by Nat Russo
“No boy. Control it!”
It was the last thing he heard before the world went black.
CHAPTER NINE
Nicolas sat on the edge of his bed, frustrated by his inability to control his power.
“We need to continue your studies closer to the orb,” Mujahid said. “It’ll make this process easier.”
“Why?” Nicolas asked.
“You want to find a way home, don’t you?”
“Wait. The orb is my way home?”
Hope welled up inside Nicolas. Could going home be that simple?
“Orbs of power are more than repositories of energy,” Mujahid said. “They hold knowledge, but like all objects of magic their range is limited.”
“It happened so fast. What was I doing wrong?”
“What you made me do up there was unpleasant, and if you cause it to happen again, there’ll be consequences you’ll not enjoy.”
“Hey, I’m trying as hard as I can here. Maybe I could have focused more on the images, but I’m doing—”
“Not the images, boy.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“How would you feel if you woke from death in the shape of a monster, and had no will of your own?”
“I would probably think I was going crazy.”
“You would be suffering beyond measure.”
“I didn’t—”
“You made me send an old friend back to the Plane of Death, because you couldn’t control what any postulant worthy of the title could have controlled.”
“I didn’t know that would happen. I’m sorry—” He stopped himself as the anger welled up inside. “No, dammit, I’m tired of saying I’m sorry. You’re part of some…sacred system of things I don’t understand, and you’re expecting me to do things no normal person—”
“You’re part of this sacred system of things too. Never forget that.”
“You think I’ve forgotten being ripped out of my life, into…this? I was an archeology student a few days ago, and now you expect me to raise the dead?”
Mujahid yanked Nicolas forward by the robes until their faces were inches apart. “I’ll give you time to learn control, boy, but know this…I’ll kill you myself before watching you torture another spirit like that. Learn. Learn quickly.”
Mujahid released him and turned away.
Nicolas looked down. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” he muttered.
“I can’t see the future, but it doesn’t require a prophet to gain insight into what’s happening here,” Mujahid said. “You think yourself the victim of some cosmic accident?”
Mujahid clutched at the chain hanging around his neck. His robes always hid whatever was hanging from it.
“Did you take control of your friend?” Nicolas said. “I mean, when I couldn’t?”
Mujahid’s face became a mask of anger.
“You were his priest,” Mujahid said. “No man interferes with the bond, not even another priest. This was your responsibility. This was your lesson to learn.”
The weight of his failure grew heavier on his shoulders. He couldn’t look Mujahid in the eyes.
“Now do you understand?” Mujahid said. “I was forced to kill my own friend because of your incompetence.”
Nicolas hung his head.
“Now he exists as pure spirit, in a place you can’t imagine, awaiting another chance to be purified. And when that moment does arrive, he’ll be ripped away…confused, panicking, not understanding who or what he is, and thinking the only way he’ll survive is by killing anything that moves.”
“I’m sorry. I mean really sorry. If I only had more time.”
Mujahid sat next to Nicolas.
“Time,” Mujahid said. “Of all the illusions I’ve witnessed, Time is the greatest of all. It doesn’t always behave.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mujahid shook his head. “When you gain control of your power, you’ll live entire lifetimes in a single instant. In the fraction of a second it took me to summon a penitent, I fought in a war that lasted fifteen years. I made friends…comrades in arms. We fought together, killed together, ate together. I killed innocent men because it was my job to do so. I experienced a future that will never exist. A future where I had a wife…and children. I watched them grow, and…I remember their names.”
Mujahid’s voice became raspy.
“So you mean if I raise more than one penitent, I’ll live—”
“Don’t try it. You’ll only hurt yourself…and others.”
“Ok, I’ll—”
Mujahid leaped off the bed. His eyes flashed white then returned to normal. “This isn’t possible. Come with me.”
Nicolas followed him, trying his best not to trip over his own robes.
When they passed through the black portal, screams reverberated through the tunnel. It sounded like a riot was in progress. The screams grew louder as they drew closer to the main cavern, and Nicolas heard cries of rage and what sounded like metal striking metal.
A blast shook the cavern walls.
Explosion? How is that possible?
The main cavern was a churning sea of chaotic fighting. Fire had destroyed most of the vendor stalls, and bodies were strewn on the ground. Many were on fire.
The orb hovered in mid air, like it had earlier, but the energy beam was no longer shooting out of it.
That barrier must not be working anymore.
Charred corpses returned to life and people celebrated like it was some macabre family reunion. One by one, the reanimated bodies transformed into pure white light and vanished.
Black-robed magi were walking through the vendor stalls several hundred feet away, arms outstretched. Fire leaped from their hands, igniting everything in front of them.
A man ran toward them and shouted. “We’ve been betrayed.”
“My penitent told me,” Mujahid said. “Save the child!”
A skeleton ran out of a nearby tunnel and stopped in front of the man. No words were spoken, but the skeleton ran toward the black-robed magi as if the man’s life depended on it.
“My brother and I have made provisions,” Mujahid said. “But we must leave this place to its fate.”
