The House of Grey- Volume 6

by Earl, Collin

  Monson dropped his arms, took up his blade, and turned to walk away. He could feel Taris’ eyes on him, a feeling of searching in the darkness playing upon his neck. Monson took one difficult step after another. He stepped light and silent, walking in the direction of the football field and fighting the impulse to turn around.

  ***

  For such a modern building, the Battlegrounds’ cement hallway leading to the main football field was surprisingly primitive. Low lights and the repetitive sound of Monson’s feet striking cold concrete were somewhat comforting during his discomforting journey. He might have been worried about the noise of his steps, but whatever Baroty and his goons were doing out on the main field was making a huge racket, so much so that Monson arrived at the end of the hallway without incident.

  He looked at the Breath of the Dragon. It seemed to react to his every emotion and currently was emanating a steady beat of red light. Monson knew it was an extremely powerful weapon, but only after a moment’s hesitation, he carefully dropped the blade. The last thing he needed right now was everyone’s attention focused on him holding a brightly beaming blade.

  The narrow opening funneled out dramatically, presumably to allow the football players of Coren University to sprint onto the Battleground without tripping over themselves. This may have been wise for the football team but it was downright annoying for Monson, who was trying to move incognito. As he moved up the hallway, Monson found that even temporarily abandoning the blade was strangely agonizing despite being the right decision. He just hoped that he did not come to regret it.

  Unbelievably enough, he was able to sneak up behind a couple of guards who were not paying the slightest bit of attention to the exit they were supposed to be watching; they were too busy staring down to the fifty-yard line. Monson took out the men with sharp fist blows to the back of the head.

  After dragging the solders back from the entrance, Monson was able to clearly see what had held them so transfixed. What he beheld was a terrifying sight.

  Black-suited commandos, dozens of them, stood behind four immense, strange machines. They held at least one hundred people at sword, glove and gunpoint. Monson recognized some locals among them; many of the seasonal and temporary workers were standing side by side with Coren’s medical wing administrator, the chief of the Coren Police Department, and even the mayor. All of these individuals gaped at a long, dark pole about twenty yards away, apparently unable to move. Every so often, one of the hostages would collapse to the ground where they remained, unmoving. The pole and its effect on the people gave Monson a bad feeling. He assumed that the machines were killing the townsfolk until he noticed one or two stirring again after they had collapsed.

  “What is it you’re up to, Baroty?” Monson whispered aloud. “What are you having these—”

  “Grey.”

  Monson jumped at the sound of his name. The static-filled radio repeated its raspy call.

  “Grey, can you hear me?”

  Monson reached inside his pocket, pulling out the small silver device that Casey had given him.

  “Yeah,” he answered softly. “What’s up?”

  “It’s good to see that you made it out on the field. What took you so long?”

  “I had a run-in with an old friend who—wait…how did you know that I was on the field?”

  Casey paused. “They’re called binoculars, Grey. They’re a newfangled invention. I’ll show you sometime if we survive the Battle of Coren Valley.”

  “The joker to the end, eh Case? In the interest of time, why don’t you tell me why you called. Can’t you see I’m a bit busy?”

  “I wanted to warn you.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Warn me? Of what?”

  “The Midday Darkness. Grey…I think...I think they found the source of it….”

  Monson retreated slightly, moving back the way he came. “What does that mean, Casey? The source of the Midday Darkness? Stop being so cryptic, what I am dealing with?”

  “The hole in the ground, Grey—stay away from that big-a hole in the—oh crap, I’ve been compromised.”

  Monson’s radio went quiet as he swore. He pushed the button to talk.

  “Arthur?”

  “I’m already on it, Grey. You go get Baroty.”

  Monson took a deep breath and dropped the radio on the ground. He was not going to need it anymore.

  He stealthily crept to the very edge of the football field, feeling the finality of his situation. He was at the last stage of the last level of the game. Where was the Dragon Ninja when you needed him? Now the question was, was he ready for the final confrontation?

  No…probably not. But that did not mean he was going to stop.

