by Clayton Wood
She was laying on the ground, that much she did know.
Petra grit her teeth, then tried to move her head again, more slowly this time. She rolled onto her belly, her head spinning with the effort. She fought back another wave of nausea, clenching her teeth and staying perfectly still, waiting for the feeling to pass. And it did...slowly. Equally slowly, she pulled her arms and legs under her, then pushed herself up onto her hands and knees.
And promptly vomited.
Her head pounded, the pain so incredible that she cried out, dropping to the ground and rolling onto her right side, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in her right flank. She nearly threw up again, clutching her spinning head in both hands, tears welling up in her eyes. She moaned, hoping, praying for the pain to stop.
Then she heard a voice.
Petra froze, ignoring her pounding skull, opening her eyes. The light was painfully bright, lancing through her eyeballs into her skull. She grit her teeth, blinking against the light, her eyes slowly adjusting. She saw trees in front of her, and the forest floor below, broken tree branches scattered across it.
She heard the voice again.
It was nearby, that much she could tell. Coming from her left. It seemed urgent. Petra closed her eyes, turning slowly until she was on her back, then rolling onto her left side. She ignored the pain and nausea, opening her eyes, and saw someone lying there next to her. A man, his back propped up against a thick tree trunk. He was saying something.
“Vens ibis al,” he gasped.
Petra stared at him, at his lips. He was looking right at her. He looked familiar somehow.
“Vens ibis al,” he repeated. Petra stared at him, at his eyes, his nose...his lips...and then she remembered.
“Kalibar!” she cried.
“Petra,” he gasped. She realized that his breaths were coming in short gasps, his face terribly pale. She frowned, pushing herself up – very carefully – into a sitting position.
“Kalibar, what's wrong?”
He grimaced, then raised one hand – it was covered in blood, she realized – and pointed below his chest. She followed his finger, staring at his abdomen.
Her eyes widened.
“Kalibar!” she gasped, recoiling in horror. Something very large was sticking out of the center of his abdomen. It was the sharp end of a broken tree branch, as thick around as her calf, and covered in bright red blood. Her hand went to her mouth, and she shook her head. “Oh Kalibar,” she repeated, staring at the branch. Blood oozed around it, spilling down his brown cloak and forming an ever-widening puddle around him.
“Petra,” he murmured, closing his eyes, then opening them again. “Vens ibis al.” She stared at him mutely, then shook her head.
“I can't understand you!”
He grunted, then lifted his hand up to his ear, touching the yellow earring there. Then his hand slumped back down to his side. Petra stared at the earring for a moment, then cursed. Of course...she'd forgotten about his earring! She reached into the stream of magic within her, finding a faint trickle of magic there. She diverted it to Kalibar's earring.
“Try it now,” she urged, pointing at his ear.
“Magic,” he gasped. “Vens ibis, ne thul tist,” he added, pointing to the large branch protruding from his abdomen. Petra frowned, then grabbed onto the end of the stick.
“Like this?”
“Es, es, es!” he gasped, shaking his head side to side. Petra let go of the stick, and Kalibar moaned, his head slumping back against the ground. His eyes fluttered, then closed. “Vens ibis al,” he mumbled. Petra crawled over his limp body, ignoring the pain in her head, until she was right over him. She reached into her magic stream, finding little magic left. She felt the others at the edge of her mind, the Reaper vines with their promise of boundless power. She paused, then pulled at them. She felt an all-too-familiar pain in her skull, and throughout the rest of her body, her bones starting to ache. She ignored the pain, knowing it was the price she paid for her request.
A moment later, magic flowed into her, filling her mind with power. She concentrated, taking a large stream of it and sending it outward at Kalibar's earring.
“Magic,” he gasped, his voice barely audible now. His skin was becoming deathly pale, almost as pale as Ariana's. Petra shook her head, feeling panic rising in her breast.
“Magic what?” she asked, holding his head in her hands. His skin was cold, like a corpse's.
“Magic,” he mumbled.