“But your estate,” Nicolas said. “You said the orb’s my way home!”
Mujahid gestured and two undead tunnel guards approached him.
“Slow the attack,” Mujahid said and one of the skeletal guards nodded. “It’s a losing battle, but you must buy us time.”
Mujahid began to turn away, but something stopped him.
“You,” Mujahid said, pointing to the skeleton on the left. “Approach me.”
The skeleton complied and Mujahid examined it from head to toe.
A look of pure happiness appeared on Mujahid’s face. “You know you don’t need to do this anymore, my friend.”
Something had changed about the skeleton since the first time Nicolas saw it guarding the tunnel to the Mukhtaar Estate.
“I know, Mujahid.” The skeleton’s voice sounded like rocks grinding together. “But this may be my last chance to help.”
“I release you,” Mujahid said. His smile grew wider. “You may stay, but know that when you fall, you will rise to new life.”
The skeleton touched Mujahid’s shoulder, then ran toward the fight.
“You witnessed the miracle of purification, boy.” He grabbed Nicolas’s shoulders with both hands. “Remember this day. This is why we exist. This is the sacred order of things you’re so flippant about.”
Mujahid’s eyes turned brilliant white, and the slab of rock hanging above the tunnel entrance melted, dripping molten stone into the tunnel. A cube of energy, the size of the tunnel entrance, formed around the molten stone like a mold.
Motion drew Nicolas’s eyes. A man in robes was running toward Mujahid with a dagger in his hand. He had to act.
He gathered as much necropotency as he could and imagined the power rushing into his energy well.
A wall of necropotency slammed into him, and knocked him to the ground.
He tried to send energy toward the running man, hoping to knock him down and buy Mujahid more time, but the power wouldn’t leave him. If he didn’t figure this out soon, Mujahid could be dead in a matter of seconds.
All Nicolas could think about was punching him in the face and sending him flying.
The power flowed down into his arm. His hand balled into a fist and Nicolas took a swing. When he hit the man’s jaw, an explosion of energy rippled outward from his hand. The blast lifted the man off his feet and threw him back across the cavern, where he struck the far wall and fell in a heap.
Nicolas had never felt his fist touch the man. He heard a chuckle and turned to see Mujahid smiling at him.
“Undignified,” Mujahid said. “But there’s no denying the result. You work well under pressure.”
Mujahid noticed something over Nicolas’s shoulder, and a look of pure horror appeared on his face.
More black-robed magi had joined hands and were circling the orb of power. A glow of energy surrounded them, but there was something different about the way it felt. It wasn’t necropotency.
“It’s too late now,” Mujahid said. “We must leave.”
Mujahid ran toward one of the tunnel entrances.
Energy from the joined magi flowed into the orb. The orb pulsated and shook, its motion becoming chaotic and violent as it absorbed the energy.
The magi looked at one another and dropped their hands. They broke from their circle and fled, colliding with one another in their haste and terror.
The orb stopped shaking and seemed to absorb all sound and light. Then it exploded in a brilliant blue flash of raw power, sending a shock wave that demolished everything in its path.
When it reached Nicolas and Mujahid it knocked them off their feet, tossing them forward into the air. When they landed, Nicolas glanced backward to see what was happening. His heart sank.
The orb was gone. It was supposed to teach him how to get home, and that circle of magi destroyed it.
“They have Paradise now,” Mujahid said, “but the estate is sealed. We’ll return someday, but for now we run.”
Mujahid ran into a nearby tunnel, followed by two skeletal warriors that were standing on guard.
Nicolas ran after them.
Shouts rose up behind them.
“They’re following us,” Nicolas said.
“I’m aware of that,” Mujahid said. He never slowed or looked back.
The muffled sound of the pursuing invaders echoed off the tunnel walls and grew louder.
Mujahid swore and came to an abrupt stop as they rounded a bend in the tunnel.
Enormous boulders blocked their path. Fractured beams of a collapsed supporting lay strewn across the tunnel.
The sound of feet pounding on stone grew louder behind them.
“Guard us,” Mujahid said, and the skeletal warriors drew swords and took a position near the bend in the tunnel.
Mujahid grabbed Nicolas’s shoulder and caught him by surprise. “The orb’s destruction weakened me. You must overcome your fear of the undead and summon a penitent.”
“Mujahid, I—”
“I can clear this passage, but it will take time. I can’t summon and melt stone at the same time. Not anymore. You must fight.”
“This isn’t a good idea.”
“When a starving beggar finds moldy bread, he eats it.”
Nicolas frowned. “Wait. Am I the beggar, or the mold?”
“Just do it!”
Mujahid turned back to the stone, his eyes glowing white. The stone started melting in small droplets.
“You can do this, boy.” Mujahid’s voice sounded distant, as if it took great effort for him to speak. “You’re a necromancer. This is your calling.”
The rattling armor of their pursuers grew louder. Nicolas needed to do this now. He opened his mind to the necropotency surrounding Paradise and allowed it to flow into his well of power.