  Monson stood at the edge of the Coren University Battlefield and took a deep breath to center himself. Having many of his memories back was already coming in handy. With a half-smile on his face, he lifted his fingers and scripted a spell.

  “Combat Spell Fifty: Sputtering Flame.”

  Monson reared back as he inhaled, filling his lungs. His stomach and chest expanded as the Kei within him melded with the scripts of the spell. Monson’s half-smile broke into a full grin as he cupped his hands over his mouth. He was about to send a message to Christopher Baroty.

  Compressing his diaphragm and squeezing his abdomen tightly together, Monson bellowed flaming mounds straight at two of Baroty’s four machines. The molten fireballs slammed into their targets, destroying Baroty’s machines with a blast of burning metal. Silence filled the air before the hostages seemed to awaken from some sort of trance. A cascade of screams broke out, and most immediately broke into a run once they realized what was happening.

  Recognizing that the hostages were bound to the machines, Monson let fly a second blast of the Sputtering Flame, this time targeting the remaining contraptions. He again hit his mark and for a second time, people fled like rats in a junkyard and through sheer numbers easily overran the soldiers that were trying to stop them. Many of them ran in Monson’s direction towards the tunnel, and he sidestepped them as they funneled into the cement hallway. He did not concern himself with what they would do once they got inside; he just hoped they would be able to find safety away from Baroty and his goons.

  Horror at hostages’ plight and relief for their rescue kindled Monson’s resolve and desire for finality. He felt a renewed urgency; the Midday Darkness had to be getting closer. He was not sure what Baroty had planned, but he had to stop it. Strangely, as soon as Monson thought this, he realized how silent it was. The echoes of screaming, fleeing people were a distant memory. Now all he could hear was the frantic clatter of a plan gone very wrong.

  He walked slowly onto the field, heading directly for the fifty-yard line. Baroty stood on a raised platform surrounded by Aaron Gibson and many of his guards. They stared at the wreckage of machinery, but also shot panicked glances at the hole in the ground. It was more than fifty feet across, bubbling with something that looked like tar, which rose distinctly as they watched.

  “The source of the Midday Darkness, eh Case?” said Monson to himself. “You weren’t kidding about that. Looks like I’m going to need to wrap this up quickly.”

  Monson gave a half-smirk as he scripted a spell, whispering out loud as his fingers danced in the air. “This will get your attention. Combat Spell One: Burst.”

  The Burst spell felt different coming from him than it did from the glove, and it was a great deal sloppier. It did not really take the same shape as before or roll over on itself as it did with the glove. Though while the ball of wind was not pretty, it was seriously strong and fired true, right at Baroty and his associates. But it was a low-grade spell to begin with, and combined with its shaky construction, it was not surprising when Baroty, faster than should have been possible, pulled out a Magi Blade and dissipated the ball of wind. He slowly turned his attention to Monson.

  Commandos bounded over from all around, stepping lightly around Monson Grey with weapons trained upon him. Th
e mysterious explosion of their equipment and the escape of their hostages now explained, Baroty’s men crept slowly in on him. Monson stood calmly as he sensed their apprehension. These men were afraid of him. He pushed the thought aside as he prepared to jump headfirst into the proverbial fire.

  Baroty, closely followed by Aaron Gibson, pushed through the commandos, who were now only feet from Monson. Baroty grinned outlandishly as he neared.

  “You know,” Monson spoke offhandedly. “It’s going to be hard for you to pull off the Dark Lord thing if you walk around grinning like a schoolboy.”

  The smile on Baroty’s face instantly soured. “You are so much like your grandfather. He too never knew when to keep his mouth shut.”

  Monson shrugged. “I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.”

  Baroty laughed. “And punished you shall be, Mr. Grey, punished you shall be.”

  He gestured, indicating that he wanted Monson to follow. Monson did so as both guns and gloves were jabbed in his back. Baroty walked back towards the platform he and his men had been standing on.

