by Jay Swanson
“Not at all, Cid. It's how we've told it ever since. Captain Cid, Slayer of Titans.”
“I ain't saying it ain't true. I just remember gettin' a swift kick to the head somewhere in there.”
“Ah, yeah. Well there's been a healthy debate about that for the last fifty years. I prefer to tell it was more of a glancing blow.”
“Young men tell tales.” The Fisherman grinned. “Old men grow them.”
SIXTEEN
THE SHADOW KING WOKE UP SLOWLY. It was dark. The dingy apartment stank worse now than it had before, if that was possible. His head spun as he sat up, there was blood everywhere. As the room stopped spinning, his headache made itself vividly apparent. He sat himself up against the wall and stared into the dark.
There wasn't much light in the windowless box; outside of what seeped under the door, it was pitch black. But there was enough for his cold eyes to see the carnage. He had been so mesmerized when he entered the room that he had barely taken note of anything in it. The mangled corpse of the medium lay across the room from him. Torn and shredded, beyond unrecognizable, somehow the sight made him feel sick. The smell wasn't helping. He stood, pinching his head at the temples as if the gesture would stop the stomping sensation on his brain. It didn't.
His stomach churned. He felt like he might throw up. Carnage like this had never bothered him before. All he wanted was to be out of the room, so he made for the door and wandered into the hallway. It was almost as dank in the hall as it had been in the room. At least it wasn't as hot or as close. The winter chill was making its breaches into the building well enough here. He shivered and heard doors close as curious eyes hid themselves behind locks and bolts.
He didn't much care. He had to find a way out of this place... out of the city. Why did he feel so sick to his stomach? He'd been around plenty of blood in his life; something was wrong.
He staggered to the stairs and looked out of the smeared, grimy window. It was raining outside. Water cascaded down the pane but the glass was no cleaner for it. It looked like it had tried to snow. The world was gray.
The Shadow King made his way slowly down the broken stairs. They creaked. He groaned. His legs weren't as up to the task as he had imagined. He gripped the broken railing tightly, trying to keep from falling head first as the world lurched under him. What was wrong with him?
He got out into the dark lobby of the building, overrun with what he assumed were piles of rancid garbage. He felt filthy just walking through the room. A withered old man lay in one of the piles, moaning and mumbling. He pointed at his private demons as they tormented him from above.
Finally outside, the Shade took in a deep breath. The crisp cold air was refreshing. Why do I still feel so sick? He wrapped his cloak tightly about himself as he pulled his hood up. No sense taking any unnecessary risks. The roads were empty, almost like they'd been cleared. There was a good chance they had been. The hunt for him was probably still going on. He needed to make an exit.
He walked up the street a ways and took a turn down an alley. He didn't know exactly where he was, but the run-down buildings told him he was somewhere in the southwestern-central section of the city. There were no high-rises to be seen, so the odds were good that was where he was. He couldn't quite clear the cobwebs from his mind. A group of mounted police rode past the mouth of the alley shortly after he turned down it. They were followed soon after by a large truck with an enclosed bed made for transporting prisoners. He didn't want to see the inside of it.
He made the jump back to the physical. He had transitioned thoughtlessly as they had gone past, survival mode well in play at this point. And that's when he realized he could do just that and escape. They didn't know where he was, and there were only so many working shelters in the city. One was bound to be with Merodach, and even if they had two more they couldn't guard all of the exits. All he needed was a gap to squeeze through.
As much as he hated it, he could even compress himself enough to get through ventilation shafts or drainage pipes if he had to. That wasn't last on his list of options, but pressing straight through physical matter was akin to killing himself. Even the thought of moving through small spaces felt revolting; he hated the feeling of losing his human form. Having his physical body vaporized and linked so loosely to his metaphysical felt like existing only as a dying man's breath. Becoming some nebulous cloud or misshapen version of himself... he loathed it. But there were few options left to him now.
