by Jay Swanson
He was glad to be alive, but the question of how he was still living presented itself over and over again. He could barely remember overcoming Tertian, the Mage back in the mountains who had so completely betrayed him, let alone what had happened after that. Blinding white heat and then the nightmares. The endless nightmares.
He felt filthy, like he hadn't bathed in years. He didn't know what to do. It was apparent that there was no intention to let him go. There didn't seem to be much concern for his well-being in the first place.
The thought of fighting his way out passed briefly, but he didn't want to hurt anyone. Charsi had somehow been able to reach out of her imprisonment, and the result had been devastating. He didn't want to destroy anything. He didn't feel like he had the strength for it even if he did. He laughed at himself for the idea. Who was he to fight big guys like that?
He huddled his legs close and rested his forehead on his knees, thinking of Alisia. The pain in his chest won out over the hunger as he pictured her face framed by deep auburn hair.
What am I to do? he thought as hopelessness constricted his throat. Oh God, Alisia, what on earth am I to do...
FOUR
THE SHADOW KING SAT ON THE CLIFFS OF THE NORTHERN RANGE LOOKING OUT AT THE NORTH SEA. The freezing waves broke endlessly on the land's bulwark, which stood stubbornly against their relentless advance. He frowned as he watched the dark storm clouds whirling away, gathering their strength for an attack of their own.
That was the way of life: an endless battle between implacable forces that refused to be undone. At least that was how he was beginning to see it.
His cape whipped out over the dizzying drop beneath him as he rested his arm lazily on one knee. The other leg lay extended over the edge. The Shade frowned. He didn't like his options.
He had taken the little Magess' power, but it was barely enough to start him on his way. Since he was no Mage and apparently failed to complete the ritual when he killed her, he feared he was unable to grow the power himself. He didn't even know how to control it.
Either way, he would need a substantial amount if he were to bring the Shadow back into existence. It took at least two or three Magi to cross one Shade over. It took a decent amount of time as well. He had plenty of time; power was what he lacked. With the deaths of Caspian and Tertian, he doubted there were any left who were strong enough to aid him in his cause.
Regardless of what Tertian may have said, the Shade knew that he had been the last truly powerful Mage. There were none left like him. It left the Shade wondering how he had died. Who had managed to dispatch the Mage where the Shade himself had failed? Truth be told, it didn't matter. Tertian's power was lost. Even if there were others still alive in hiding somewhere, they wouldn't compare. All of the Elders and the most powerful of their descendents had been accounted for. The Magi were as good as extinct now, and without their strength he had no idea where to turn.
He didn't even know how to access what little he had stolen from the girl. At least he had regained control over himself. It was disconcerting to have come so close to losing himself. The fabric of his very being had been threatened by the passing of her strength to him. It had been done incorrectly, and the fusion of her power with his already-mixed being had nearly been enough to tear him apart. Thankfully he had managed to keep hold of himself. But he couldn't raise the power to his need or bend it to his will. He could feel it under the surface; he knew it was there, but he couldn't persuade it to come forth.
It was maddening. But even if he could call it up, he knew it wouldn't be enough to complete the task at hand.
Seeking the help of the Greater Being flickered through his mind. It was a familiar idea, one that he wished wholeheartedly he could pursue. But he would find no help in the Temple in the mountains. The Shadow were the bastard children of the Magi and the Greater Being. The Creator himself wouldn't touch such a lowly creature as a Shade. Even less would His servant, the Greater Being, despite the Being's responsibility in making the Shadow where the Creator had never been involved. The Shadow King was a reminder of past failures. The last thing the Greater Being would ever do would be to revive his greatest mistake. The Being would offer no aid.
There was one more place to look for help, Liscentia, but he didn't think it would yield any results. Beyond that, as far as he could tell, he had only one real option left. It wasn't one he was yet willing to pursue. But maybe I should, he thought, as he wrapped his cloak more firmly against the cold. Maybe he ought to go to the Demon, get the monster's help, and then do whatever it took to betray him. The Shade would have the strength to do so if he brought his army back. His people.
The thought made his stomach lurch. How could he be thinking of treading so deep into treason's territory? The emotions that rose in response to his path were put down by his calculated determination. He had to do whatever it took. The Shadow were relying on him to bring them back, and he knew it. He could feel their presence at times. Though they seemed to amble aimlessly, they would occasionally congregate around him in such numbers that he felt physically oppressed. And then they would leave, wandering in limbo for lost answers to unknown questions.
Torment. Not the pain and horror of physical torture, but a shapeless, purposeless existence. Something he feared would eventually clear their minds of any semblance of sanity. Perhaps they were already lost, their lucidity blurred irreparably by endless wanderings.
He hoped that wasn't the case. But then there was no consoling himself. He had never experienced it. He had no way of knowing for himself what it was like to be detached from the physical world. When he made the jump into the Atmosphere, he was always anchored to the physical world. Just like he was anchored to the metaphysical while he was in the physical. It left him with a loose frame of reference. He didn't think he truly could understand their experience. Perhaps he had never hated making the jump until he had become half human. It was hard to remember how things were before. But if it was anything like the jumps he made into the Atmosphere now, then he did know one thing: he wouldn't want to be trapped like that for long.