“Magic what?” she almost screamed. He opened his eyes, then closed them again. Petra felt terror grip her, and she slapped his cheek with one hand, her heart thumping in her chest. “Come on, tell me!”
“Give me,” he gasped.
And then he stopped.
Petra hesitated, then slapped his face again, harder this time. His head rolled to the side, his eyes open but unseeing.
“No,” she said, rolling his head back toward her. “No, no!” She stared at him in horror, tears welling up in her eyes. She took his head in her hands, then slipped the fingers of her right hand down to his neck, at the great vessel there.
Nothing.
“Kalibar!” she shouted, shaking him now, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Kalibar!” She shook him again, then leaned over him until her forehead was touching his.
Give him magic!
She closed her eyes, feeling the river of magic within her, sending it gushing outward at Kalibar's forehead. She felt the magic leave her, felt it flow like water breaching a dam. She let it go, let it pour from her into him, until there was nothing left. Then she pushed herself up, staring at him, her fingers still on the side of his neck.
No pulse.
“Come on!” she urged. She lowered herself to him again, closing her eyes and reaching out to the others within her. She pulled magic from them, feeling that awful aching in her bones. The pain was worse this time, becoming sharp, as if knives were being thrust into her head and limbs. She knew what that meant; the vines were consuming her, digging their roots ever deeper into her bones.
She ignored the pain, continuing to pull, and felt magic flood her mind. She poured it into Kalibar as quickly as she could, filling him with it. She started to sense his mind resisting the flow, and knew that his mind was nearly full. Still she poured, until she could do so no more.
Petra opened her eyes, pushing herself up from Kalibar’s cool, pale skin. She placed her fingertips on his neck, feeling for the throb of blood within. She waited, her lower lip starting to tremble, her vision blurring with moisture.
Nothing.
It was then that she started to cry, great sobs wracking her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she laid across Kalibar, cradling his head to her bosom.
“Kalibar, please...” she pleaded, knowing that it was too late.
He was already dead.
Chapter 30
The wrought-iron bars of Sabin's prison cell extend from the stone floor all the way up to the irregular ceiling above, each spaced five inches apart from the one beside it. Sabin rests his back against the cool rock wall opposite those bars, at the far end of his cell, his legs splayed on in front of him on the dusty stone floor. There is no bed in the cell, only a small hole in the ground for a toilet. He'd been locked in this cell since Witt's execution yesterday. Night had come, and the Behemoths had launched, making their way toward the Empire. He'd felt the vibrations in the floor of his cell when they'd gone. That had been at least twelve hours ago.
Which meant they'd already reached the Empire, and very likely had destroyed it.
Sabin takes a deep breath in, then lets it out slowly, staring beyond the gaps between the bars, at the two guards sitting in chairs nearby pretending to watch him. It's obvious that they have no fear of him escaping...and for good reason. There's no way to escape.
Sabin closes his eyes, seeing Witt's body lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, then opens them again. He stares at those guards, imagining himself weaving
magic to burst through those prison bars. Imagines himself slaughtering those cocky, arrogant guards. He closes his eyes again, picturing himself wrapping his hands around Gunthar's throat, and squeezing.
He opens his eyes, realizing that his hands are curled into claws before him. He hears the guards laughing, and drops his hands to his lap.
Pricks.
He lowers his gaze to his feet, ignoring the guards' laughter. He feels his rage seeping out of him, knowing that he'll never have his revenge. The world doesn't work that way, he knows all too well. There is no higher power to ensure that justice will prevail.
The strong win at the expense of the weak, he muses. The weak suffer at the whim of the strong.
He closes his eyes, picturing Nespo's face as he'd last seen the man. So calm, so serene as he'd ascended toward the hole in the ceiling of Sabin's prison cell.
Men who crave power over people get it, Sabin thinks. And they're the last people who should have it.
