by Marc Mulero
“My first trial is complete,” Agden announced. “I know what this is.” He pointed his drawn runic blade to the octor. “We are silent warriors of the generations, bonded with one another here in Verglas. This is meant to record our experiences, to hand them down.
“Well, in that spirit, I say: Do not be afraid, brothers and sisters, Dawns… for we are all one – tasked with defending this world by keeping the secret far separated. We are siblings not meant to meet. Follow the teachings of the Founder. I imagine it will be far more difficult the more time that passes, but listen to your ancestors as I have listened to mine.
“Fight through nonexistence. Be a shadow –
“Defend through the resistance of temptation –
“Believe in the Founder’s vision.”
And with his last words, he whirled his short cloak and dashed out of sight. Eres had noticed Glite armor under his cloth.
Shit, Eres thought to himself, shaking off the awe and sliding to his bag. I didn’t even think to equip myself. He threw the flap open and rummaged for the disc that would likely keep him alive in there.
Phew, he sighed as he pressed the circlet to his chest and waited for it to ripple and unfurl over his body, then scoffed – angry at himself as he jogged back to the octor.
Now, where was I? He saw his father’s face staring back at him in the octor’s selection peripheral, lingered on it, and merged the two personalities of a young and older version. He seemed even more like a religious zealot then, almost possessed. But good. He had goodness in him. Hmph, I don’t know what to think anymore.
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. He kept going until the next familiar face popped up. Proctor Wudon, he gasped. Wukaldred Donn – his old teacher… the second Skrol he’d ever met and fourth esper wielder after his father, mother, and ooma. Eres did not expect to see him there. He imagined someone like him training in the black winds of Okabin, or some other equally haunting destination.
He hasn’t changed much over the years, like he was always shrouded in darkness or something.
His cloak was the opposite of Agden’s – long and billowing - and his slick hair black as night framed a face heavy with tension. His brow, jawline, every part of his appearance was plagued with lines.
There was only one thing that struck Eres differently but for his age - his eyes. Ever since he knew him, one eye always looked dead, or entranced, while the other was painfully present and punishing. Eres later came to understand that this was the price paid for the Dark esper – having to live simultaneously in Gushda and in Rudo to manage the darkness. But this was unequivocally before that time. It had to be. Or maybe just before he was fully immersed in it.
Of course he clicked the portrait. Thrum. A gust of wind blew in all directions. Everything became more shadowed, the ice blacker, but the outline of the old proctor was distinct, like a 3D drawing amongst a 2D background. Strange ghouls were crawling all about the ceiling now, like deranged underfed Dagos. No, more slithery, like demons. What in hell was Wukaldred dealing with?
“It appears that ‘accomplishing’ my trials evokes more darkness.” Wukaldred’s whisper boomed. “Hmph.” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, circling Eres. “It seems my path is to wade through the darkness, while others’ in this device are more… linear. There are hundreds of perspectives in here, in this octor. Use them. Hypothesize, traveler, always consider what agenda is being pushed. If you are here, you may be my successor, or perhaps not, but whoever you are – know this: I am attuned with Reach, and whether you are or not is irrelevant. What you must understand is that forces against you here, in your training and otherwise, do possess these gifts.
“Everything of value in a Skrol’s world revolves around Sindah. I can see your naive face now, thinking me mad, or too extreme. Don’t be a fool,” he spat, still circling slowly, every clack of his boots making the converging ghouls shudder. “Sorcery, Reach, Mysticism, these arts may be dying or dead where you come from in the Osa Sphere. But not truly. They are everywhere, under your very nose like a poison that you cannot smell or see. And that’s what you will learn here, that there is a world you cannot fathom until it’s too late.
“Hm…” Wudon snarled. “Perhaps I’m painting too big a picture, too vague for the trial in front of you, in front of me. Well, hear this, naive traveler - arm yourself, for some mystics have the ancient ability to capture the essence of old warriors, to resurrect their motor skills into Rudo.
