by Unknown
“I don't know,” she admitted. “They don't really tell us students much,” she added. “I do know that once we become Death Weavers, we'll get to go back out to the surface.”
“How long does that take?”
“We graduate when we're eighteen,” Ariana answered. Kyle blanched.
“Eighteen?” he blurted out. Ariana nodded. Kyle stared at her incredulously, then lowered his gaze to his half-empty plate. Suddenly he wasn't hungry.
“The funeral is today after class,” Ariana said, thankfully changing the subject.
“Are you going?” Kyle asked, his tone hopeful. It would be far less intimidating with her there. Ariana hesitated, then nodded.
“Everyone is going,” she answered.
“Everyone?”
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “They take death very seriously here.”
“Oh.”
Kyle took another bite of food, relieved that he wouldn't be one of the few people there. If he was just another member of the audience, it wouldn't be so awkward.
“Are your parents still alive?” Ariana asked, staring at him. Kyle nodded.
“Yeah.”
“That's good,” she replied. She pushed her plate away then. There was still some food left on it. “Almost finished?”
“Uh, yeah,” Kyle mumbled. He ate faster, wolfing down the rest of his food. When he was done, Ariana stood up, grabbing their plates and bringing them to the table where the rest of the dirty dishes were. She dropped them off, and they walked out of the cafeteria, back to Mr. Tenson's classroom. When they got there, however, they found the door locked, the other students standing around it.
“What's going on?” Kyle asked Ariana.
“I don't know,” she admitted. She turned to an older-looking boy. “What's going on?”
“We're waiting for Mr. Tenson,” the boy answered. “He's going to take us to the Arena.”
“Wait, what?” Kyle asked.
“For the funeral,” Ariana explained. The older boy gave Kyle a dirty look, then turned away. Kyle swallowed, glancing at Ariana, who seemed lost in thought. Moments later, Mr. Tenson arrived.
“Follow me,” he ordered, turning about and striding down the hallway. The class followed behind, and Mr. Tenson led them down the hallway, then downstairs, until they'd left the building. The Arena stood before them, the huge stone sphere glowing some fifty feet above the field below.
“What is that?” Kyle asked, pointing at the sphere.
“The Timestone,” Ariana answered. “It's like the sun. It gets brighter during the day, then dark at night.”
“Oh.”
Mr. Tenson led them toward the Arena, whose seats were already starting to fill. Groups of other students, led by their Death Weaver teachers, made their way toward the underground stadium. It wasn't long before Kyle was walking across the field, toward one of the stairways leading upward.
Without warning, Mr. Tenson stopped. He turned around, pointing right at Kyle.
“You,” he barked. “Stay there. The rest of you, come with me.”
Kyle froze in place, staring at Mr. Tenson. He felt a warm hand on his arm, and turned to see Ariana there.
“I'll see you,” she promised.
“See you,” he mumbled. Then he watched as she joined the rest of the class, climbing up the stairs, then sitting down in one of the seats some thirty feet up.
Kyle stood there near the center of the Arena, sensing hundreds of eyes staring down at him. He lowered his gaze to his feet, sweat dripping down his flanks.
More students walked across the field, ascending the stairs to find their seats. Then came the Death Weavers, hundreds of them, filling the front rows of the Arena.
And still, Kyle stood there, alone.
After a few minutes, the last of the Death Weavers took their seats. The stadium was full now, all eyes on the field below. On Kyle. He heard hushed voices from the stands, saw a few people pointing at Kyle. Or rather, behind him.
Kyle turned around, spotting a dark figure moving across the field toward him. It was the Dead Man; he floated slowly toward Kyle, his cloak rippling sinuously behind him. The Dead Man stopped a few feet in front of Kyle, staring down at him with those black, sunken eyes. Then he turned, gazing across the field.
There, levitating a full foot above the ground, a line of brown coffins moved forward into the Arena, each flanked by a Death Weaver. They stopped a few feet from the Dead Man, forming two rows of six coffins each, with a dozen feet between rows. Another coffin entered the field, this one red, and much more ornate, flanked by two Death Weavers. It moved between the two rows of coffins, stopping right in front of the Dead Man.
