The Last Archon

by Richard Watts

  “All that stolen life, and you never knew. The Worm needed a conduit. Someone who could touch the Axiom. That’s why it needed me.” Wolfe’s fuzzy shape squatted down near Deckard’s head.

  Deckard arched to grab him, strike him, anything. Wolfe snatched his wrist in an iron grip.

  “That’s why you should never have tried to kill me.” A new shard of ice pierced Deckard’s hand and nailed it to the wooden floor. He screamed.

  “I’m going to let Setuklash-Toth tear this world apart! And in the end, Atlantis will live on as the one eternal light in an endless void. There will be no war, no death, no hopeless struggle.”

  Deckard fought to speak but only coughed. His copper blood spattered his tongue. Wolfe stood.

  The shotgun roared, and Wolfe staggered forward a step. Deckard twisted, looking past Wolfe’s legs. Hayden lay on the floor, holding the shotgun in shaky hands. Smoke drifted from the barrel. The carpet of bug-like creatures still clung to his armor, but one grey eye peered out from the mass, flashing with fury.

  Without looking, Wolfe spoke a word with the voice of the Worm. Power rolled out behind those twisted, warped syllables, and Hayden’s muscles locked in painful spasm. The shotgun tumbled from his grip. Wolfe spun and a new stream of eldritch power lashed out in a backhand blow that lifted Hayden from the floor and flung him into the shelves. Heavy wood shattered and Hayden tumbled to rest like a ragdoll, buried under a pile of books and toppled shelving.

  “You tried, Tarran. You did your best. It just wasn’t enough.” Wolfe looked down at him with something like pity. “That’s what none of you understood. Still. When the children of the new Atlantis honor your memory, Bel-Tarran, it will be because you showed me how to open the way.”

  Wolfe turned and walked away. Wings of roiling shadow billowed out of him to brush the walls, leaving a trail of cold blue flames in their wake. The vile sorcery licked hungrily at the wood, the books, the furniture, and spreading hungrily.

  Deckard shook with pain and fear, watching his life, his home, and his hope burn around him.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Vivian huddled in her chair, Hayden’s jacket draped across her lap. The posted schedule showed her bus boarding in less than fifteen minutes. She toyed with the silver bracelet on her wrist, running her fingers over the symbols etched into each flattened, shield-like bead. Mr. Deckard had explained that it would redirect scrying attempts, refocusing energies somewhere else. She had no idea if it worked, but it didn’t stop her from feeling eyes watching her.

  Passengers continually trickled into the depot. People crowded the waiting area, some standing with their bags, some talking quietly. She checked the clock again. Thirteen minutes. Where was Hayden? He’d promised her he’d get her things and see her off safely.

  Vivian smiled, remembering their first kiss earlier that evening, the lingering bits of the Axiom letting her feel the strength and passion in him, the gentleness, the protectiveness. She’d been swept up in a current of Hayden’s soul. It frightened and exhilarated and comforted her all at once. She wished he could just come with her.

  That thought made her chuckle inwardly as she pictured Hayden meeting her parents.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hale. I’ve only known your daughter for a week, but we’re soul mates. I’m a superhero, by the way. Wow, that smells great! What’s for dinner?”

  Vivian started as a loud bang echoed through the concourse. She whirled around to see a man righting his wheeled suitcase. The heavy handle must have slapped into the concrete floor.

  Vivian tried to calm herself, breathing the way Mr. Deckard had taught her, but it was no use. Her thoughts kept jumping between increasing concern for Hayden’s absence and remembering Mandy Alvarez smirking at her through the window at the restaurant.

  Something was wrong. She knew it, could just feel it. She dug into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Hayden.

  “Pick up, pick up,” she muttered, bouncing her heel on the floor.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Hayden Lucas. Please leave a message…” Vivian flipped her phone shut in frustration. Was he driving or….

  Images of Hayden invaded her mind, bloodied and still, as a werewolf snarled over his body. Vivian shoved the mental picture aside, but the fear wouldn’t subside. There was one way to know for sure, though she hadn’t tried anything like it before. Not since that night at the clinic, anyway.

