by Clayton Wood
Ampir says nothing. Can say nothing. Torum smirks.
“You see?” he states. “You did this to yourself.”
“What about the millions of people that didn't do anything wrong?” Ampir presses. “Why do they have to die?”
“Those people are the Empire,” Torum answers. “The idea of the Empire lives within them. The Empire deserves to die,” he adds. “And so do you.”
Ampir stares at Torum silently, then at the pit nearby. He clenches his fists, pulling magic into his mind's eye, weaving rapidly.
“You're right,” he replies. “But my wife didn't.”
He shoves the pattern outward, leaping toward Torum at the same time, swinging one armored fist at the man's head. Torum's shields vanish, leaving him completely exposed.
A shockwave bursts outward from Torum, shoving Ampir backward violently, his fist missing Torum's head by inches. At the same time, a jagged bolt of electricity shoots outward from Torum, slamming into Ampir's chest. His armor takes the brunt of the attack, his skin tingling, his hair rising on end.
Ampir stumbles backward, catching his balance and raising his right hand toward Torum. A ray of blinding white light shoots outward at the dark Weaver...
...and scatters harmlessly as gravity shields reappear around him.
“Well done,” Torum states, nodding his head slightly. “You-”
Something smashes into Ampir's right side – a huge slab of stone hurtling through the air – throwing him to the left. He feels his armor react, taking the brunt of the hit, the slab shattering. He grunts, barely managing to keep his footing...just as another slab slams into his left side.
Pain lances through his left shoulder, the armor there crumpling under the impact.
Ampir is thrown violently to the side, landing on his back. His injured shoulder hits the unforgiving stone floor, another burst of pain shooting down his left arm. He bites back a scream, clutching his shattered shoulder, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to overwhelm him.
“You're weakened,” Torum observes, staring down at Ampir through his layered gravity shields. “How unfortunate.”
A force lifts Ampir off of the ground, throwing him backward through the air. He feels his back slam into the stone wall behind him, the rapidly draining runes on his armor barely absorbing the impact. He cries out, falling onto his belly, his shoulder in agony.
“You deserve a slow death,” Torum states, levitating motionlessly a few feet above the chamber floor. “But you're too dangerous for that, aren't you?”
Ampir grits his teeth, pushing himself up onto his knees. He can feel the power radiating from Torum; the man was possessed of a near-infinite supply of magic, though at great sacrifice. With Ampir's magic rapidly running out, there is no way he'll be able to stand against Torum for long.
A half-dozen huge chunks of rubble rise up all around Torum, hurtling toward Ampir.
Ampir pulls at the magic in his skull, streaming it to runes in his armor. He feels his armor become weightless, and leaps upward and forward just as the chunks of rubble reach him, barely clearing them in time. He sails high above the chamber floor toward Torum, streaming more magic to his right gauntlet. He cocks his fist back, aiming right for the Weaver.
Another shockwave bursts outward from Torum, hurtling Ampir backward through the air. He slams into the wall, bouncing off of it and falling onto his side on the unforgiving floor. He hears a crack, pain lancing through the side of his chest. He rolls onto his back, gasping for air. Each breath sends stabbing pain through his left side.
Torum levitates toward him, his multilayered gravity shields glowing bright blue against the darkness.
“You were too dangerous,” he corrects, eyeing Ampir almost pityingly. “Without your armor, you're nothing.”
Ampir grunts, steeling himself against the pain, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths.
“The Resistance wants your armor,” Torum continues. “They lust for your power.” He shakes his head. “Men with too much power caused all of this,” he continues, gesturing at the chamber. “I will relish destroying it.”
Ampir hears a crack from above, and looks up. A huge chunk of what remains of the shattered ceiling breaks off...falling right toward him.
“Goodbye, old friend,” Torum mutters.
Ampir tries to get up, but his left shoulder spasms, dropping him back onto the ground. He cries out, clutching his shoulder, watching helplessly as the massive stone slab plummets toward him.
Time slows.
He rests his head on the cold stone, then spots a glittering red object on the floor a few feet away. A fragment of the red gemstone that had been embedded in the center of the dais.