He chuckles then, quietly, his lips twisting into a smirk. How ironic that he should find himself in the exact same position as he was over two years ago, in some prison cell at the whim of a despot. He'd traveled across the ocean, to another damn continent, working tirelessly for the exact cause he'd been imprisoned for, only to be imprisoned by the very people he'd liberated.
If only Ampir had let me die.
Sabin closes his eyes again, feeling despair come over him. To think that Ampir had seen it so many years ago. How naïve Sabin was. How weak and pathetic. Even back on the floating island, when Sabin had first met the man, he'd exposed Sabin's powerlessness in advocating for his line of research. Not to mention his indecisiveness with Vera.
Vera.
He feels shame then, a horrible, crushing shame. He imagines her dying, that lovely fire in her eyes winking out, leaving a cold, lifeless corpse behind. The thought is so excruciatingly painful that he has the sudden urge to kill himself. To smash his head against the rock wall behind him, to tear out his own throat. But he knows from experience that he is too much of a coward to follow through with it.
Instead, he sits there, doing nothing.
Minutes pass, and Sabin finds himself staring up at the ceiling, at a small white crystal embedded into the rock there. Gunthar had commented on it when he'd first had Sabin thrown into the cell. A mysterious crystal, a Runic device crafted by the Orjanian tribes of the north forest, at the base of Mount Grimore. Within minutes, it had completely drained Sabin of his magic, rendering him utterly helpless. The Empire would never have believed that such a device could exist, that a single crystal the size of a small fruit could have done such an incredible thing.
And yet it had...and continued to do so. It's no wonder that the guards don't fear him escaping.
Sabin stares at that crystal, knowing that the tribes who had created it were the only Orjanians who had managed to successfully stave off the Empire's initial assault on Orja. The Empire had lost so badly to the “primitive” tribes that they'd never ventured near Mount Grimore again.
Sabin is taken by the sudden urge to meet these people, to learn from them. He shakes his head bitterly, knowing that that is what Ampir had told him to do after he'd freed Sabin from prison.
Do what you're best at.
Creating massive war machines for a tyrant hadn't been what Ampir had meant, of course. Sabin's strength had always been his research.
Not that it matters now.
Sabin sighs, feeling suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted, he slumps down onto his side on the floor, curling up into a fetal position. He hears the guards making snide remarks, but doesn't care. His pride is pointless now. There's no way to escape, and he knows all too well that Gunthar will never let him go. Sabin is too valuable. Too dangerous. Despite Gunthar's promise not to kill him, Sabin knows that is just another lie. Men like Gunthar and Nespo – men with power – can never be trusted. There is no other way for this to end but for Gunthar to execute him.
Sabin feels a subtle vibration in the stone floor, sees a fine layer of dust fall from the ceiling, swirling in the torchlight coming from beyond his cell. Then he feels a second vibration – much stronger this time – followed by a shower of dust from the ceiling.
Boom.
The muffled sound echoes through the hallway outside of his cell, and this time his guards do notice, standing up from their chairs and walking out of Sabin's field of view.
Boom.
The floor shakes again, more dust and tiny pebbles falling from the ceiling above Sabin's head. He feels the dust strike his head and shoulders, and pushes himself up from the floor, sneezing violently. He hears his guards' footsteps echoing down the hall, getting fainter and fainter.
Boom.
And then nothing.
Sabin stands there, staring out between the bars of his cell, at the empty chairs his guards had been stationed at. He walks up to the bars, pressing his forehead against the cool, rusted iron. Waiting.
He hears shouting far in the distance. A moment later, muffled screams echo off of the stone walls.
He backs away from the prison bars, feeling a chill run down his spine. There is more shouting, following by a loud cracking sound. More screams echo through the tunnels, followed by silence.
Minutes pass.
Sabin hears footsteps then, faintly. Hears a voice in the distance.
“This way, here...”
There is a shout, and another scream, very close now. Sabin sees something fly through the air just outside of his cell, crashing through the two chairs sitting there, then slamming into the wall with a sickening thud. It drops to the ground limply, and Sabin stares at it, realizing it's one of his guards.
