pain left his body, ecstasy coursing through him. He felt the rough hand slide off of his forehead, then felt a pressure on his face, over his empty orbits. The rapture intensified, and he cried out silently, his breathing fast and shallow. He felt his lips tingle, the tips of his fingers going numb.
Then the rapture left him, and the weight lifted off of the bed. The wellspring of power vanished.
Kalibar lay there for a long while, staring into swirling darkness, unable to move. His heart, still hammering in his chest, began to slow, sweat beading up on the tops of his arms. He listened, waiting for whatever was to come next.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, Kalibar's left hand twitched, then spasmed, clenching into a fist. His right hand soon followed, and then his legs. One by one, his muscles came back to life, back under his control. He bent his legs, flexing his toes against the soft fabric of the bedsheets. Then he flexed his arms, twisting his wrists in a slow circle. There was none of the usual pain in his joints. He reached over to feel his ribs, and found that they no longer hurt to press on. In fact, there was no discomfort in his body whatsoever.
Kalibar paused, then sat up slowly, placing his palms on the bed to brace himself.
Then, very slowly, he opened his eyes.
A pair of familiar blue eyes stared back at him.
Chapter 5
Ampir stands in the large chamber by the central dais, cradling Vera in his arms. The light cast by the lanterns on the walls gives her pale face an otherworldly glow, and he gazes down at her, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Boom.
Ampir looks up just in time to see the ceiling caving in far above his head, the Behemoth's foot falling through the shattered ceiling toward him, filling the entire chamber with its enormous size.
With not a shred of magic left in his mind or armor, there is nothing he can do.
He looks down at Vera, holding her tightly to himself. Her face is serene, her pale skin seeming to glow the faintest of blue
s. He frowns, his breath catching in his throat.
Magic!
He lowers his forehead to hers, pulling at the magic within her. Cords of power fill him, and he weaves the magic rapidly, forming a tight, throbbing pattern in the center of his mind's eye. He throws it at his feet...just as the Behemoth's foot slams down on him from above.
Ampir cries out, feels himself falling, his feet striking something hard below. He loses his balance, falling onto his back, utter darkness surrounding him. The deafening boom of the Behemoth's foot slamming into the floor of the chamber blasts his eardrums, a shockwave pinning him to the hard rock below, blasting the air from his lungs.
He lays there in utter darkness, gasping for air, dust raining down on him, getting into his nose and mouth. He coughs, then sneezes, covering his face with one hand and turning his head to one side. He holds his breath; moments pass, and eventually the dust settles, letting Ampir breathe again.
He lays there in the darkness, Vera atop him, his ears ringing loudly.
Suddenly the earth trembles, and the Behemoth's foot rises upward, rays of starlight piercing through the blackness. They illuminate the pit he'd made in the ground below his feet with Vera's magic, a pit they'd fallen into right before the Behemoth's foot would have destroyed them.
The Behemoth's foot glows a faint blue, rising further upward, until it passes back through the massive hole in the ceiling some forty feet above. It vanishes from view.
Boom, boom.
The chamber vibrates with each of the Behemoth's footsteps as it retreats from the chamber. Ampir grunts, sitting up, then rising to his feet. He sets Vera in the pit beside him, kneeling before her. Starlight outlines her slender form in a ghostly hue, caressing her gentle curves. Ampir gazes at her, taking in her otherworldly loveliness, knowing that this will be the last time he ever sees her.
“I'm sorry baby,” he whispers. “I'm so sorry.”
He pictures her when they'd first met, so full of life. She'd rescued him from the hopelessness of his final days in the military, softened him with her vivacious spirit. War had transformed him into a heartless killing machine; Vera had turned him back into a man. Made him believe that he was still worth loving, even after all the terrible things he'd done.
She'd saved him in life, and now she'd saved him in death.
He leans over, kissing her on the lips, finding them cooler now. He gazes down at her face, her body, drinking in every detail. Minutes pass, and still he kneels over her, running a gauntleted hand through her hair.
I love you, he states silently. Then he rises to his feet, struggling against the incredible weight of his armor. Without magic, it weighs over a hundred pounds; sweat pours down his chest and flanks, the armor's temperature-regulating runes non-functional. He stands there, gazing down at his wife, picturing their son vanishing through the portal.
I'll find him, he vows silently. I promise.
Then Ampir turns away, facing the wall of the pit he'd created, grabbing the ledge to the chamber floor above. He tries to pull himself up, but it's no use...without his armor's numerous gravity-nullifying runes, he's far too heavy. He focuses, gathering what little magic he has left and directing it to a few runes in his armor. He feels its weight lessen slightly, and tries again, pulling himself upward. This time he succeeds, swinging one leg over the edge above and hauling himself upward. His magic runs out just as he rolls onto the chamber floor above.
He lays there in the ruins of the chamber, his breath coming in short gasps, his heart pounding in his chest. The huge room has been reduced to rubble, the circular stone dais in the center reduced to rubble. Renval's teleportation device – the runes within its crystal the only clue to Junior's location – is gone forever.
Ampir closes his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, feeling an emptiness within his mind's eye. His brain is completed drained of its magic, as are his bones. Any magic his mind creates will be siphoned away by the hungry bones of his skull. Only sheer willpower will allow him to keep magic in his mind where he can use it. With every bit of magic it absorbs, his skull's pull on his magic will weaken, making it easier for him to weave. After his skull becomes saturated, his spine will begin to fill, taking hours to saturate completely. The rest of his skeleton will take days.