  “You can do this, V, “ she told herself. She closed her eyes and tried to still herself, blocking out the noises and the cold. When she’d found a semblance of calm, she reached for the Axiom.

  Vivian pictured it as a silver river running far beneath her feet, the lifeblood of the world. As her senses sank through the darkness it grew, until she stood on the bank and couldn’t see the other side beyond a shimmering horizon.

  She knelt and placed a scooped palm into the gentle current, lifting up a sip of endless energy. It always brushed cool against her skin, but blessedly so, like the first taste of a cold drink after a run or stepping into the shade on a blistering summer afternoon.

  She stared at the tiny puddle in her hand and pictured Hayden, confident and smiling. She added details to the image: the slight offset of his cupid’s bow mouth, the wit dancing his grey eyes, callus lines on his palms from constant weapon practice. Vivian built her simulacrum, adding layers of knowledge until the image gained a measure of life. She covered the liquid Axiom with her other hand and poured her image of Hayden into it, along with her fear and her love.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Find him.”

  The river flared with light, brighter and brighter, hurting her eyes. Vivian squeezed them shut against the familiar ache of a vision and a rush of motion. The pain faded swiftly, and she opened her eyes to find herself in front of Mr. Deckard’s house.

  Or what was left of it.

  Blue fire poured from the upper story, giant fingers of flame curling up over the roof. Smoke and red-orange light flooded from the open door. Glass and splintered wood littered the lawn.

  Hayden lay on the grass, unmoving. Blood leaked from a gash on his forehead, black in the dim light. Mr. Deckard lay a foot to his left, sprawled on his face. A wail tore from Vivian’s throat. The fires bloomed higher at the sound, and the giant hand of flame tore the house in upon itself.

  Light stabbed at her again and flung Vivian out of the vision. She opened her eyes, panting, throat burning. An elderly black woman leaned over her. Concern creased the strangers face.

  “You okay, sugar?”

  Vivian blinked and pushed herself to her feet. Everyone in the depot looked at her. A blush rushed to her face, and she began scrambling for her things. “I’m fine. Sorry. Thank you.”

  She ran out to the drop-off area and waved for a cab. That vision held the future, she was certain. There might still be time.

  Deckard struggled to move. Smoke filled the house, normal red-orange fires mixing with the blue sorcerous blazes and giving the room a flickering twilight patina. He reached with his left hand and grasped the spike of ice-cold crystal Wolfe had shoved through his right hand. Blood ran slick on the crystalline shaft. Deckard coughed, sending a wave of agony through his hip, stomach, and chest.

  Gritting his teeth, Deckard switched tacks. He gripped his own right wrist and jerked his hand free with a wet pop. He clutched his hand to his chest, groaning. Heat bore down on him as the flames spread up and out, but frigid power still throbbed from the spear in his gut.

  Hayden. The boy lay a few feet away, covered in a swarm of leech-like things seeking out any exposed skin and latching on. He had to get the boy out. Deckard kicked feebly with his left leg but barely succeeded in shifting an inch. A spasm of pain rewarded his efforts.

  He reached desperately for the Axiom, flailing for a tendril of sorcery. The shaft of ebony ice hissed in response, growing even colder, biting at him from the inside. Deckard curled involuntarily, shivering and straining to breathe. His strength had failed. He was broken, us
eless, cut off from his power. Nothing could save him.

  Deckard knew the thoughts weren’t his. He could sense the pressure of Wolfe’s poisonous magics attacking his mind, his spirit. He could fight them. But the logical, detached part of him considered his options and came to the same conclusion.

  They were going to die.

  Light exploded from Hayden’s body, a searing golden radiance, forcing Deckard to shield his eyes. The carpet of leeches squealed as they burst into flame and sizzled to ashes.

  Hayden jerked awake with a strangled cry, and the light of the Axiom retreated, leaving the boy sweating and panting like a blown horse. He crawled out from under the toppled shelves, pushed himself up from the ground, and made his way to Deckard’s side.

  “Hayden!” Deckard wheezed through clenched teeth. “Get out!”

  The boy checked Deckard’s wound, coughing in the smoke, and said, “I’m rubbing this in your face forever. Hold still.”