  Soldiers pushed and jostled Monson until he climbed the metal steps and stood parallel to Christopher Baroty. Baroty did not speak, but played with interfaces on what looked like next-gen equipment. Baroty busied himself with touchscreens while studying a simple white screen that flashed rune upon rune. Baroty eyed these greedily until, seemingly satisfied, he spoke to Monson.

  “Marques never thought before he acted, either. Tell me Mr. Grey, did you not suppose those machines had a purpose?”

  Monson didn’t say anything.

  Baroty smiled and gestured to the machines. “Congratulations. You’ve single-handedly ensured the death of every person in this valley. A shame, really; I was going to let some of them live.”

  Monson held his tongue, which seemed to amuse Baroty.

  “I knew you would come, Mr. Grey.”

  Monson exhaled calmly and spoke with ease. “Oh, so not only are you a Shadow Yogai but also a mind reader. You must teach me some of those tricks. I bet they’re a kick at parties.”

  Baroty’s eyes narrowed. “Ahh…so you understand the truth. It is really no matter. Now that I know the machine works, I can leave this place and move on to the next step of my plan.”

  “The next step of your plan? You mean you actually think that you’re going to survive the onslaught of the Midday Darkness? Or did you forget about that little detail?”

  “Of course we are going to escape the Midday Darkness. I would not have allowed it to come if I had not planned for the eventuality. And despite your rash actions, the Midday Darkness is repressed sufficiently for us to retreat and regroup, and then—”

  Baroty pointed to the hole of tarry blackness. “The core of Queen Saris and the Shining Princess’s creation lie at the bottom of this cesspool. With enough power, we can kill the Darkness and then reap the benefits that come with almost unlimited power. The Garden of the Gods will become ours. In the meantime, we’ll allow that Darkness to call all of you.”

  Monson’s mind started to whirl. That’s what he’s after, the Garden of the Gods? Who is Queen Saris? And the Shining Princess…now where have I heard that…?

  He remembered. Sage’s note, the one that Casey found at the back of her diary. Now what did that say? Something about the Shining Princess….

  Monson pushed the thought from his head. There was no use in thinking about such enigmas. It was not going to help the situation. He tried to keep his expression impassive as he asked the question burning in his gut since his awakening in the hospital so long ago.

  “Before we do this, I want to ask you a question—”

  Baroty interrupted. “Taking over this valley, destroying its people? Why do all men seek power? For the sole reason that they—”

  Monson cut him off. “No, you misunderstand. What you’re doing exactly and why, I’m sure I could guess: money, power, fame, the ability to defame and destroy, even hatred; all tyrants are at least partially the same. You’re either a narcissist or a sadistic lunatic. I figure you either feel that whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish justifies your means, because your end is that much greater than the average man’s—or you’re simply vicious and enjoy inflicting pain on others.”

  Monson chuckled wryly. “Or maybe you’re a bit of both. The point is I…don’t…care. Whatever you are and whatever the reasons for your villainy are not my concern, as your ambitions stop here and now, even if I have to kill you. But before we get the party started, I want to know what happened to my grandfather. Why do you look like him, why would you take the time to hide your identity and pretend to be him? Your actions don’t make any sense.”

  Baroty’s expression became very serious but he chuckled ironically as he spoke. “My ambitions stop here? You’re awfully confident for someone who’s being detained at sword point.”

  Baroty paused as his words took root. Monson could tell that he was concerned that Monson’s confidence might not be totally misplaced. The thought apparently passed quickly into obscurity though, as when he next spoke it was with a certain amount of derision.

  “Your grandfather? That’s why you came headfirst into my clutches—because you miss your dear ol’ grandpa? You could have escaped! Those two fools from the Magi Order are more than capable of saving you. Yet you come to me instead—you come to me and your own downfall. You are much more like your grandfather than I thought. He, too, died a completely unnecessary and pointless death.”

  Monson remained silent as Baroty’s threats fell upon mostly deaf ears; fear was not a luxury he could afford right now. He stood passively watching Baroty as the sounds of fighting trickled in from beyond his line of vision, supplementing the unnerving atmosphere. Still, he did not say anything.

