by Clayton Wood
“Xanos is wise,” he stated softly. Then he turned to face Darius, who was standing silently beside Kyle, his blue eyes darting from Death Weaver to Death Weaver. The bodyguard's eyes met the Dead Man's, stopping there.
“You,” the Dead Man stated, lifting one pale hand to point at the bodyguard. “I believe this is long overdue.”
A bright flash of light shot out from the Dead Man's palm, slamming into Darius's chest. Darius didn't even have time to cry out as he flew backward at breakneck speed, his shirt exploding into flames. He careened through the air almost too quickly for the eye to follow, slamming with a loud crunch into one of the Behemoth's feet. He ricocheted off of the hard metal, landing in a limp heap on the dirt below, his chest and back engulfed in red-hot flames. Darius's shirt shrank and blackened with the heat, his flesh hissing and popping as the fire spread.
“Darius!” Kyle screamed, lunging toward his friend.
A cold hand grabbed Kyle's left shoulder from behind, fingers digging into the already-injured flesh. Kyle howled in pain, unable to break free from that iron grip.
Darius stirred, rolling slowly, agonizingly onto his stomach. Something was terribly wrong; he wasn't moving his legs, Kyle realized with horror. The man's back had been broken.
The Dead Man stared impassively at the bodyguard, his iron grip unyielding on Kyle's shoulder. He gazed upward at the Behemoth.
“Show the man some mercy,” the Dead Man commanded disapprovingly. “Put him out.”
The Behemoth stirred, leaning slightly to one side. One leg rose up slowly into the air, dirt and pebbles cascading from the bottom of its monstrous foot. Kyle saw Darius reach out with one hand toward Kyle, his blue eyes locked on his own. The bodyguard's lips were moving, but only a tortured moan managed to escape them. Kyle choked out a sob, tears pouring down his cheeks, reaching out to his friend with his own hand, held back by the cruel grip of the Dead Man.
The Behemoth's leg paused for a moment, then dropped downward through the air, its massive foot crashing down on Darius from above.
Chapter 15
A huge plume of dust shot up from around the Behemoth's foot as it crushed the rocky ground beneath it, sinking a full foot into the earth. An ear-shattering blast nearly threw Kyle backward, a burst of air from the shockwave of the foot's impact tearing at his clothes. Kyle stared mutely at the massive foot, at the spot where Darius had been only moments before.
Darius, the ever-faithful bodyguard. The man who'd risked his life countless times to save Kyle. The only true hero Kyle had ever met.
His friend.
Kyle stared at the Behemoth's foot, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Unwilling to believe that his friend was gone.
The Behemoth's foot stirred, the mass of black metal rising slowly, a shower of dust and pebbles falling from its sole. Kyle watched it rise, unable to look away, unable to help noticing the charred remains of Darius's shirt still stuck to the bottom of it. Along with...other things.
Kyle turned away then, feeling the Dead Man's grip loosen on his shoulder as he did, and vomited.
“Well,” the Dead Man stated calmly, gazing upward at the flattened, bloodied corpse still stuck to the Behemoth's foot. “He's certainly not the one we're looking for.”
Kyle waited for the sound of the Behemoth's foot striking the earth once more, then turned forward again. The Behemoth stood motionless in front of him, its glowing green eye locked on him. He felt the Dead Man's hand back on his shoulder; this time, his grip was gentle.
“I'm sorry, Kyle,” he murmured. Kyle said nothing, feeling a horrible sob burst from his lips. He wept then, his shoulders heaving as he did. He fell to his hands and knees, his tears staining the parched rock below, not even bothering to shrink away from the Dead Man's touch.
He didn't even feel it.
The Dead Man said nothing, his hand remaining on Kyle's shoulder. He'd dropped to one knee by Kyle's side as he'd fallen, his cloak ever-rippling around him. He remained silent, holding a hand up as one of his Death Weavers made a snide comment, stopping the man in mid-sentence. The only sound afterward was the wind blowing through the trees, the soft, gentle whistling of air running its fingers through the grass at the forest's edge.
Kyle wept, feeling the tears drain from him, until he had no more.