The Death Weavers bowed before the Dead Man.
A man entered the Arena, flanked by two armed guards. A man dressed in shabby, dirt-smudged clothes, his short brown hair in disarray. His wrists were bound behind him, wrapped around a tall, heavy post on his back. His bare feet slipped in the dirt as the soldiers dragged him forward between the coffins. They stopped before the Dead Man, pulling the man upright until the bottom of the post lined up with a small hole in the floor of the Arena, sinking into it. Kyle stared at the man, his breath catching in his throat.
It was Darius.
The bodyguard stared back at Kyle, tethered to the upright post, his blue eyes unblinking. Kyle looked away, unable to face that gaze.
Traitor.
Kyle saw movement in the periphery of his vision, and looked up, gazing down the length of the Arena. He saw a dozen Death Weavers walk into the stadium in a loose circle, surrounding a single man. Even from across the Arena, Kyle recognized the man's black shirt and pants, his short white hair. His equally white goatee, scruffy from days of unfettered growth.
Kalibar!
Kyle stared at the former Grand Weaver, his heart soaring. Kalibar stood tall from within the ring of Death Weavers, his hands at his sides, unbound. He spotted Kyle, his stony expression softening. He smiled faintly, nodding once. Kyle smiled back, resisting the urge to run to the man. He felt relief course through him, relief that Kalibar was okay. That he was alive and unharmed...just as the Dead Man had promised.
Kalibar stopped before the Dead Man, the Death Weavers surrounding him dropping back to form a line behind him. Darius stood a dozen feet to Kalibar's right, his eyes locked on the Dead Man, who regarded the two men silently, then turned to face the crowd above.
“We are here today,” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing throughout the massive cavern, “...to celebrate the lives of these heroes.” He gestured at the coffins lined up behind him. “We are here to thank them for their sacrifice, as they gave up their lives in service to you, to the Empire, and to their God.”
The crowd was utterly silent.
“You are also here,” the Dead Man continued, “...to mourn the loss of your brothers.” He paused, his expression darkening. “And I am here to mourn the loss of my children.”
The Dead Man turned to face the caskets behind him, his gaze sweeping over them.
“My children were murdered,” he stated, turning back to the crowd. “Taken from me by the treachery of one man and the ignorance of another.”
He lowered his gaze to the field, and as if on cue, the Death Weavers flanking the brown caskets began to move back out of the Arena, the caskets levitating at their sides. Only the red casket remained. The Dead Man turned to Darius, gesturing at him with one hand.
“This man murdered three of your brothers,” he declared.
“Four,” Darius corrected.
The Dead Man stared at Darius for a moment, his black eyes unblinking. Kyle saw his jawline ripple.
“...and he betrayed the very people he promised to protect,” the Dead Man continued. “A murderer and a traitor, yet we feed him, clothe him, and house him.” He gazed at the crowd. “Is this just?”
The crowd booed, countless voices echoing off of the massive stone walls of the cavern.
The Dead Man turned to Kyle, ge
sturing for him to come forward. Kyle obeyed, stopping a few feet in front of his teacher. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, staring into the Dead Man's eyes.
“Gather magic in your mind,” the Dead Man ordered. Kyle did as he was told, closing his eyes and pulling magic into his mind's eye. “Make a full circle clockwise, front to back.”
Kyle did so, holding the pattern in his mind. It contracted, forming a pulsing knot there.
“Pull the magic backward, then forward,” the Dead Man ordered. “Then attach a magic stream and throw the pattern outward.”
Kyle obeyed, then opened his eyes, seeing a small flame – about the size of a candle's – dancing in the air between them. His eyes widened.
“Do it again.”
Kyle did so, creating another flame. The Dead Man nodded in approval, then turned back to the crowd.
“Fire,” he shouted, his voice carrying over the crowd, “...is our symbol for justice. Man's discovery of fire elevated him above the beasts, just as justice gave rise to civilization.” He gestured toward Kyle's flame. “Fire can give us warmth, and life. Or it can kill,” he added. Then he turned back to Kyle, putting a cold hand on Kyle's shoulder.
“Kyle, make the fire pattern,” he ordered. “Larger this time.”