  “I see you’re beginning to control that temper of yours. Ironic, really. You might have mastered your Keepers and really become what the races had expected you to; it’s too bad that we’ll never know.

  ”Baroty shifted the blade in his hand. “I suppose it would not hurt to enlighten you as a final act of respect to Marques.” He gestured slightly, no more than a flick of the head, but this was enough direction for the commandos closely watching Monson. The black-clad men stepped back to the edges of the raised platform while the tar bubbled and popped in the background.

  “Kei is the essential power in the universe. It makes up the spiritual essence of everything from matter to energy. It is one of the most basic elements for creation and is the true lifeblood of all living things. Without a healthy dose of Kei, life is not possible at any level. The balance of all worlds requires Kei running along natural Kei lines—think of them as blood vessels of the everlasting soul. The Earth has a spirit and life just like every other living thing. And due to the shortage of Kei, the Earth is dying.”

  Monson cocked the eyebrow. “Dying?”

  “One more mystery, Mr. Grey, but our time is short so I won’t bore you with the details.” Baroty adjusted his cloak, pushing it back around him. “Suffice it to say that this world lacks the naturally occurring Kei resources of other worlds and because of this, if the Millennex was ever completed, the people of this world would be hard-pressed to survive the transition.”

  Monson scowled. “What’s the Millennex?”

  Baroty sneered at the interruption. “What did I say about time Mr. Grey? We don’t have much of it. As I was saying, Marques, in his genius, formulated a hypothesis and successfully tested a revolutionary technique that would change this otherwise inevitable outcome. Marques actually created a way to siphon off Kei from living persons.”

  A light went on in Monson’s head. “The machine. That machine I used is based on that technology.”

  “Very good, Mr. Grey, you are picking this up very quickly,” said Baroty, his tone somewhat congratulatory. “But that is not totally correct. The machine is an invention of my own, though it would be correct to say that Marques was at least partially responsible for its creation. Your gr
andfather was a master of many things, from Scriptology to Applied Kei Theory. He was never one to sit idle and it was because of his lust for life that I was able to single-handedly adapt one of the oldest and most forbidden techniques of the Seven Races and in doing so, give this land a practical way out of its powerlessness.”

  The light that had flipped on in Monson’s head brightened as he understood. “The bridge. That’s why we were at your bridge. This technique was in use somehow at the bridge.”

  “You’re smarter than you look, Mr. Grey. Indeed, Marques’ Specialty Spell was in full effect at my bridge.”

  Baroty swept his hand across his body as if to indicate all around him. “Marques and I came to this world to separate ourselves from the dogma of the Magi, the Emporiume, and even the Brotherhood. Fools who cannot see beyond their own slack-jawed, pigheaded beliefs that you’ve not had the pleasure of enduring as of yet, Mr. Grey. Dogmas that do not allow independent thought or reasoning beyond the ruminations of dead prophets. Prophecies given thousands of years ago that still plague the attempts at advancing life. Marques and I came to the one place where the Brotherhood, the Magi, and the Emporiume could not reach us and it was here in the world of the Humans, this dying sphere, that I found the answer.”

  Answer? Monson didn’t understand. He wasn’t even sure what the question was.

  “This experiment by the Spirits of Creation, this attempt at heightened efficiency has failed. The races were never able to co-exist as the Spirits of Creation wanted them. Planetary spheres were never meant to have more than one master race, let alone two or three. You have been sheltered here on Earth; you have not been subject to the wars or rumors of war that plague the other worlds. With only one dominant race, you are not subject to the mistrust sown by various beings of the different Founders. You humans merely have your squabbles over land, money or power, the strong bolstering their position while the weak pass unceremoniously into the void. What it is that humans say? ‘One man’s saint is another man’s sinner?’ Sure, you fight among yourselves but you do not know the calamity of the other worlds and races that may soon fall upon this one if the Millennex is complete. Marques’ invention and my plan are this world’s only hope for survival.”