He sat back on his butt then, staring at the huge hole left by the Behemoth's foot, at the wet crimson staining the rock in the middle of it. He'd never been particularly religious, his parents never raising him to be, but he felt that he needed to pray. Not for himself, but for his friend. For all of his friends.
Despite himself, he prayed that their deaths would be as quick as Darius's. And he hoped that he would not be alive to see it when it happened.
“Come, Kyle,” the Dead Man ordered, grabbing Kyle's arm under his armpit and lifting him to his feet. Kyle did not resist. “It's almost over,” the Dead Man added, patting Kyle on the shoulder. “You've suffered a great deal because of my failure. If I had been wiser, I would have killed Kalibar instead of wounding him. Orik would have become Grand Weaver, and I would not have had to hurt you.”
Kyle laughed bitterly at that, the sound surprising even him as it came from his lips. He turned to face the Dead Man.
“I hate you,” he spat.
“I know,” the Dead Man replied. He withdrew his hand from Kyle's shoulder, turning his eyes away from Kyle's and staring up at the Behemoth. “I had hopes for us, Kyle. You've been given a remarkable gift.” He turned back to Kyle then, his black eyes boring through Kyle's. “Not your ability to generate magic,” he added. “Your teachers at the Tower are obsessed with that, so much so that they're blind to your true gift.”
Kyle swallowed in a dry throat, wondering how the Dead Man had known about Master Owens and Master Banar.
“The ability to generate a lot of magic has its uses,” the Dead Man continued. “...indeed, the fact that you could weave magic so soon after being drained by the Void is unprecedented. But recall that I myself cannot generate any. It's the ability to weave magic...to understand magic...that is truly valuable. Your intuition. You grasped the fundamentals of magic more quickly and completely than any of my other students.” He shook his head then. “When I heard that your teacher declared you unfit to become a Weaver, I laughed. The fools don't even understand what they have in you.”
Kyle lowered his gaze, unable to look into the Dead Man's eyes any longer. The black-cloaked Weaver sighed, turning away from Kyle once more. He stared at Darius's remains, his black eyes glittering in the sunlight.
“Death is not so bad,” he murmured. Then he turned back to Kyle. “When I died...before I became one of the Chosen...it was only painful for a moment. Then it was like that feeling you get before you pass out. Lightheadedness, a short struggle against the final slumber, and then...nothing.” He turned back to face Kyle.
“It was anticlimactic,” the Dead Man continued. “Only significant in that it marked the end of something. For me, it marked the beginning of a new life, but now that I've died – twice – I do not fear an eternity of nothingness. When my time comes, if it comes, I will be ready.”
“I don't care,” Kyle mumbled, feeling only a faint fear of what the Dead Man might do to punish him for such insolence. But to his surprise, the Dead Man did nothing.
“I know you don't care about me,” he replied, his deep voice almost gentle. “But I do care about you.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “Kyle, I want this to end as peacefully as possible for you. For your sake, and for mine.”
Kyle felt his pulse quicken, felt his heart begin to pound in his chest.
“What do you mean?” he asked, gooseflesh rising up on his arms. The Dead Man said nothing for a long moment, staring off into the forest beyond the Behemoth, his expression unreadable. When he turned back to Kyle, his eyes were sad.
“You're going to die today, Kyle.”
Kyle felt the blood drain from his face. He licked his lips, his hear
t hammering in his chest.
“Today?” he croaked. The Dead Man nodded.
“This is how it happens, Kyle,” he replied apologetically. “It's no different when you're older. The days go by, one after another, and you assume there will always be more. One day, you're wrong. There's no fanfare, Kyle. Time doesn't slow down. It just keeps going, pushing you along with it, no matter how hard you dig in your heels.”
He paused for a moment, then smiled.
“I think I lived more vibrantly in the few minutes before my death than I had for most of my life before it...those moments were the most pregnant of my adult life. I never missed the process of being more than when I realized I was about to lose it. You see, I didn't realize that I was to be reborn. Xanos did this purposefully, I think, in order to allow me to fully comprehend what a treasure the moments of my life were.”