  He swung at the crystal spear and summoned the axe in the same moment. The Axiom blade shivered through the corrupted construct with a crystal chime, shearing off all but the bottom three inches. Deckard grunted as a new stab of pain rippled out from the wound. Hayden slipped his hands under Deckard’s arms and heaved.

  “Get up!”

  Numbly, Deckard pushed with his one good leg. Hayden managed to get under an arm and reached around to heft Deckard up by his belt. The metal edges of Hayden’s pauldrons dug into Deckard’s armpit, causing him to wince. The boy dismissed the armor with a thought. They both scanned through the haze, looking for the best way out. The more normal flames crowded the walls of the side hall and licked along the ceiling near the back of the living room.

  “Front door,” Hayden declared. “Let’s go, old man.” Deckard simply gritted his teeth.

  The height difference made for an awkward escape. Deckard half stooped to lean on Hayden’s shorter frame and could only move in short hops, dragging his right foot behind him. A few feet from the door, Hayden paused and shoved his left palm out. A battering ram of force tore the door from one hinge, then another. It landed on the front porch with a crunch of broken glass and shattered wood.

  Hayden adjusted his grip, and they resumed their hobbling retreat. Deckard held the ice shard in place with his wounded right hand, but every step filled his gut with agony. They had just stepped onto the wreckage of the door when a train made of pillows slammed into their backs and launched them into the air.

  Deckard had enough presence of mind to see Hayden’s head bounce off a porch post before he somersaulted to the lawn, and a galaxy of stars burst into his vision, then faded to blackness.

  Chapter Forty

  Hayden sat in the uncomfortable grey chair and stared at the frail old man occupying the hospital bed. Pain drew Deckard’s features in, his complexion sallow. The iron-grey had rapidly overtaken the black in his straight hair and short beard and his skin showed veins and spots. He’d aged twenty years in a single night. Hayden watched him breathe with the aid of a little plastic cannula, the gentle beeps from the monitors keeping the beat.

  He looked up as Vivian slipped in quietly, closing the door behind her. She carried two cups in one of those recycled paper containers in one hand and a white paper bag in the other. Hayden’s stomach gurgled at the smell of food.

  “Here,” she said as she sank onto the seat next to him with a tired smile. “Breakfast.”

  Hayden eagerly accepted the proffered cup and sipped. It held cafeteria coffee that tasted like it had simmered in the urn for months. At least it smelled like coffee. He choked the sip down with a grimace that pulled at the stitches on his forehead. Vivian took a sip from her own cup and made a face that said she agreed with his assessment.

  “Oh, God! That’s awful!” she exclaimed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Hayden told her. He took her free hand in his. “Thank you.” He meant it for more than coffee.

  “You’re welcome,” Vivian replied. A fresh smile flashed at him but faded as she turned to look at Deckard. “How is he?”

  Hayden recited the litany carefully, mechanically. “Pierced abdominal wall and perforated colon. Grade two concussion. Smoke inhalation. Puncture wound all the way through his right hand. Damaged lumbar spine.

  “He lost a lot of blood. If infection doesn’t set in, he might walk again.” Hayden tried to smile at her. “Would have been worse, without you. How did you know?”

  “Vision,” she said simply. “You didn’t show up at the bus stop, and I was worried, so I found you with the Axiom. When I saw the house burning, I got in a cab and called 911. The police and firemen were there when I pulled up.”

  Hayden nodded absently, eyes drifting back to Deckard and the wires and tubes.

  “Nice work.”

  Vivian squeezed his hand. “He’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t,” Hayden warned, jerking his hand free. He made himself soften his tone. “Please. There is nothing about this situation that’s ‘okay.’” He stood up and placed the coffee on an unused hospital tray.

  “Wolfe played me like a violin. I keep going over it in my head. He lured me out with the shooting, the day we met. Once he knew who I was, he showed up all buddy-buddy, with a gift-wrapped job and an offer of support. And like an idiot, I didn’t blink.