Kyle closed his eyes, weaving the fire pattern with more magic this time. He attached a magic stream, throwing the pattern outward, and opened his eyes to see a ball of flame the size of a soccer ball roar to life a foot in front of him, tongues of flame licking the air hungrily. He stepped back, the heat of the fire almost unbearable on his exposed skin.
The Dead Man smiled, nodding at Kyle in approval. Then he gestured at the guards flanking Darius. The guards grabbed pails next to them, lifting them up and emptying them on Darius. Dark liquid spilled over the bodyguard, soaking his hair and clothes. The stench of oil assaulted Kyle's nostrils.
“Now,” the Dead Man stated. “Send the flame to the traitor.”
Kyle froze, staring at the Dead Man. His concentration broke, the flame between them going out. The Dead Man's eyes bored into Kyle, his pale lips drawn in a frown.
“Weave the fire pattern,” he commanded.
Kyle obeyed, weaving the pattern again. A large ball of flame appeared before him, as before.
“Send it to the traitor,” the Dead Man repeated.
Kyle hesitated, turning to Darius. The bodyguard stood there, staring back at Kyle silently. Kyle swallowed in a dry throat, his eyes drawn to the flame between them.
He stood there, doing nothing.
“Do it,” the Dead Man pressed.
Kyle shook his head silently, lowering his gaze to his feet. He cut the magic stream to the fire, and it vanished abruptly.
The Dead Man shook his head.
“I'm disappointed in you,” he stated. He took a step forward, looming over Kyle, his black eyes locked on Kyle's.
“I can't,” Kyle protested.
“You defied me,” the Dead Man countered. “You knew what would happen if you defied me, yet you did it anyway.”
Kyle felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The Dead Man turned to the crowd once again.
“Mercy,” he declared, his voice booming through the cavern, “...for the traitor.” The crowd booed again, and the Dead Man paused, letting the voices fade away before continuing. “This,” he stated, gesturing at Kalibar, “...is the man who murdered so many of your brothers, and the children of another of Xanos's Chosen,” He turned to Kalibar, regarding the former Grand Weaver with a pitying gaze. “His is a crime of ignorance, mistaking us – and them – for enemies of the Empire.”
Kalibar regarded the Dead Man silently, his expression flat.
“His eyes deceive him,” the Dead Man continued. He raised one hand in the air, closing it into a fist. The line of Death Weavers standing behind Kalibar closed in on him. Two of the Weavers grabbed his arms, and the Dead Man stepped forward until his lips were only a few inches from Kalibar's ear. His lips moved, but Kyle couldn't hear what he was saying.
Kalibar grimaced, his eyes locked on the Dead Man, who drew back, staring back at the former Grand Weaver.
Kalibar nodded once.
The Dead Man gestured at the Death Weavers around Kalibar, and two more of them strode up to their prisoner, reaching down to grab his legs. They lifted him up off of the ground, carrying him until he was suspended over the levitating red casket in the center of the Arena. They laid Kalibar atop the casket, pulling his arms and legs until he was lying spread-eagled upon its surface.
Kyle's heart hammered in his chest, a chill running through him. He stared at Kalibar mutely, his mouth going dry. Kalibar laid on top of the casket without a struggle, his expression eerily calm. Kyle glanced at Darius, seeing the bodyguard’s eyes locked on Kalibar. The traitor's expression was as flat as ever, but Kyle saw the muscles of his jaw ripple, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
The Dead Man walked up to the front of the casket, where Kalibar's head lay. He leaned over the old man's face, staring down into Kalibar's eyes.
“You will never forget my face,” he murmured. Then he straightened his back, gazing up at the crowd.
“Xanos required a test,” he shouted, pointing at Kyle. “A test that our newest student has failed. Xanos demands that I extract payment for this failure.”
The Dead Man turned to Kyle.
“I am a man of my word,” he stated, his voice filled with disappointment. “I would not have allowed the traitor to be harmed had you followed my instructions. If you had obeyed me, none of this would have happened. Remember that.”
The Dead Man turned back to Kalibar, staring down at the former Grand Weaver. He raised his right hand into the air, the sleeve of his black cloak slithering down his pale arm. Then he rolled the sleeve with his left hand, exposing his right arm up to the elbow.
