by Dan Avera
The darkness of Insanity.
“Oh, spirits,” Serah whispered. “Oh, gods.”
Darksoul
For days the fires burned, licking at the air with wicked tongues, hungry for sustenance that would never be enough to fill them. What buildings remained amid the chaos were little more than blackened shells, their timbers crumbling and giving way one by one in great flurries of glowing sparks as the flames ate them away.
A handful of opportunistic looters had trickled in from the hills in search of riches; they had found only an impassable wall of heat and death, and the stench of burning things. Spaertos was long gone; nothing of its former glory remained, and what few valuable trinkets were left were buried so deeply inside the inferno that to seek them out would mean a slow and painful end. Soon these treasures would be gone, too, leaving behind only a blackened crater where once had stood a proud city.
The looters had seen this, and then left as quickly as they had come.
Now, finally, after four days of fury, the flames were beginning to die away. And near the cliffs, where once had stood the massive stone barracks that had acted as both watchtower and dungeon, there now stood a man. The ground at his feet was dead, the life burned completely out of it; nothing would grow there for many, many years.
He was garbed entirely in black, and though the air still wavered with the heat of a forge he seemed unaffected by it. A hooded cloak covered his body save for a glimpse of his boots and a shock of pale white skin around his mouth. His lips were curved ever so slightly in something resembling the beginnings of a frown, and as he passed his slow gaze around the destruction that surrounded him the frown seemed to deepen, though it might have been a trick of the light.
He stood at the exact epicenter of the explosion, the first one triggered by Will's rage. A circle of soot radiated out from around him, and the buildings that had once stood to his right and left had been felled as though by a strong wind. Tiny motes of ash fluttered down about him like grey butterflies, occasionally crumbling upon the threads of his cloak. The sunset behind him lent an angry orange glow to the scene, bathing the ruined city in colors that bore an unnerving resemblance to the flames that had ravaged it only days before.
Time passed, and yet the man did not move from where he stood. He seemed to be waiting for something.
And then, when the last glowing sliver of the sun sank below the horizon and the clouds turned a deep, bruised purple, he went slowly to one knee and extended a single gloved hand to the soot at his feet. He gently touched the tip of his forefinger to the ground, drawing a tiny, endless circle in the filth. Ash stained the end of his glove, but he seemed not to care. Somewhere in front of him a broken, charred pillar, the only thing left standing in the wake of Will's fury, crumbled with a squealing crackle of breaking carbon. Flames leaped with renewed vigor as it collapsed in on itself, and for a split instant the Dark Man's eyes gleamed like a cat's, their violet depths reflecting none of the fire's color but instead seeming to cast their own light. There were no whites in his eyes—only darkness. The flames soon died back down, plunging his pale face back into shadow.
He held his pose, unmoving except for the tiny swirling path his fingertip drew in the soot, until the sky melded into deep blue and the first, brightest star appeared overhead.
And as though sparked by that one small change, a tendril of violet light crept tentatively from beneath his cloak, curling around his body like a serpent. Soon it was joined by another, and then another still until there were dozens of them—hundreds—a tempest of violet power that erupted from the man's body, wreathing him in otherworldly energy
that twisted high into the air like a whirlwind of light. There were images inside the glowing storm, drifting in toward the man on curling mists from every corner of the city. They were people, crying and laughing and screaming and living. There were men and women, children and infants, the young and the old all joining together at the nexus where the man knelt amid the chaos. And when they touched him, they disappeared, fading away like so much smoke.
More stars began to dot the heavens, painting the growing darkness with countless points of silver light until the sun's glow faded away completely, leaving behind an ebony sea that seemed somehow fuller than any night before. Even the thick clouds of smoke that choked the skies could not smother the evening's glory, and it seemed to dissipate wherever the swirling vortex touched it.
Soon the tempest began to fade away, twisting and curling in on itself as it slithered back inside the shadowy reaches of the Dark Man's cloak until it disappeared without a trace. He stood a moment later and lightly dusted his hands together. His lips were no longer frowning, but had curved upward in the barest hint of a smile.
“Willyem Blackmane,” he whispered slowly, his mouth forming around the words as though trying them for the first time. His voice was soft and subdued—the voice of a man who was used to listening rather than talking. The wind picked up for a moment, gusting in from the sea and battering his cloak so that it whipped around his frame, but he seemed not to notice. He cocked his head to the side and worked his jaw, letting his tongue dart out to moisten his lips. “Willyem Blackmane.”