Kyle stared mutely at the Dead Man, unable to speak. He knew the Dead Man was saying something, heard the words, but the man might as well have been speaking gibberish. The only thought he was capable of now was that of his own impending death.
“We fear our deaths as soon as we realize it will happen to us, but we live as if it will never happen,” the Dead Man observed. He stared at Kyle for a long moment, then wrapped a slender arm around Kyle's shoulders. “I'm telling you this because I wish it had been told to me. And because I don't want your death to seem unimportant.”
“I don't want to die!” Kyle blurted out, finding his voice at last. The Dead Man grimaced.
“I don't have a choice, Kyle...and neither do you,” he countered. “Xanos has demanded your death.”
“But why?” Kyle pressed.
“Someone is killing His Chosen,” the Dead Man answered. “This should not be possible. This person is protecting you, or it is you. I believe you are not the one Xanos is looking for, but He is wiser than I. If your protector is near, they will reveal themselves in saving you. If not, then you will be proven to not be the one He is searching for.”
Kyle turned to stare at the pit created by the Behemoth's giant foot, his eyes drawn to the red-soaked rock. The Dead Man noted the focus of Kyle's gaze.
“Xanos is thorough,” he explained. Then he stood up, staring down at Kyle. “It's time, Kyle. Stand up.”
Kyle stared up at the Dead Man, terror gripping him. He stayed where he was, sitting on the ground, paralyzed with fear.
“Don't make this more unpleasant than it needs to be,” the Dead Man warned.
Kyle bolted then, leaping up from the ground and sprinting as fast as he could away from the Dead Man and the line of Death Weavers, running into the depression created by the Behemoth's foot. He jumped over the bloodied portion of rock, pumping his legs hard, aiming for the large space between the Behemoth's feet. He half-expected one of those feet to rise up and smash down on him, finishing him off as they'd done to Darius, but they didn't move. He ran between them, seeing the edge of the forest only fifty or so feet ahead now, his lungs burning with the effort. He sprinted as fast as he could, pushing his body to its limit.
And then the Dead Man struck.
Kyle felt a vibration in his skull, then felt a powerful force yank him backward, his heels sliding across the ground. He struggled against that invisible grip, digging his heels into the dirt, but it was no use. Backward he went, passing between the Behemoth's legs again, then flying over the foot-shaped depression in the ground. A bolt of terror passed through him.
No!” he screamed out.
Without warning, the force pulling on him vanished, and he dropped to the ground with a loud thump, sliding to a halt on his back. He grunted, then rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself up off of the ground with his palms.
Then he looked down and noticed the blood soaking his shirt, spreading rapidly across his chest.
He took a deep breath in, and screamed again, his legs feeling like lead. He stumbled to the ground, crawling on his hands and knees, clutching his bleeding chest with one hand. His head swam sickeningly, a wave of nausea threatening to overcome him.
A cold hand gripped his shoulder.
Kyle tried to pull away from that horrible grasp, but it was impossibly strong. The hand pulled back, spinning Kyle around; he screamed a third time, shielding his face with one forearm, knowing that he was about to die.
His distorted reflection stared back at him.
Kyle's eyes widened, and he scrambled backward, feeling the hand on his shoulder slip away.
A man was kneeling in front of him on one knee, a tall man in jet-black armor, countless tiny runes carved into the metallic surface. Blue light arced through the runes in slow, random patterns, casting the man's face in a pulsing glow. The man wore a silver, mirrored visor across his eyes, sunlight reflecting off of the curved surface. His short brown hair rippled in the gentle breeze that blew across the open pit mine.
Kyle sat there on the ground, resting back on his palms, his eyes wide, his jaw slack with awe.
Rise.
The voice – there but not there, heard but without sound, echoed through his mind. Kyle rose slowly to his feet, his eyes locked on that mirrored visor. Then he glanced down at his chest, remembering the blood dripping from his shirt. He blinked, realizing that the blood wasn't his; he'd fallen onto the puddle of blood on the rocks, the one created by the Behemoth.
Darius's blood.