“Let this man,” the Dead Man shouted, pointing down at Kalibar, “...be deceived no more!”
The crowd rose to its feet, cheering wildly. The Dead Man brought his left hand down on top of Kalibar's head, pinning it to the closed lid of the casket. Kalibar grimaced, squirming for a moment, then becoming still. The Dead Man placed his right hand over Kalibar's face, holding it a few inches away, his fingers spread out wide.
The crowd hushed, the Arena utterly silent.
The Dead Man plunged his hand downward, shoving his fingers into Kalibar's right eye socket.
Kalibar screamed, writhing on the casket, jerking his head away. The Dead Man's fingers slipped to one side, and he tightened his grip on Kalibar's head with his left hand, jerking Kalibar's head so that it faced upward again. Tears poured out of Kalibar's right eye, and he squeezed it shut, gritting his teeth in pain. The Dead Man stared down at Kalibar's one open eye, shaking his head in warning.
The ghoulish Weaver brought his right hand forward, hovering an inch above Kalibar's face. Kalibar's chest rose and fell rapidly, the muscles in his neck going taught. But he didn't move, didn't try to resist.
The Dead Man paused, his fingers hovering over Kalibar's right eye.
“No!” Kyle yelled, bolting toward Kalibar. “Stop it!” he cried. Someone grabbed his shirt from behind, yanking him backward. One Death Weaver locked Kyle's arms behind his back, while another grabbed his head, forcing it to face Kalibar. He struggled against their iron grips, a sob bursting from his lips.
No no no!
The Dead Man looked up from Kalibar, staring directly at Kyle.
Then he plunged his fingers into Kalibar's right eye socket.
Kalibar shrieked in agony, his arms flailing wildly. The Death Weavers holding his limbs struggled, leaning backward to pull his arms and legs taut. Kalibar sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, then screamed again as the Dead Man's fingers sunk deeper into his orbit, sliding downward past the first knuckle. Blood welled up between the Dead Man's fingers, dripping down the side of Kalibar's face and pooling on the casket below.
The Dead Man paused, gazing
up at the crowd. Then he twisted his right wrist slowly. A muffled popping sound echoed throughout the Arena. Kalibar screamed again, his back arching off of the casket.
The Dead Man jerked his hand upward.
Kalibar roared, flailing on the casket, struggling violently against the Death Weavers holding him captive. He jerked free, rolling off of the casket and landing on the ground below with a dull thud. He curled into the fetal position, clutching his face with his hands, blood seeping between his fingers and spilling onto the dirt.
The Dead Man lifted his right hand into the air, facing the crowd triumphantly. A white orb glistened in his outstretched hand.
The crowd roared.
Kyle's legs gave out from under him, and he fell to the dirt floor, his entire body feeling numb. The arms behind him pulled him upward roughly, forcing him to his feet.
The Dead Man lowered his hand, tossing Kalibar's eye onto the dirt floor of the Arena. He nodded at the four Death Weavers, who stepped away from the table. Four new Death Weavers replaced them, surrounding Kalibar. The former Grand Weaver waved them away, rolling onto his belly, then pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly, and faced the Dead Man with his remaining eye. He lifted his gaze to the crowd, facing them defiantly.
Then, without a word, he turned to the red casket, hoisting himself upon it. He laid on his back, calmly offering his arms and legs to the Death Weavers surrounding him.
They paused, staring at the Dead Man, who nodded. Then they each grabbed a limb, pulling backward until Kalibar was stretched taught. The Dead Man, still standing at the head of the casket, lifted his right arm into the air.
The crowd went silent.
The Dead Man grabbed Kalibar's forehead with his left hand, then brought his right hand down, fingers hovering over Kalibar's left eye.
He plunged his fingers into Kalibar's left eye socket.
Kalibar screamed, the awful sound echoing throughout the Arena. The Dead Man's fingers sunk downward, and Kalibar cried out again, his back arching in agony. The Dead Man twisted his wrist. Even from where he stood, Kyle could hear the muted pop as the muscles anchoring Kalibar's eyeball tore free.