“There are a hundred scenarios in this room, all different from what I gather. This arena is enchanted in the worst way, and you… future Skrol,” he said mockingly, “must overcome it. You must fight it.” Wudon whipped his hand suddenly, sending trail of bright fire to follow his motion. The flash caused such a collective screech from the ghouls that Eres had to slam both hands over his ears to muffle it. The piercing sound was blood curdling, but then the message abruptly cut out.
“Okay…” Eres arose slowly, tentatively, a bit fearful of what was coming after hearing that. If the likes of Wudon and his father were warning him - as powerful as they were - then it seemed a good time to panic. He unsheathed his crimson blade, drew his impeller, and readied himself as best he could for what was to come.
“Seren is in this octor too, I know it. I have to see what he dealt with, what he was like.”
But just as he went to press his fingers to the octor again, the stilled lightning began to quiver more violently, miniature bolts branching off of each streak, the smell of electrical burn starting to reach his nostrils. It – whatever this was, was consolidating in the center. Something was forming.
Water siphoned upward from the icy ground, chemicals extracted from the air were compounding, materializing, swirling into a hard-covered shell that resembled armor to contain the electricity, until finally, an unstable figure emerged.
Where eyes should’ve been were black warping holes with spurs of electricity sporadically shooting sparks through them. No nose. A mouth exaggerated like a clown’s, with black burnt lipstick. Its entire face, entire body was shadowed by the sheer brightness of the energy stirring inside of it. Slits in its jaw made it look like it was decaying or half-formed – an abomination of sorts.
Eres took a step back for every noticed detail – one for the black gleaming blades it had as arms, another for its shimmering marble-like skin.
“What darkness does Ramillion practice?” he muttered to himself, blade pointed forward as an empty threat.
The creature was hunched, feral, as if awakened from a long slumber, ready to punish the trespasser who dared travel this deep.
“Shit!” Eres cursed as it began to charge him. “A Drigus… I’ve read about them. This is what Wudon was talking about.”
Footprints left behind were sizzling, it’s growl had a hundred echoes, and one thing was very clear: it was going to kill him.
Eres adjusted his impeller to the lowest setting, positioned it just right, and clicked the lever so he would hop just enough to clear the Drigus and smash its head into the wall with his heel. Eres flailed for a fraction of a second afterward, almost forgetting what it was like to fly – but then caught himself by rolling into a graceful somersault. A quick hunched spin - one-eighty - ended with him rising slowly, blade still held hopelessly forward.
“Saaarrkafff!” The Drigus’ voice cracked with thunder, making a shiver crawl down Eres’ spine.
“Sarkaf? What the heck does that mean? Wait… why is this thing talking? I thought it was just supposed to be the motor skills of an old warrior?”
It charged again, this time faster, making Eres’ eyes go wide and forcing him to side flip out of the way too soon. The beams of lightning resembling a cage hummed behind him - threatening him – almost as much as the two blade arms descending to cut him.
Cling. Clang.
Two parries and a Crule-ignited stab straight into the marble-embodied soul did nothing but send a shock down Eres’ arm. His Glite suddenly deactivated and reduce
d to a disc that toppled to the floor. He yelped, vocal cords feeling fried, hair electrocuted back for a moment before he instinctively let go.
In an instant, he was disarmed and stripped of his armor. Now what?
How? He asked himself. Nothing is supposed to be able to deactivate Glite…
His breathing was short and pained, the standards on everything he thought he knew about his armor, his own security, were dismantled in an instant.
Wait a second, my clothes… they’re not mine. Ramillion gave me these. Are they enchan-
He looked up and skipped backward to avoid another charge.
“I’m in a cage,” he dashed out of the way again, “a Mustae-damn cage with some damn serial killer ghost!”
He watched Vasa’s blade stick straight out of the Drigus’ chest – hilt first – sparks now bouncing off of that as well.
“Saaarkaffff.”
Eres’ brow knitted as he eyed every flickering bolt he neared to make sure he wasn’t getting too close.
“Hold on,” something clicked, “Sarkaf. What is it, uhh, Sarkaf Ou Sundrun! A Swul! He was in History of Wartech.” Eres dove away from what would’ve been a fatal vertical cut, still thinking, trying to pull from his memory.