The Shadow King walked down the alley, making for the western gate as quickly as his weak legs allowed. He paused from time to time to catch his breath. There was something seriously wrong with him; he was convinced of it now. And it was getting worse.
He made his way through the empty streets, stepping into the shadows whenever police or soldiers made their presence known. They were everywhere. Soon he would have to make the jump and stay in the metaphysical, but he wouldn't do that until he had to. And when it came to that he hoped he wouldn't get too lost. In his current state he didn't feel much like himself while in the physical. If that was the case, he didn't think he could maintain a solid sense of direction in a sub-solid state.
Things continued to blur the closer he got to the gates. It was as if the world were melting sideways. He couldn't focus. He pressed on, gritting his teeth as he crossed the street between roving patrols of police and soldiers. He stumbled, fell, got up, moved on. He wanted to throw up but couldn't. His head started to pound. He forced his way through a gate between two low houses and across the grass that separated them.
Before he knew it he had his hand on the tall, sleek walls of the city. He was gasping for air. He had never experienced anything like this in the whole of his life. He strained to see, to figure out where he was. There was a drain nearby, there had to be. There were dozens of them around the city. They guided runoff generated by endless stretches of concrete out into the river. He could get through one; he had to try.
No one had seen him yet but the luck of it had yet to dawn on him. He was far too focused on the task at hand. He needed to escape. To flee. The surging desperation of it struck him as frightening. Why was he so out of control?
Focus was hard, but he strained towards it. He needed it, now more than ever. The tendons in the Shadow King's neck went taut as he willed himself to make the jump. He shook his head and forced it to happen. It did. For the first time in all his life the sensation of the jump was a welcome one. The discomfort of his ethereal metaphysical existence was offset by the instant freedom he had from the intense sickness of a moment before.
He sought the drain and squeezed himself through it. He hated doing this. It was one of those things that seemed to violate his very being. It didn't hurt, but there was a sensation of losing one's self. He came out the other side easily enough, floating on for a bit longer before jumping back, dreading the sickness that awaited him. The reality was he could very well just pass through the walls if he had to. He had discovered that level of ability only a few years back, but passing through solid matter introduced a whole new realm of violation he would do almost anything to avoid.
He wandered on until he could sense that he was near some farm buildings. He came back to the physical expecting the pain to strike at him again, but it had lessened. He continued on from Elandir and as he did so the sense of sickness decreased. By the time he was a few miles out he felt quite himself again.
And then it hit him. The MARD on the walls. MARD was expensive, and since the Purge had become incredibly rare. But Elandir still put money into that wall like it was her only child. It still held its power to repel the Atmosphere. Whatever the Demon had done had awakened the Magess' power in him, had fused it to him in a way he had failed to do for himself. He stopped. Surrounding him were low farmhouses and sheds. Many of the farmers to the west of the city had yet to give up their little plots like those to the east. They still farmed mostly for themselves.
There was no one around. Whatever Merodach had done, apparently he
wasn't letting anyone out of the city. Let the fool search among the masses for his nightmares, he wouldn't find them. They had reverted to ghosts and could haunt him as such.
Now for my magic.
The Shadow King stretched his hand out towards a watering trough not ten feet to his right. He knew he had to imagine what he wanted to happen, that was how it worked somehow. He imagined it floating, imagined it rising into the air and tipping its contents out. He raised his hand slightly, and nothing happened. He muttered a curse under his breath and tried again, but the result was the same.
He sighed and closed his eyes as he remembered the Magi talking about how they did what they did. The humans had always been curious, but he had never cared. There had been that one human, the one that had been good friends with Charsi during the war. Some sort of confidant, a historian along for a dangerous ride. He had gotten the best answers out of her that anyone ever had. Now the Shadow King wished he had listened more closely.
“Imagine it. Will it. Believe it and it will be so.” Caspian had always said that, if memory served.
What worthless words those were proving to be.