He imagined a river flowing from the well of necropotency to the skull that hovered over it. But there was nothing to channel the energy into here. The realization nearly broke his concentration, and he struggled to hold onto the power.
He focused on what he thought they needed—a serious badass. A predator killing its prey with ease was all he could think of, so he imagined a cheetah taking down a turtle and visualized the necropotency flowing from the skull to the image of the cheetah.
The power left him, and the ground shook as pieces of rock flew upward, and struck the tunnel ceiling. This time he was ready to embrace the stream. His vision dimmed, and he waited for the images he knew would come.
Time started misbehaving.
A stream of images entered his mind.
He was no longer Nicolas. He was Ensif.
He was no longer human. He was an argram, a creature of nightmare preparing for a battle he craved with every fiber of his being.
Darkness blanketed the hive, causing the drones to burrow deeper in fear, but Ensif embraced it. Only the drones and the two-arms feared the night, and he was the night. The two-arms had good cause to fear him. He would pull them apart and delight in their screams. He would make his queen proud.
He flexed all six of his arms and felt the power in his two muscular legs. He looked around at the army invading his home and vowed to make them feel pain for every life they took.
He folded his central arms around his thorax and extended the other four in an x-shape to signal his commitment.
The hive mind reacted with pleasure. The hive is life.
The warrior call took control of his consciousness. He unfolded the six tarsal swords that grew within his body and attacked. He was a living weapon, tireless, and he flowed through the enemy dropping opponents six at a time.
The images shifted around Nicolas…Ensif, and he stood in a village. Screams rose through the night as straw huts burned to the ground, trapping the two-arms inside. He could sense the joy of the hive with each death he caused.
The hive is life. Purge the hive.
This was no longer war. This was extermination. Only one race would rule this world, and he would make sure it was the Argram.
The hive mind cheered in solidarity as his thoughts passed to every one of his nestlings. They were many, yet they were one. His segments quivered in reverence as the queen silenced them.
Purge the hive, my soldiers, the queen said. Then bring me drones to feed on.
A two-arm girl, not yet a woman, was hiding in the entryway of a hut that had escaped the fire. She cowered in terror, and his pincers clacked in anticipation of the kill.
His reticulated eyes calculated the distance between them. Twenty-five yards. It would be effortless. He could leap three times that distance if needed. With a single push of his powerful legs he landed in front of her. The girl stumbled and brushed against him. Her grotesque, soft skin touched his scaly carapace and the blood lust filled him.
She disgusted him.
He felt the reaction of his nestlings, and the hive mind spoke as one in his head. Make it suffer.
With the simple flick of one of his six tarsal swords he severed one of her arms and legs, and blood drained from her face. He spat resin into the wounds to stop the bleeding. The toxic adhesive would cause the girl great pain. He’d pull her remaining leg and arm off, of course, but it would be the resin that killed her.
The images swirled.
Nicolas was no longer the rage-filled argram. He was an observer this time, as if he were watching a movie play out on a screen in his mind’s eye. When the images sharpened into focus, he saw a woman.
The necropotency became a torrent of information and sensation.
The woman was in love, and it was a pure love that radiated through his entire being. She would be married tomorrow, and start her life as a chieftain’s wife.
But he knew, somehow, that what he was seeing would never be.
N
o. This isn’t possible.
His mind worked with necropotency-enhanced speed, drawing connections between events with ever-increasing accuracy. She would never marry, because the argram killed her when she was a child. He tortured her after cutting off a leg and an arm, until the torment was no longer fun for him. She died a horrible death, writhing in agony from the venom that flowed through her veins.
Her marriage would never be. This woman would never be.
Fifteen years passed as he observed the woman from a distance, until one day she bore two sons of her own. She taught them how to read and write so that one day the oldest could take over for his father.
The oldest grew into a powerful man, waging war and protecting his people from the argram attacks. Nicolas followed the woman’s son through marriage, having children, running the village from day to day, and finally growing old and sick.
In a large building at the end of a muddy road that snaked its way between thatch-roofed houses, the woman’s son, now an old man, lay on his death bed.
A son who will never be, born of a woman who will never be. What’s happening to me?
“Take care of them, my son,” the old man said to a younger man holding his hand. “The argram rage against us because they fear us. And they have good cause. What have we ever brought them but pain? We started this many generations ago. We should have befriended them. Instead, we were selfish and greedy.”
“There is no way to reason with them. They are animals,” the younger man said.
“No. They are people. You will lead our people when I pass. Promise me you will lead them to peace, not war.”
“But father, the elders will never allow—”
“Promise me.” The old man’s grip tightened on the younger man’s hand, and his eyes burned with single-minded intent.
“By our ancestors, father. I will honor your final wish as if it were my own.”
After the death of the woman’s son, Nicolas walked beside the younger man, her grandson, for forty years, watching as he grew older and worked tirelessly to bring about the dying wish of his father. When the task was accomplished, he stood upon a raised platform and addressed the people of Lasin…his people.