Dead.
He hears another shout, and then footsteps approaching, much louder now. He takes a step back, then another, feeling his back strike the stone wall behind him. A man walks into view, just beyond his cell. A very familiar man. A very frightened looking man.
Gunthar.
The tyrant stares at Sabin, then points straight at him.
“There,” he states. A few seconds passed, and then another man comes into view. A man in black, metallic armor, with a reflective visor hiding his eyes. Sabin's eyes widen.
“Ampir!” he exclaims, stepping forward from the wall. It is the legendary Battle-Runic! Ampir turns to look at him, his expression utterly flat. He says nothing.
“He's the one you want,” Gunthar declares, continuing to point at Sabin. “He made the Behemoths, he had them sent to Stridon against my orders!”
“What?” Sabin blurts out incredulously. His eyes shift from Gunthar back to Ampir, righteous indignation rising in his breast. “That's a lie! I wanted to send them to Verhan! You're the one who tricked me!”
“I just wanted Verhan back for my people,” Gunthar retorts furiously, turning to Ampir. “He insisted on having his petty revenge against Nespo!”
Sabin is about to reply when Ampir raises his hand. Both men's mouths snap shut. The wrought iron bars of Sabin's cell bend outward from the middle, the stone they are embedded in cracking loudly, hunks of rock falling to the ground. Ampir steps forward through the now-wide gap between them, entering Sabin's cell. Sabin sees Gunthar glance upward at the white crystal in the ceiling, then quickly look down.
“Ampir, he's lying to you,” Sabin insists, but Ampir merely stares back at him, his expression, as always, unreadable. “The Tower, is it...?” he begins, and finds he can't finish the sentence.
“Destroyed,” Ampir replies. Sabin stares at him in disbelief, taking a step back, his jaw going slack.
Destroyed!
He feels his legs go weak, feels them start to wobble underneath him. He slides down onto his buttocks on the floor, shaking his head mutely, unable to even look at Ampir.
“Don't pretend you didn't want it!” Gunthar accuses, but Ampir raises his hand again, and Gunthar’s jaw snaps shut. Sabin raises his head, staring into his own reflection in Ampir's visor. He feels utter exhau
stion come over him, so powerful that his head drops again, his chin resting on his chest.
“I just wanted to help these people,” Sabin mumbles. “I never wanted to hurt the Empire.”
“Bullshit,” Gunthar retorts. “You even had your friends in Stridon give you the blueprints for Ampir's armor so you could kill him!” He turns to Ampir again. “He specifically told my Weavers – without my knowledge – to kill your wife!”
Ampir stands there, perfectly still for nearly a minute, then turns away from Sabin, staring at Gunthar. His gauntleted hands curl into fists.
“What?” he asks. Gunthar stands taller, pointing at Sabin.
“That traitor,” he declares, “...told my men to target your wife and son, to distract you so you'd be easier to kill.” Ampir stares at the man mutely, then turns back to Sabin. Sabin feels his guts twist with fear, and he stares back at Ampir, his lips trembling. He starts to speak, then stops. He clears his throat, then tries again.
“Vera,” he states, feeling dread creep over him. “...is she...?”
“Dead,” Ampir mutters.
Something inside Sabin breaks.
“Oh, no,” he pleads, tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh no, no...please, no...”
“You lying piece of...” Gunthar begins, crossing through the bars of the cell and striding toward Sabin. Ampir's left fist shoots out, slamming into Gunthar's temple with a loud crack. The man flies headlong into the side wall of the cell, his skull ricocheting violently off of the hard stone, then falling in a heap onto the floor.
Dead.
Sabin stares at Gunthar's unmoving body, at the man's eyes staring lifelessly outward. Then he raises his gaze to Ampir's visor. He feels a calmness come over him.
“Kill me,” he states. There is no pleading, no fear in his voice. He pictures Vera as he'd last seen her, so vibrant and full of life. Her sweet laugh, the way the sun shone on the long curls of her auburn hair.