  “Hell, I bet he’s the one who left the clinic paperwork where I’d see it. He goaded me into a situation where I’d be forced to call in Archon. He couldn’t find Deckard on his own, so he tracked me instead. I lead him right in.” Anger boiled behind Hayden’s sternum. “The worst part is, I couldn’t even fight him. He just said something, and I locked up. He took me down with a single word.”

  Hayden’s own knuckles popped and realized his hands hurt. He looked down and uncurled his fists, making himself breathe.

  “You couldn’t have known, Hayden. Even Deckard didn’t know.”

  “I should have known. I’ve been in the guy’s head almost every night for a decade. Then he shows up, right in front of me, and I don’t even recognize him.”

  Vivian frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “It was something he said. He kept calling Deckard ‘Tarran’ like they knew each other. He talked about Atlantis. Back at the house, before...Deckard called the traitor that summoned the Worm ‘Bel-Sennek’. And in the vision you saw I talked to a trainee named Sennek.”

  Hayden rubbed at the back of his left hand, scrubbing to erase the memory of the swarm of bugs burrowing into his skin. “I’ve been living his last moments over and over for years. It’s like there’s a piece of him in my mind, and I can’t get rid of it. That’s what Deckard was afraid of, why he lied. It’s why I was being affected so strongly by the vision of the girl who killed herself. Wolfe pulled the strings and I got swept up in it.”

  “Hayden.” Deckard’s croaking voice jolted Hayden. Hope rang a silver note in his spirit. He stepped to the bed and gripped the railing.

  “Deckard?” Vivian crept to the other side of the bed. Hayden watched Deckard’s eyes blink and struggle to focus.

  “I failed you. Sorry, I’m...so sorry.” Deckard was gulping air as he spoke. “Never had...a son before...you, see.” He smiled with the corners of his mouth. “Sennek. He’s a coward. Arrogant. Couldn’t face...death in defense...of Atlantis. Made a...deal...instead. You can...stop him, son.”

  Hayden hung his head. “I couldn’t, Deckard.” His voice broke into ragged shreds of a whisper. “I tried, but he was too strong. I couldn’t beat him.”

  Deckard moved to shake his head, but only flopped it in a shallow oval. His eyes closed a moment, and Hayden thought he might have drifted off, but they opened again.

  “Don’t have to...beat him. Just...stop him. The circles. All the...power. Like a...dam. Just...poke a hole.”

  His eyes closed once more, and Hayden waited in silence for a good twenty beeps of the heart monitor, hoping for more information, some crucial insight on how he should do this. It never came.
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  “Hayden?” Vivian ventured.

  Hayden didn’t answer. He stepped away from Deckard’s bed and stared at the bare, beige wall. Fear, shame, and anger boiled in his chest. He had to fix this, had to make it right. Everything in him urged him to rush out of the room and race into action. He could find Wolfe, maybe at campaign HQ, or find someone who could, or find someone who could find someone and beat them until they gave it up.

  Hayden shoved that impulse into a box for later. That was how he’d gotten them all in this mess in the first place, by rushing in without thinking.

  Wolfe was smart. He’d played multiple games at the same time, in case one didn’t work out. His goal had to be to open the way for the Worm, but he couldn’t do that all at once. Plan A had been to draw out Archon and eliminate the threat. Plan B was the clinic, slowly building up followers or puppets. Plan C was weakening the barrier with pinprick holes from the Shard boxes. Hell, maybe Plan D had been win the election and get voted in. What could an official with that kind of power do when he could spy on anyone? It was all next level, wheels within wheels. Hayden had to think it through, plot it out, stop moving in straight lines, and move in...circles.

  Hayden spun to find Vivian still at Deckard’s bedside, just staring at him. Worry clouded her eyes. “The circles,“ he said.

  Vivian nodded. “That’s what he said.”

  “Circles.” The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. “As in more than one.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Vivian said as she walked over.

  “Wolfe is a plotter, and this is a goal he’s been building to forever. Archon’s down or dead, his sidekick isn’t a threat, but he lost last time because he had all his eggs in one basket: Atlantis.

  “This time he’s taken it slow, building up power in multiple spots. We find them, and we dismantle them.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “Deckard used the circle I carved in his floor to find similar circles.”