The Shade focused on the trough. Maybe he was starting out too big, he wondered. He shook it from his mind. Just get on with it, he thought. He imagined the feel of the thing, as if he could grasp all of it with his hand. He tightened his grip on it, squeezed it a bit, and lifted. He heard an audible crack.
Upon opening his eyes he found it dangling in mid-air. Granted only one side of it seemed to be held up. The whole thing looked like it was about to fall apart, but it was a start. It was exhilarating. He grinned to himself.
He let the trough drop with a splintering thud and thought back on the day. So that's what the presence of MARD feels like. He noted it for later. Caution would be more necessary in the future. It was an unforeseen consequence of his newfound power, something he should have realized ahead of time. He wondered if his reaction to it would always be so violent.
But it hadn't completely debilitated him. Apparently the parts of him that didn't rely on the Atmosphere for sustenance would still function while lacking its presence. He would have to learn to deal with the symptoms somehow.
He shook his cloak free of the snow that had been gathering on his shoulders. It had begun to fall during his little experiment. He looked up as it floated down towards him. Blinking away the flakes, he smiled. His confidence was renewed as the world turned muted white. It was a new day. A fresh start. No one could stop him now.
“What do you mean you can't find him anywhere?” Merodach was on the verge of screaming into the phone on his desk. It was one of those moods no one wanted to find him in. “He's here, we saw him. If you can't find him, that means he's at large, which means we're all in a lot of danger... no. No, that's your job! Get it done or take off your damned uniform!”
And with that, he slammed the receiver down on its cradle. What a mess this is turning out to be... I need a drink.
“Sir.” Another voice bearing yet more bad news. “The lockdown is on the verge of driving the people back into the streets.”
“I don't want to hear about it.” Merodach rubbed his thigh as he continued to stare at his desk. His leg was getting wobbly, but he wouldn't sit until he was alone.
“Police are reporting rioters in the southeastern section of the city, sir. They're demanding to be set free.”
“It's been two days... two days! Damn it all to hell, no. No, we can't let them go until Silvers is apprehended. How can they be so blind to that?”
“Sir.” Another voice, more nonsense. “He's right, sir. They're starting to look at this like some sort of martial law. We're going to end up with a catastrophe on our hands if we don't do something soon.”
“Damn you both! This is my city!” He was screaming now. His hands spread on his desk as he glared up at them and spat his venom. “My city! I won't have some two-bit assassin killing me or anyone else of importance in this city. And if the damned farmers have to face a few days of discomfort to keep their city alive, then to hell with their complaints!”
“Sir.” Colonel Gredge took a step forward. The bastard had been behind his imprisonment. Merodach was certain of it now. Gredge had tried to wrest power from him and give it to some whelp he could control. “The people may revolt.”
“Are they so close to revolution, Colonel? Are they so seditious that it would only take a mere few days of confinement to push them over the edge?” The sheen to his beady eyes was murderous. “If that's the case then perhaps we could do without some of our damned citizens. If they can't wear their spines for just a few days then perhaps they aren't worthy of keeping at all. And maybe, just maybe, we should remind them that we're here to protect them, even from themselves.”
“Aye, sir.” Colonel Rast grinned in approval. Rast. The man who had given Lucius clearance to let him free when he couldn't beat Gredge in the political arena. The bastard was power hungry and incompetent. Talk about the perfect combination for the perfect tool.
“Damned right, Rast. That's why I'm promoting you to Premiere General of the goddamned City of Elandir.”
“Sir?” Gredge was taken completely aback.
“Oh don't act so surprised, Gredge. You'll hold the worthless City Guard. And you can keep your precious title.”
“But who will take the second generalship? There are to be two generals at all ti–”
“In times of peace, Gredge. You forget.” Merodach took a pause to think on it.
Colonel Rast, now General Rast, was quite pleased with himself. Too pleased with himself, in fact. The look on his face was enough to determine that from across the room. Gredge, however, was mortified.