He stares at the fragment, then at Torum.
Ampir closes his eyes, draining what little magic remains in his armor's runes and focusing that power in his mind's eye. He pulls several strands at once, weaving them simultaneously into a complex knot in the center of his mind. An old pattern, one he'd learned long ago.
He thrusts the pattern outward, right at Torum.
* * *
Kyle woke up to a knock on his bedroom door, sitting up in bed groggily. He rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to remember that he had to get up earlier than usual this morning for his class with his new Runic instructor, Master Banar.
Another knock came at the door, and Kyle groaned, rolling out of bed, walking up to it and cracking it open. Apparently, no one had invented alarm clocks yet in this world. A man's head poked through the door – it was Greg, Jenkin's assistant butler. Jenkins had been promoted after Kalibar's coronation, and Greg had been promoted to Jenkin's assistant. Greg was nice enough, but more aloof than Jenkins, if such a thing were possible.
“Time for class,” Greg said, opening the door wider.
Kyle nodded, yawning again. He'd had trouble sleeping the night before, and not just because of the Ampir-dream. He'd dreaded the thought that he'd start learning to be a Runic, then realize that he wasn't good at that either. It would be like being on Earth all over again. Even though he'd gotten decent grades in school, he'd never been a straight “A” student, or the best at any particular sport. He wasn't the funniest kid, or the strongest, or the fastest. He'd always been, well, mediocre. When Kalibar had first told him of his magical gifts, Kyle had believed that – for the first time – he would get a chance to be the best at something. Master Owens had thrown a cold, cruel dose of reality on that dream.
He changed quickly into the clothes Greg had brought him...a pair of white pants and a white shirt, a poignant reminder of his recent career change. He went to the bathroom, noting that the burned blanket he'd stashed in the bathtub had been removed...replaced by a polite-looking note from Jenkins. Kyle couldn't read it, of course, which was probably for the best.
Kyle washed up, then hurried out of his bedroom, following the butler into the main room of Kalibar's retirement suite. Kalibar slept one floor above, in the Grand Weaver suite on the top floor of the Tower, and Darius had moved into a guest room within that suite after Kalibar's near-assassination yesterday. Kyle thought about waking Ariana, who was still sleeping in her bedroom next to his, but decided against it. Her classes didn't start for another hour or so. He couldn't help but feel a little jealous of her recent promotion.
Kyle glanced down at his ring, remembering that he was supposed to leave it in his magic safe. He did so, closing the safe afterward. Only Kalibar would be able to open it, and Kalibar would hand the ring back to Kyle later in the day, as had become their routine.
Greg led Kyle out of the suite and into the hallway, then down the riser to the lobby. Only two risers had been allowed to remain functioning, at least to reach the top three floors, and they were guarded twenty-four hours a day by several stern-looking Battle-Weavers. Greg led Kyle past them, walking through the silent lobby and out into the crisp early-morning air. Kyle followed Greg down one of the cobblestone pathways, until the Tower of the Secula Magna was far behind. The sun star
ted to peek over the trees in the distance, sending rays of brilliant color across the sky. In the distance, Kyle spotted a tall, thin man in a white cloak sitting in mid-air – on nothing at all – reading a book by a tall tree.
“Your student, Master Banar,” Greg stated with a short bow, gesturing for Kyle to continue walking toward the white-cloaked man. Master Banar looked up from his book, extending his legs and straightening his back, after which he slowly floated to the ground until he was standing on it. He closed his book, depositing it into one of the deep pockets in his cloak, then walked up to Kyle, extending a hand.
“Kyle!” the man greeted warmly. “A pleasure to finally meet you...I'm Master Banar,” he added. “But please, call me Banar.” Master Banar was a surprisingly young man, with short, curly black hair and gray eyes. He was smooth-shaven, with a broad, easy smile. He was almost disturbingly thin, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. Kyle was relieved; he'd been expecting an old, crotchety teacher like Jax.
“Yes sir,” Kyle greeted back, bowing just as Jenkins had.