The Drigus, almost angered by having been discovered, crouched like a cat and pounced forward, spinning mid-air as a windmill of death.
“Ah!” Blood splashed from Eres’ shoulder and fanned across the wall, all of his thoughts spilling out with it. This wasn’t a joke. The training wheels of Kor were off, and the mercy shown by Seren – for whatever reason – was not here. This thing really wanted to kill him, really would kill him if he didn’t pull it together.
“No, no, no.” He held his shoulder, looking around, thinking stupidly about how hopeless it would be to find medical help while literally in danger of being cut in half.
But he remembered this peril. He’d been here before. There was a rawness to it, like when Kovella’s Quittance terrorized Vinsánce. Or when he had to use Obuls to safely fall into the jungle of Dundo-Ba.
Swipe. Another slash rained down, barely skimming him as he dashed back. Grimacing and grasping his arm, Eres was dismayed at what adrenaline was doing, how it pumped blood out of his shoulder like a gas pump. The wound was refusing to clot. This was bad; he could feel the life draining from his face as he glanced to see red seeping past his fingers, as he felt it pooling fast around his palm.
There was fear, not only of death but of something else. Loneliness maybe. Yes, a bleakness that transcended every other hopeless situation he’d been in. A vulnerability he never knew. At least Windel would have mourned him if he died in Kor, right? Or Ohndee would cry over his body in Dundo-Ba. But here… thousands of miles away, on another sphere, who would even know where to look? Ilfrid thinks I’m in good hands, Ooma too, and his friends were wrapped up in their own lives now. His body would just be left to rot until only bones were left for no one to see.
He shivered.
I’m alone.
The Drigus stalked on, hunched, strutting his two blades, knowing its prey was wounded and done.
Sarkaf... it registered. His brother Turren had ambushed him in the night, to kill him and claim their family fortune and devote it solely to war. I’m fighting Turren.
These thoughts were giving renewed hope back to Eres, and when one of the blades rose to strike him down – click – Eres held the impeller low and burst a harsh gust of wind into his leg, leaving the Drigus to fall face first.
Sarkaf killed his brother if I remember correctly. Bested him even though he attacked him during slumber. How? Think, Eres, think.
He took off his shirt and wrapped it awkwardly around his shoulder and underarm. He could feel it start to go numb, he was losing too much blood.
It was luck, Eres remembered, the book said that Turren made a noise, he tripped over something because… because he only had one eye, no depth perception. Yes! Sarkaf laughed at him to make him blind with rage. Easily manipulated. Maybe, just maybe.
“Hey Turren!”
The creature’s marble skin stiffened, Eres could see it. It knew its old name.
“You can try all you want, but you can never kill me, your brother. Because you’re as blind as a bolrey. You can only see flat, in two dimensions. How do you expect to catch me, the great Sarkof?”
It was a stretch, sure. How could this puny young Dawn be confused with a full-fledged Swul warrior? But it worked. Electricity was bolting around its eye with rage. Yes, Eres could see now that it was true, only one of the black holes in its face gave the impression that it had sight.
“Don’t trip again, brother!” Eres antagonized before clicking his impeller and taking momentary flight.
Whiff. Turren missed.
Really, all this possessed creature had to do was open Eres one more time and the fight was over, and Eres knew the clock was against him – the blood was still refusing to clot.
As soon as he touched down, Turren was on him again with a horizontal slash that would’ve taken his head. Whoosh. Instead only the air whistled. Here came another – a cut that would have easily reduced Eres to two diagonal halves. This was becoming aggravating for the vengeful spirit. How could it be that he missed?
Because this wasn’t the Dawn’s first duel. Moreover, Eres had learned to fight in a different era, a different time, when perhaps more styles were available. Despite his wooziness, he could still move, still evade an impeded Drigus.
Eres clapped back with another gust of wind from his impeller, but to no avail.
Uh oh. He evaded it. Shit. He’s… this thing, it could learn.