Another figure appeared then, striding from the shadows between the ruined buildings to the Dark Man's left. This new figure was, if at all possible, even paler than the first. His suit of fine gray cloth was both richer and more modern than his counterpart's, and the skeletal hands that protruded from his sleeves fidgeted constantly, his thumbs drawing slow, unending circles around the undersides of his fingers. He had not a single strand of hair, nor ears or a nose, leaving nothing but a lipless mouth and unnaturally smooth skin to contrast with the sickly, pale red of his eyes.
“Willyem Blackmane,” he said, echoing the Dark Man in a breathy voice. He sounded exhausted, as though he had just finished sprinting to Spaertos from Avalone.
The Dark Man turned slightly toward the new arrival. “He did this,” he murmured. “Quite the display. Though not, perhaps, as incredible as your escape. I am most curious as to how you followed me.”
“We are not without our tricks, my lord,” the Pale Man wheezed, his thumbs moving faster around the pads of his fingers. “I might inquire after the circumstances of your own appearance here.”
“It would be wise indeed if you did not,” the Dark Man said icily, and the Pale Man bowed his head in respect. After a moment the Dark Man growled, “Why are you here? I saw to your bindings myself. Escape should have been impossible.”
“I believe we already began this discussion once,” the other breathed. “It ended with you telling me to hold my tongue. Or do you not remember?”
“Answer me.”
“I followed you to offer my services,” the Pale Man replied, but the Dark Man's frown only deepened. “None of us is safe anymore. I will be their guide when they reach that point of your plan.”
“Their guide,” the Dark Man said dubiously. “You believe that I would allow you to be their guide after everything you have done?”
The Pale Man's lips curved into a smile, the skin around the corners of his mouth crinkling like paper. “That was so very long ago, my lord,” he wheezed. “And there is no other who knows the wastes as I do. I beg you to allow me to perform this one small service. I seek only forgiveness for my crimes.”
“You seek to save yourself. Do not lie to me, wretch.”
The Pale Man's smile broadened. “And yet, perhaps if I perform admirably, my lord will see fit to reward me with some small measure of redemption.”
“There is no redemption for your crimes,” the Dark Man said, taking a slow, threatening step toward the other, who shrank back involuntarily. “It seems that luck, however, is on your side. I have already taxed myself to the brink. There is little more I can do for now. Guide them, and you will be free.”
The Pale Man spread his arms wide and gave what he must have thought was a radiant smile. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, “I will not dis—”
In a flash the Dark Man had closed the distance between them and curled his fingers around the other man's throat. The movement was so fast that it seemed he had not, in fact, moved at all, and it took the Pale Man a moment to realize what had happened before his eyes widened in shock and his fingers came up to scrabble at the black glove wrapped around his neck.
“If you do,” the Dark Man snarled through clenched teeth, “if you betray me, then I swear to you I will make your pain the stuff of legend. You will suffer an eternity of torment, and you will never escape me again.” He released his hold and took a step back, his hand going momentarily to clutch at his chest, and he winced as though in pain. The Pale Man crumpled to the ground, however, and did not see, only lifting his gaze once the Dark Man had composed himself.
“Remember,” the Dark Man said, holding the other's terrified red eyes with his own, “if you betray me, I will know, and I will come for you.”
And then, with one final sweeping glance around the ruined city, the Dark Man turned and made for the gate, the glowing coals that littered the streets crunching beneath his boots. He did not look back.
About the Author
Dan Avera is a 23-year-old dental assistant who enjoys writing fantastical fiction; who knew? This is his debut novel—the first in a planned trilogy of epic storytelling that will blow your mind. (Though hopefully not literally.) He currently lives in Northern California, where he still gets carded for Rated-R movies and asked whether the truant officer knows if he’s skipping class. You can contact him at [email protected]. (Please contact him; he doesn’t have any friends.)
About the Illustrator
Feli Pugliese lives in Argentina and enjoys drawing. She hopes to make it to Los Angeles, where lives the largest collection of animators and artists in the history of the universe. Help make her famous by visiting her deviantart page at argentinaland.deviantart.com.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
In the Beginning...
Godsoul
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Darksoul
About the Author