Kyle lifted his gaze upward, spotting something in the distance...the Dead Man, standing some thirty feet away, his black cloak ever-rippling. He was staring at the black-armored man, his pale lips drawn in a frown.
“And who,” the Dead Man inquired, “...are you?”
The black-armored man turned slowly, facing the Dead Man, blue light rippling down the runes on his black gauntlets in rhythmic pulses. He remained silent.
“I asked you a question,” the Dead Man warned.
Suddenly, Kyle felt something slam into his mind, an immense power coursing over his body. A shockwave of blue energy flared outward from the armored man, blinding in its intensity. He gasped, feeling energy coursing through him. The magic flowed through his bones, filling them instantly, recharging all that had been lost to the Void earlier.
Kyle squinted against that ocean of blue, watching it shoot outward in all directions, striking the Dead Man and his Death Weavers. The Dead Man's eyes widened, his jaw dropping. The Death Weavers fell to their knees.
And then the wellspring of power vanished.
The black-armored man strode slowly toward the Dead Man, his black boots cracking the very stone beneath them with each step, the green crystal on the Dead Man's forehead reflecting off of that silver visor. The armored man stopped a few feet from the Dead Man, who stood there levitating an inch above the ground, his black cloak rippling sinuously around him. Blue spherical gravity shields appeared around the Dead Man in a dozen shimmering layers. The Death Weavers scrambled to their feet, activating their own gravity shields.
The black-armored man stood before them, unafraid.
“I,” he stated, the word echoing through Kyle's mind, but this time also heard, the sound sending a chill down Kyle's spine. The Death Weavers stepped backward almost as one, no doubt sensing the voice as Kyle did. Only the Dead Man remained unmoved by it.
“...am,” the voice continued, rolling across the pit mine. Kyle felt goosebumps rise on his arms, the hair on the back of his neck rising on end. The black-armored man raised his right gauntleted fist into the air, blue light coursing through its runes.
“Ampir.”
He slammed his fist onto the ground, his black gauntlet crushing through the rock with ease, the very earth rising up in a shockwave around him. The stone rippled outward in front of him in an expanding wave of crumbling rock ten feet high, crashing through the Death Weavers' shields and throwing them backward onto the ground like rag dolls. Only the Dead Man remained untouched, rising up through the air over the moving wall of stone.
Then the shattered earth rose into the air in a storm of
pebbles and stones, the Death Weavers flying up into the air with them, soaring into the sky until they came to a stop some fifty feet in the air. Their shields vanished as one, obliterated instantly by an unseen power, each Death Weaver flying apart from the other until they formed a loose circle in the sky. The air in the center of that circle ripped, a dark hole appearing there. It expanded rapidly, strange white pinpoints of light glimmering against that blackness.
Then, the Death Weavers – every last one of them – shot inward with blinding speed, vanishing into the void above.
Kyle stared upward, watching as the dark hole in the sky shrank, then vanished. A powerful gale slammed into him, making him stagger to one side. He righted himself, bracing himself for more, but the wind dissipated as rapidly as it had arrived.
And there was silence.
The Dead Man remained levitating ten feet in the air, staring down at the black-armored man, the one who called himself Ampir. He descended slowly, the green crystal in his forehead glittering in the sunlight, until he was mere inches from the ground. His eyes were cold, his expression unreadable. His shields glowed powerfully around him, warping the light at their edges like a magnifying glass.
“You're the one we've been searching for,” he deduced. Ampir said nothing. He stood there in front of the Dead Man, arms at his sides, no shields surrounding him. The Dead Man glanced upward. “What did you do to them?” he asked. “Where did you send my children?” Ampir's lips curled into a slight smirk.
“Orbit,” he replied. This time, he spoke only with his voice. No sound echoed within Kyle's skull, as it normally did when Ampir communicated with him. The Dead Man's eyes narrowed.
“What?”
Ampir said nothing, but took a step toward the Dead Man, his gauntlets glowing brightly now. The Dead Man glided backward, the crystal embedded in his forehead flashing bright green, casting a harsh glow over his pale, gaunt features. Kyle stepped back involuntarily, a spike of fear twisting in his belly.