Seeing no new options present themselves, he stood. His cloak grappled with the wind as if to launch him from his perch as he rose. The Shadow King walked down the craggy path along which he had ascended.
He need not turn to the Demon for help. Liscentia held the key to his redemptive path. The knowledge he needed to replicate the power of the Magi was there. Perhaps he could even use it to amplify his own. The wind whipped around his ears as he descended the mountain, whisking away the doubts that tugged at his certainty.
ARDIN'S HUNGER WAS SLOWLY SETTLING INTO HIS BONES. He had long passed the point of the excruciating pain of his initial need, and now the long-term effects were beginning to set in. He wanted nothing more than to eat something.
There was a rusty tap that ran into his room. The water it provided was gritty and rancid, but he drank it anyway. It was all he could get in his stomach.
He needed something to do with his hands. Anything to distract him from the bland and timeless existence that beset him now. But there was nothing available. The crusted remains of drywall that had once covered the cinder blocks were limited to the upper corners of the room. The rest had disintegrated long ago. Even the sheet covering his moldy mattress was too threadbare to make anything of.
His father had shown him how to whittle once. The crippled soldier had spent many an hour doing so himself since the fateful day a tree had taken his ability to walk. Somehow his father could take any ordinary piece of wood and turn it into a work of art. It was probably simple compared to the stuff found at market in Elandir, but to Ardin it was mesmerizing. It was almost like an artistic vengeance for his father. He could spend entire evenings just watching his father take a knife to a piece of wood. He was amazed at how the obscurity of the object was steadily removed until its inner beauty shone.
Ardin would have killed for a piece of wood and a knife right now. Some pine would do. Even a
piece of driftwood along one of the ponds could suffice. But he had nothing with which to channel his thoughts. Nothing he could carve would have blocked them out in any case.
The dreams were fading, but his family haunted him. He had never heard them die, but the screams of his sisters remained on the rim of his reality. Just beyond his ability to grasp. To wrestle with and release. And John, his brother... that, Ardin couldn't erase from his memory. The gray walls and dim light took him back to the crater where he had held John as he died. Warm blood mixing with cool ash as his brother's life caked itself to his clothes.
And Alisia. The idea that she was gone remained insubstantial compared to the memory of John's death. But it stung worse. Somehow it stung much worse. He traced the cracks in the floor with a quivering finger as exhaustion overcame his hunger. The dreams returned, and sleep claimed him before he ever knew he was pursued.
VITALIS.
Ardin woke slowly, his eyes clouded with the crust of dreams.
Ardin Vitalis.
He had fallen asleep in the corner of his room, hugging his left knee. His right leg lay flat on the floor, protruding from his ugly hospital gown like a white stick.
Awake. You must leave this place.
He looked around, head swimming for a moment. And then Ardin saw him and woke up entirely.
There is little time. You must leave this place, or you risk your very soul.
In front of him stood a tall figure covered in a dazzling mixture of ornate metallic plate and leather armor. Except he wasn't standing; he was floating.
You are needed.
Ardin pressed himself into the corner of the room. “Who are you?”
My name is Tristram. Of the three I am but one.
Tristram, as he called himself, had wings. They looked much like an eagle's wings but waved subtly like cloth in a breeze. They had the appearance of long ethereal tendrils running along them. His deeply hooded face remained hidden from view behind a low half-mask.
“I mean who are you?”
A friend. A good friend indeed. I have been sent to remind you of who you were meant to be. What you are called to be. But in this moment you must conceive your escape.
“Who I was meant... what are you talking about?” The twist in Ardin's stomach competed directly with the hunger.
Tristram's thick, blocky boots hung just above the filthy tile floor; one was partially hidden behind the other as the toe nearly touched the ground. He seemed to take up the entire room.
The enemy holds sway in this place, much the same as the footholds he maintains throughout this land. If you do not soon part, I fear you will perish. Make for the north. Head deeper into the mountains, and there I will find you.
And with a bright flash and a faint swirl of mist he vanished. Ardin didn't relax immediately. He wanted to ask how exactly he was to escape, but the opportunity was lost to him now. He frowned as his weight settled back on the floor, his stomach rumbling against his thigh as he pushed the hunger from his mind.
Ardin looked around the room suspiciously, as if the doctor might jump out at any moment and discover his insanity was real. His throat tightened at the word... insanity. Had he just been visited by someone with wings, or was he truly going crazy?
Whoever his visitor had been, he wasn't getting out of here; he knew it. They wouldn't let him out, and he didn't think he could make a way for himself. If that floating jerk had wanted him out of there so badly, he could have at least done something more than insist he leave. His stomach churned at the thought. He couldn't just leave. Could he?
He sighed and wondered if he still had any of the power that Charsi had given him. Somehow he doubted it; he couldn't concentrate enough over the hunger and weakness to give it a try. His mind was clouded, and he lacked the volition to make any attempt. Even if he didn't, there wasn't enough in him to fuel the effort.