“Shi-” Eres backed up as the being readied to pounce again. Back. Back. Back… until the humming of quivering lightning bolts – the arena cage bars - was buzzing in his ear. End of the line. He could feel his hair standing on end, another step and he’d be fried.
Hm, an idea struck him, what happens when electricity collides... I think I know. He readied for the Drigus’ next attack, adjusting the impeller settings behind his back. Let’s see how impeded your depth perception really is, shall we?
“You’ll never get Mother’s inheritance, Turren! You’re not worthy! It’s mine, Turren, all mine!”
That did it.
The Drigus’ mouth exhaled tiny bolts of lightning in rage, and then came a deep screech.
“SARKAF!” The Drigus leapt, blade arms reeled back, chest puffed forward, ready to claw forward like a sprung trap. But Eres didn’t panic.
Wait for it.
The creature may as well have had an impeller itself, for the speed and height it culminated was unnatural.
Not yet…
Just as its arms snapped forward in anger, as its lightning-filled mouth hissed so close Eres could taste the burn in the air… click… he burst swiftly to the side, still grounded, boots sliding over the icy floor, and when he was about to collide with one of the lightning bolt bars, clicked one more time to complete the rotation. Yes. He landed right where he wanted, right behind the Drigus.
It all happened so fast. As soon as he skidded to a stop, or maybe even before, the Drigus’ rage, its handicap, both betrayed it, for it collided headfirst into a bolt.
Eres’ gaze was immediately compelled upward to follow a blur of black marble as it zoomed to the high ceiling and erupted in all directions.
His mouth was agape. “Just what I thought. When electricity meets, it converges.”
He covered his head to shield from falling debris and then, sheepishly, looked to his crimson blade tumbling in mid-air like some kind of reward – a reclaimed treasure. He did it. Eres conquered a Drigus! And Proctor Wudon was right too. He didn’t need Reach or Sorcery – for he possessed other abilities – a sharp mind and lightning-fast reflexes; that’s what will carry him along.
He sighed so hard he fell to his knees, staring at his blade, afraid to touch it because of all the electricity. Then he realized his eyelids were heavy. Sleep was overcoming him.
No, he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t wake up. He’d probably bleed out all alone.
What are my options? He looked around, then to the floor where the Drigus was created. That porum gel is loose, maybe I can use it to patch the wound. No, it could be poison to the skin; I know nothing about it. Then he looked to the thrumming cage of lightning. Nope. I’d die in an instant. Then finally to his blade. Hmm… Crule? It is remarkably like fire, but much more intense. It could kill me too I suppose. But a hot blade is better than a lightning bolt. It has to be.
And so he snatched the blade from the floor, too drained to be cautious, lit it with a blaze of black cloudy Crule – which reminded him painfully of his journey through Dundo-Ba with Ohndee – let it simmer for a moment, and slapped the flat of the blade against his shoulder.
No words came out and no cry of pain. It happened too fast. Spiderwebs of agony started from his shoulder, branched down his arm and up his neck, like the veins in his body were filled with hot iron to burn the rest of him from the inside out. His nose felt blocked, killing his sense of smell. Even his larynx felt like it was set ablaze. The pain was so great, so intense that his sight immediately went white.
And then darkness.
Chapter 33
Now What?
A sensation of rushing water was all around him. Still dreaming. Peaceful. Why did his hair feel wet though? Oh, it’s nothing… he ignored it, letting his breathing fall back into a serene rhythm… nothing at all.
A few seconds past. Just a gentle rocking like a child in a bassinet relaxed him.
Splash! What felt like a bucket of warm water fell over his face, making him flail in confusion, his eyes still blurry with sleep.
“Wh-where am I?”
The rushing water he dreamt of turned out to be real - he was moving quite rapidly.
Eres tensed up, looking all around while grasping at whatever it was that was carrying him through another tunnel.
What the hell, what is this?
As his surroundings came into focus, he looked down to see himself atop some crystallized raft. Perhaps porum-encased ice? It looked more like a raw slab of precious gem than anything else, but who knew? Then his other senses caught up.