“However, Gredge, I do think you're right. I would like a second general.” Both soldiers were caught off guard by the comment. “Which is why I'm going to promote Lieutenant Lucius Vestus to second in command after you, Rast.”
As if on cue, Lucius strode into the room. He was already in uniform, the long star of his post already pinned to his shoulders and stiff-brimmed hat. The sight of Silvers' old star gave Merodach a brief shiver that shot straight to his gut. He brushed it aside as best he could. Lucius had a firm line to his face as he fell in and saluted Merodach, then Rast. All he shared with Gredge was a contemptuous glance of victory.
“Sir, this is impossible!” Gredge was beside himself. “It's unheard of! How can a lieutenant be promoted above the Colonel of the Guard. By all rights I should be–”
“Considered quite lucky.” It was Lucius that cut him short. “Considering it was you who kept our beloved Mayor cooped up in the Southern Tower for so long.”
“He was put there to heal! To be protected!”
“To be caged!” Lucius yelled at his now-subordinate. “You intended to wrest power from him, Gredge. Don't you dare deny it. You made enough comments to the effect. God knows I wanted to have you thrown in jail.”
“But... what...” To Gredge, the world had suddenly stopped spinning and he had been launched from the surface. This was impossible.
“Lucius paved the way for my freedom, Colonel. He found me and led the right people to me. It's only fair that I reward such loyalty. Now, Colonel.” There was extra emphasis on his rank. It gave Merodach the pleasurable sense of stepping on an enemy's broken foot. “Put your guard on every gate and drain pipe we have. Dedicate the rest to watching the prison and the bridges over the Elandris, especially near the port.”
“But sir.” Gredge was deflated, quickly losing his energy to protest like air from a pierced balloon. “My men... their place is in front of the Towers in a time of crisis.”
“Your men can't be trusted tonight, Colonel. Not so long as they're taking their orders from you. Rast will be assigning an attache to ensure you don't try anything foolish.”
And like that, Gredge was dismissed. He looked from one set of unwavering eyes to the next, until he turned to walk out of the Mayor's office.
“And Gredge.” Me
rodach held him back for one second longer. “Remember that your future hangs in the balance of how your men perform after dark.”
The new rulers of Elandir waited until the Colonel was long gone before they continued.
“You think he has any idea of what's going to happen?” Lucius took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. As a Hunter he hadn't been expected to dress for any occasion, his armored leather fatigues standing in their own level of distinction. He wasn't used to stuffy collars and carbon-gray cotton.
“Not a clue.” Merodach's shoulders relaxed a bit as he allowed himself to sit. It was difficult with his leg, tender and stiff as it was. “Pour me a drink, Rast.”
Rast looked over to the table where Merodach pointed. He wandered over, lost in more ways than one. “What's happening tonight?”
“Shit-tons,” came a new voice from the side offices.
“Aye,” came another. “You Elandrians ain't so slick as you think, hey?”
Two large men stuffed in suits beyond their ability to appreciate strode into the room. It looked like they were chewing leaf. If they were, they were swallowing the juice.
“Oi now, don' go callin' the bugger names. He's a right general now. They's gonna give him a fancy pin o'va sword piercin' a star they is. Then he'll be the big wheel in town.”
“Cheese, you moroon. Big cheese.”
“Bugger you. Cheese comes in wheels...”
“Who the hell are these goons?” Rast jumped slightly as the golden liquid he was pouring overflowed the glass.
“Goons, 'e says? I thought ye said no names, Clive.”
“Bastard don' fight fair, 'e does. Don' let it hurt ye none, Bill.”
“You see there, mister shootin' stars. Er... stabbin' stars. We's the two 'goons' who's made you a general.”
“I'd say it's best you don' forget it.”
Lucius grinned at the exchange. Merodach just rolled his eyes and held out his pudgy hand for the drink that Rast was taking ages to produce.