He stayed on the floor for what may have been a day or two or only hours. He couldn't tell. There was no change in light to mark the passing of time. Only the endless flicker and buzz of the fluorescent bulb in the ceiling. If one didn't enter this place mad, they were bound to leave it so.
The dingy water that gurgled out of the rusty tap in his cell still came at his beck and call. But on occasion there would be a sputter and the water would stop. It was in those moments that he couldn't help but cry.
The door to his cell clicked and clacked and swung open, scraping the floor lightly along its arc. The two big orderlies walked in and observed him glibly, batons held loosely in their hands. A third followed them to the door and stopped. The low stubble surrounding his lips seemed to ripple as his flat face scrunched up in revulsion. “God he smells.”
“The doc wants you to come pay him a visit,” said the one.
“And we don't want no trouble,” said the other.
“So you want trouble then,” Ardin mumbled under his breath.
“What was that? You givin' us lip?”
“Double negative,” he said under his breath again, not caring to move or further acknowledge their presence.
“Ah, so he's a real smart ass then?” The new one quipped from the door.
“Sounds like it.”
“Sounds like resisting our help, doesn't it?”
“Sure does.”
They spread apart, moving in slowly, no longer holding the batons loosely. There was a sick pleasure that crossed their mouths in wry smiles. This was the one part of their job that made sifting through mindless babbling and endless shit worth while.
Ardin shrunk into the corner whimpering. But the warmth was there. The feeling that had been familiar to him once. It stirred to match his racing heart, burning away in his gut before it swirled out into his extremities. His fear was gone. A cold determination came on him as he focused on their massive legs. Self-assurance returned as he sized them up; he could handle himself. He almost smiled. What did he have to fear from a couple of goons?
And with no more of a thought than that, his right hand shot out towards the orderly on his right and shattered his knee. The invisible strike blew the orderly's leg out to the side and sent him screaming to the floor with a thud. The other orderlies hesitated for a moment before plunging forward, batons raised, hoping for the encounter to end quickly.
Ardin brought his hand around and up across the face of the larger man. He never touched him, yet the air rippled visibly as an unseen hammer caught him under the chin so hard that his neck snapped like crisp celery.
The orderly slumped over unconscious next to his screaming comrade. The new orderly stopped in shock. Ardin stood slowly. He gained his balance on his shaking legs as the warmth ran down and strengthened his quivering muscles. There was a familiar satisfaction that rose in him then. It had never been his, he recalled, but it had been given him. Instead of a burrowing pain, it now came with only pleasure.
The orderly twisted. He brought his baton around in a blur that would crush Ardin's skull in a single blow. But Ardin was ready for it. Somehow he could sense the man's every move like a premonition. He pulled his head down to the side, the baton whizzing past his ear and shoulder. The orderly fell forward, all of his weight behind his swing, and all Ardin did was put his hands out.
The sound of ribs breaking barely registered to Ardin who squeezed the air within his fists. He could feel the power. Feel it writhing, pulsing through him. As it coursed out of his bare hands, Ardin sent the man into a red unconsciousness. He let him drop as the screams of his first victim slowly reached his ears. It had happened so fast. But it had all come so naturally. He hadn't thought about it for a moment; and now here he was, on the verge of gaining his freedom.
He had to get through the security doors, pass yet more orderlies and guards. But the thoughts of those obstacles beaded up and rolled off his mind like raindrops. He wasn't afraid any more, he realized. He was powerful, truly powerful; it felt good.
He walked over the writhing guard on the floor, making sure to step on his shattered kn
ee as he passed. The man screamed afresh. They would think twice about attacking a cornered, helpless kid again. He smiled as he felt the crunch under his foot and moved on. No one would ever touch him again. Not ever.
The hallway remained empty, the screams of his victim blending with the moans and yells that echoed through the building. Ardin hugged himself against a chill, the gown providing poor protection from the draft that blew across his skin. He stood on the old filthy floor for a moment longer, feeling the cold edges of each tile with his toes. He closed his eyes and envisioned walking out of the place.
He was cold. He didn't want to be cold any more.
And with that he started forward, the walls catching fire on either side as he passed. The flames started at their base, born of naught but malice in the thin, crusty drywall. They swept upwards until the whole hallway was a blazing inferno. Smoke reached one of the working detectors. Soon the ill-maintained fire system spewed water with what pressure it could muster. The water flew and hissed and steamed in vain.
The place wasn't made to burn, all cinder blocks and cement and rusty steel. But he could make it hot enough. He could burn anything. And he would be damned if he left a square inch of this place untouched.
Ardin opened the first set of doors as a group of orderlies burst out of the security seal at the other end. A cheer erupted from his fellow detainees, ready to see a fight, unaware of their share in their captors' fate. Ardin slowed. He stopped. He smiled.
The group of men hesitated only for a moment before charging forward. The sight of a loon out of his cage wasn't anything to balk at. They were more concerned with putting out the fire, as the extinguishers in their hands betrayed. But Ardin wasn't moving.
The first to reach him raised his extinguisher over his shoulder as if to batter Ardin down, but he never made the connection. Ardin flung his arms out, sending a shock wave through the man that nearly cut him in half. The impact nullified his forward momentum so that he dropped, dying in a bloody heap.