“I've heard a lot about you, Kyle,” Banar stated. He looked Kyle up and down, then nodded approvingly. “I have to say I'm plenty impressed,” he continued. “You've got a lot of potential.”
“Maybe,” Kyle mumbled, feeling uneasy. People kept doing that...telling him he should have a ton of talent, only to realize that he wasn't all he was cracked up to be. He decided he would be brutally honest with Banar. “I failed out of Weaver school,” he admitted, blushing with shame.
“Nonsense!” Master Banar retorted. “You did just fine at Weaving, Kyle,” he added. “In fact, Master Owens was sorry to lose you.”
“But...”
“Being better off as a Runic doesn't mean you failed anything,” Master Banar interjected. “It just means we didn't find the best fit for you the first time.”
“But I haven't even tried being a Runic yet,” Kyle countered, his frustration mounting. They'd thought he'd make a great Weaver, and they had been wrong about that, so how could anyone possibly know whether or not he'd make a good Runic?
“Fair enough,” Banar conceded. “You're probably sick of people expecting you to be the next great thing, huh?” Kyle nodded silently. “All right, then how about we make a deal...I'll do my best to teach you, and you'll do your best to learn, and I'll be honest with you about how you're doing.” Kyle smiled.
“Deal,” he agreed, extending his hand. Banar shook it, then clapped Kyle on the shoulder.
“Okay, first thing's first,” he began. “I know what you're thinking, and it's not true. Runics aren't inferior to Weavers. Period. And I can prove it.”
“I didn't say...” Kyle began, but Banar waved him off.
“You don't need to,” he countered. “Every kid thinks so, and most adults, too. Weavers are awesome, Runics are boring. It's all bull,” he explained. “First, name one thing a Weaver did two thousand years ago.”
Kyle frowned.
“Um,” he began, then stopped. “I have no idea,” he admitted. Master Banar grinned.
“Me neither,” he agreed. “But I can think of a thousand things Runics did. They built the first Tower, all of the technology that people used, the armor and weapons for the military, the armor you won at the awards ceremony two weeks ago...”
“You were there?” Kyle asked.
“Sure was,” Banar replied. “But seriously, think of what Runics have done...even in the last two hundred years. We rebuilt the Tower, defended it with a magical gate, built an entire city filled with magical technology, outfitted everyone with jumpsuits and levitating carriages, built a bridge across a massive river – with no physical structural supports, mind you – and created a military so advanced that no enemy has been able to withstand our might. And Weavers...well, they made a few craters in the ground,” he added dismissively. Kyle couldn't help but grin.
“Well, when you put it that way,” he conceded.
“I'm just saying,” Banar said with a wink. “Weavers are cool...they really are, there's no doubt about it. It feels good to make things go boom. And let's be honest, Runic school does tend to attract the...less sociable, to put it kindly. But for a hard-working, creative, motivated student, learning to make runic technology can be an amazing, rewarding experience.”
“I see,” Kyle stated, not quite sure how else to respond. Master Banar smiled.
“I've got something for you,” he stated, reaching down into a large bag at his feet. He pulled out a pair of black boots, handing them to Kyle. “Your gravity boots, courtesy of Grand Weaver Kalibar.”
Kyle looked down at the two boots; they went up all the way past the ankles, and had strips of silver metal going down the sides, with tiny runes etched into the surface. A few gems were embedded into the leather. They were identical to the gravity boots that Kalibar had worn a week ago, after their escape from the Arena.
“Thanks,” Kyle replied. “Are they like feathergrass?”
“No, they're much better,” Banar corrected. “Put them on,” he insisted. Kyle did so; the boots were exceedingly comfortable, and a perfect fit.
“Now, push a stream of magic into the blue crystal on the top of each boot,” Banar commanded. Kyle did so, immediately sending a stream to each boot. The crystals began to glow faintly. “That activates the boots,” Master Banar explained. “Now, send a third stream to the orange crystal on the left side of your left boot.” Kyle complied, activating the gem. He lurched upward a foot, crying out in surprise, and immediately dropped both magic streams. Instead of falling onto his butt like he'd expected, he floated gently downward. Master Banar chuckled.