He doesn't have that much time.
They'll come for me, he knows. For confirmation of the kill.
He lays there, a part of him hoping that the enemy finds him. That they finish the job. He gazes upward at the massive hole the Behemoth had ripped in the ceiling above, seeing the stars winking through a thin haze of smoke above the chamber. A deep, rumbling sound echoes through the night air, followed by a distant boom, boom.
The Behemoth has moved on.
Ampir closes his eyes, picturing Vera smiling at him. Remembers their last kiss.
Remember your promise.
He grunts, struggling to roll onto his belly. Lifting himself onto his hands and knees, he heaves upward, his armor threatening to pull him back onto the ground. He rises to his feet slowly, then turns to a dark corner of the chamber. There is a mound of rubble there, large enough for him to hide behind; he walks toward it, knowing that he needs time. Time to generate magic, to fill at least a few of his armor's runes.
Step-by-step he moves forward, his metallic boots clunking on the stone floor.
He senses a faint vibration in his skull, and glances behind him. Something is descending slowly through the air above the gaping hole in the ceiling. A shadowy silhouette against the starry night...a Weaver.
Shit!
Ampir tries to move faster, but his boots clunk loudly on the floor, the sound echoing through the chamber. He slows his pace, angling toward a shadow thrown by the remaining ceiling above. He stops there, turning around to face the Weaver.
The Weaver drops through the hole in the ceiling, stopping a few feet above the rubble-strewn floor. Its back is to Ampir, its black cloak flowing in the slight breeze.
Ampir reaches into his mind's eye, sensing magic blossoming in the center, then flowing in all directions to the bones of his skull. He waits, knowing that the more saturated his bones are with magic, the easier it will be for him to weave.
The Weaver turns slowly in place, hovering above the floor, his face coming into view. His eyes scan the ruins, stopping at the pit in the floor. Then he moves toward the pit, stopping before it. He pauses for a moment, then grabs the edges of his black hood, pulling it back to reveal a bald head. The Weaver's skin is as black as night, tattoos crawling up the temples. Long, raised scars run like bony fingers up the sides of his head. Ampir recognizes him instantly.
Torum.
The dark Weaver stares down at the pit, his black eyes glittering in the starlight. Then he turns away, scanning the ruins. Searching.
He knew we were here, Ampir realizes. Torum had intercepted them just outside of the evacuation tunnels, before they'd taken the tunnels to this chamber. Despite working for the enemy, the dark Weaver had let them go. The Empire is our enemy, not you, he'd said.
Torum turns in a slow circle, peering into the darkness. His eyes pass over Ampir, not seeing him in the shadows.
He was the only one who knew where we were.
Ampir feels a flash of rage, knowing that the Weaver had betrayed them, giving away their position so that the Behemoth could find them.
The Weaver continues to turn in a slow circle, his back to Ampir again. Ampir dips into the stream of magic in his mind's eye, pulling a strand out. It comes easier than before; he sends it to a few of runes on his right gauntlet. Then he grabs another strand, sending it to runes on his chest. Slowly, methodically, he fills a few other runes with tiny amounts of magic, just enough for one burst.
Torum stops his circling, and starts moving in Ampir's direction. He searches through the rubble, lifting stones with his magic, scanning the ground carefully.
Ampir steps out of the shadows.
“Looking for something?” he asks.
&n
bsp; Torum spins around, his black eyes locking on Ampir. Multi-layered gravity shields appear around the dark Weaver, glowing blue in the darkness. Torum stares at Ampir silently, his expression unreadable.
“We meet again,” Ampir states. Torum inclines his head slightly.
“Indeed.”
“What a coincidence,” Ampir murmurs.
Torum says nothing for a long moment. Then he gestures at the pit.
“My condolences.”
“I'll be sure to say the same to your family when I visit them,” Ampir replies coolly. Torum's jawline ripples, the gravity shields surrounding him glowing brighter. He gestures at the ruins around them.
“I would say that this is well deserved, don't you think?” he opines. “You certainly thought so the last time we met.”
“You could have let us go,” Ampir retorts. Torum raises an eyebrow.
“Really? After everything you did?”
“I spared your people,” Ampir growls. “Or did you forget?”
“I remember,” Torum shoots back. “I remember you giving the Empire the keys to our kingdom. And I remember what they did to it.”
Ampir stares at Torum, clenching and unclenching his fists. He reaches into his mind's eye, filling more runes with bits of magic.
“How was I supposed to know?” he says at last. Torum sneers.
“Ah, the age-old defense,” he retorts. “You didn't know,” he concedes. “And what did you do once you did know?”
“I spent years on the Council trying...”
“And yet here we are,” Torum interrupts, gesturing at the ruined chamber. “Sabin did what you would not.” He points one finger at Ampir. “You're the only one who could have stopped this,” he continues. “You had the power to force the Empire to free us.”
“By becoming a dictator,” Ampir retorts.
“You would have replaced one with another,” Torum shoots back. “At least Sabin had the courage to stand up to your tyrant.”
“Sabin was a fool,” Ampir growls.
“And you're the bigger fool,” Torum retorts. “You're the traitor who broke him out of prison.”