“Notice how slowly you fell,” he stated. “Your boots will never allow you to fall quickly, as long as they still have magic stored in them,” he explained. “The center crystals store and provide the magic power for the rest of the boot. They're all connected inside.”
“Then why do I have to send magic to the side-crystal?”
“Those side crystals control the gravity fields generated by your boots,” Master Banar answered. “Putting magic into the left boot strengthens the up-going gravity field, while the right boot strengthens the down-going field. The left boot goes up, the right goes back down.”
“Oh,” Kyle mumbled. He still didn't get it.
“It's complicated,” Master Banar admitted. “I'll explain how it really works in mind-numbing detail later, believe me. But for now, just trust me. Now put more magic into that left crystal.”
Kyle did so, sending a burst of magic to it. He felt himself lurch upward, flying well above Master Banar's head. He cried out, swinging his arms out to the sides to catch his balance...and found that he didn't need to. He was standing perfectly upright in the air, without even a smidgen of wobbling. Having once again halted his magic stream, he floated slowly back to the ground.
“Whoa there,” Master Banar exclaimed. “I forgot who I was talking to! Here, put a slow, tiny stream of magic into the left boot. Tiny,” he insisted. Kyle obeyed, sending a much smaller stream of magic to his boot. He began to float upward slowly, until he was about a foot off of the ground. He stopped streaming to the side-crystal, his ascent slowing, then stopping. He remained where he was, levitating in mid-air, feeling a thrill run through him. He was flying!
“Sorry about that,” Banar apologized. “I'm not used to dealing with a powerhouse like you. So anyway, you get the idea. Notice how you're only streaming magic to the center crystal on each boot now, and you're not falling. If you stop putting magic into a side crystal, the boots will keep you at whatever elevation you're at...as long as you maintain the stream to the center crystal.”
“I think I got it,” Kyle said. Activate the boots by constantly streaming magic to the main crystals, and go up and down by sending magic to the side crystals. It was simple...in theory, at least.
“Good,” Banar replied. “You look like you could use a break.”
“Already?” Kyle asked. He was eager to get a han
dle on learning how to fly.
“I don't want to overload you with information,” Banar explained. “Learning is best done in small doses.”
“Okay.”
“Here, why don't we sit down for a bit,” Banar suggested, sitting cross-legged on the grass. Kyle joined him, stopping his magic stream to his boots and sitting down himself. He felt cool moisture soak through his pants, the grass still wet with the morning's dew. “So, Kyle...tell me, where do you come from?”
Kyle hesitated. He couldn't very well tell him the truth – that he was from another planet. But it wouldn't hurt to tell Banar part of the truth.
“Earth,” he answered at last. He smiled at Banar's puzzled expression. “It's pretty far away,” he admitted.
“It must be,” Banar agreed. “I've got a fair knowledge of the world, and I've never heard of it.” He cocked his head at Kyle then. “I don't mean to pry...and please feel free to refuse to answer this question...but I'm curious. How did you meet Grand Weaver Kalibar?”
“He uh, took me in after I got hurt,” Kyle answered. Which was true; Kalibar had saved Kyle after he'd been nearly killed by a vicious beast, a wolf-like creature called an Ulfar.
“How did you get hurt?”
“I was lost in the woods,” Kyle explained. “I was attacked by an Ulfar, and barely escaped. I passed out trying to find help, and when I woke up, I was in Kalibar's house.”
“I see,” Banar replied. “You're lucky to have Kalibar as a father,” he added. “He's a good man. Not many politicians would take in an orphan.”
“An orphan?”
“Well yes,” Banar replied. “I assume that your parents are...no longer with us.”
“Oh,” Kyle replied, not quite sure what to say. On the one hand, he didn't want to give anyone the impression that his real parents were dead. But he couldn't think up of any other explanation for why they weren't around, so he shrugged, lowering his gaze. “Yeah,” he mumbled.
“I'm sorry,” Master Banar apologized. “I didn't mean to upset you.”