Rich lowered his head so his chin touched his neck, though he kept his eyes on his nemesis. “You can’t really be saying what I think you are. Are you asking me to switch sides? To join your side of the family?”
The nemesis nodded curtly. “You catch on quickly, for a Palad.” He waved his hands, and the air shimmered in front of him. The image of Rich’s mother, much younger and smiling, appeared in the air. At her side stood a man, his features instantly recognizable, his arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t tell me you guys have my parents. We don’t even know where they are.”
The nemesis shook his head, a thin smile playing at his lips. “No, but our resources are better than yours. If you join us, we’ll do everything we can to help you. The Paladins have refused to help you. Think of it—you can be a family again.”
Rich tried to picture them all together again, but for once, his imagination failed him. “But if I turn, my parents won’t accept me.”
“Trust me, Rich. We’ll help them see the light. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
Before Rich could continue, the nemesis waved his hands again, and Mallory’s image appeared. “And what about her? Our magic influences more than you can imagine. Say the word, and she’ll be yours forever.”
Rich felt his palms sweating, his mouth drying, and his heart racing. The thought was enough to make his stomach turn cartwheels.
The nemesis’s hands flew again. “And what about protection from these bullies?” He waved again. “Or your obnoxious history teacher? We can make all these problems vanish.”
With another swipe of his hand, all the images dissolved, leaving only empty air. “So, what will it be, Richie? Will you allow us to fix your life? Or would you rather throw it away?”
The nemesis stepped forward and reached out. “Hand me your pawn, and we’ll switch it out for a black one.”
Rich stood his ground, feeling a tremor starting in his feet and winding up through his legs until it encompassed his entire body. It would be so easy to take his nemesis up on his offer. All the heartache he had endured over the years, gone in an instant. He’d be accepted at school, happy at home, and he would have the most beautiful girlfriend he had ever seen. In his mind, he saw them growing up, with all the other guys envious of him. He saw himself proposing to her, dressed as a knight in shining armor, their wedding, their children, their…
Suddenly, another set of images flashed into his head. His grandmother’s face, the knights around the table, Aaron’s goofy smile. They were all counting on him to succeed. He wanted to believe the promises, but they simply couldn’t be real. His Nemesis would tell him anything to get him to switch. How could he let himself be known as the one who brought down the family line?
Rich stamped a foot, all the images in his head disappearing at once. “No! If you think you can wave some pretty pictures in front of my face and make me trust you, you’re wrong! I don’t even care if you promise me my own continent. I won’t join you.”
His nemesis’s smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed. “Let me spell it out for you in the simplest terms possible, just in case. Listen carefully. Either you consent to be adopted into our family line, or I will have no choice but to grind you into pieces so small, they’ll need to invent a stronger microscope just to see that you ever existed. Clear enough?”
Rich narrowed his eyes and thought of the best reason he shouldn’t defect. If he could be persuaded to change sides, it would upset the balance of power between the two families, maybe even allowing Nemes to gain the upper hand after centuries of gridlock.
His body grew cold as he pondered the decision. He didn’t claim to understand how it would affect everything, but his vivid imagination was already starting to fill in the blanks.
But was this worth dying for? If he did change, would he be able to live with the result? No, he decided. If the world were to fall into chaos, it wouldn’t be because of him. Better to be defeated and let his family keep their fighting chance.
“Well,” Rich said, forcing his voice to have more confidence than he actually felt, “if my death would advance science in such an exciting way, at least I’ll know my life meant something. I’ve always thought it would be good to give my body for science.”
The nemesis squared his jaw and withdrew his sword from its sheath. “Let’s see if your wit is as sharp as my blade.” He slashed a crosscut in the air in front of him, and the air crackled with energy and static.
Rich knew his only chance of survival was to run, but somehow, that felt wrong. Perhaps it was better to accept defeat and to face it bravely. Underneath his shirt, the talisman that hung around his neck glowed with sudden heat. He reached down and studied the pawn, which now glowed completely gold. Perhaps his wisdom had prevailed in resisting the offer from his nemesis, but now, it seemed like it would hardly matter.
He closed his eyes and wished that he had a sword. Then he could at least go down fighting. A thin smile crawled up his face as he imagined himself in armor, much like that which he’d seen on St. George, with a gleaming blade and sturdy shield. That was a real knight, not the bruised, helpless excuse for a knight he was supposed to be.
A cold sensation spread across Rich’s exposed torso. He opened his eyes and found that a shirt of gleaming chain mail had materialized on his body. It was just as he had seen in his mind’s eye. But before he could wonder how this could have happened, his nemesis lashed out with the dark sword, striking a scathing blow toward Rich’s unprotected head.
Rich dodged to the left and scurried back quickly. He clamped his eyes shut for a moment before the next strike, concentrating on the image of St. George, replacing the old knight’s face with his own.
All at once, the sturdy shield bearing a red cross appeared in his hand, just in time to deflect his enemy’s next blow. The sword glanced off the shield with a clang, sending the startled nemesis backwards in an uncontrolled stumble. Rich used the chance to put some distance between him and his attacker.
He fell back and closed his eyes again, concentrating hard on the image in his mind. The rest of the knight’s armor formed around his body, piece by piece, until he was fully encased. The armor felt surprisingly light, allowing him to dodge the blows of his attacker easily.
I just need the sword, Rich thought desperately. Then we might really be able to get this fight started.
He dashed back a few yards and clamped his eyes shut, focusing all his energy on the image of the gleaming broadsword. Nothing happened.
Rich nearly screamed in frustration. Why should everything else, from the helmet to the boots, appear if he couldn’t have the sword?
Probably something else Aaron failed to mention. Couldn’t this job just have come with instructions?
Rich continued to dodge, and started picking up small stones to launch at his opponent. These, however, appeared to have little effect, and Rich could feel himself tiring quickly, already exhausted from his long trek down into the cave. His earlier doubts forgotten, his heart fluttered with the intense desire to live, to fight on, and to serve honorably in his family.
There has to be another way to fight him. Why else couldn’t I have the sword?
“What’s the matter, Rich?” The nemesis taunted. “Don’t have any useful gifts? Family didn’t provide you with any weapons? You’re pathetic.”
Rich studied his opponent’s sword for the first time. There was something strange about it. The edges were not well defined, as if it had been taken from a watercolor painting. When he tried to look at it, he got a familiar feeling that he couldn’t quite identify. It was something he had felt earlier that day, but he couldn’t place it.
Though Rich now breathed hard, his opponent looked as if h
e’d just woken from a nap. “Isn’t this getting old?” Rich asked. “I mean, I’m sure there are other, healthier forms of competition—checkers, maybe, or a spelling bee.”
The nemesis grunted and slashed the air. “That mind-numbing contest of fools! I can’t believe I sat through the whole thing. Many things are power, Rich. Knowledge is power, beauty can be power, but spelling is definitely not power.”
Rich jumped back and rolled away, wondering which one of the audience members had actually been his nemesis. Half the school had been there.
“You’re just jealous,” Rich said. “You never know when the unambiguous spelling of ‘ambiguous’ might come in handy.” He ducked an incoming strike and continued, “I’ll get you started. A-m-b…”
The nemesis lashed out furiously, as if trying to swat an obnoxious swarm of gnats.
“Or how about the unabbreviated spelling of ‘abbreviation’? It’s like reciting the alphabet with a stutter: A-b-b…”
The nemesis swung so hard that he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor. Rich seized the opportunity and kicked him to speed up the process. The sword flew from the knight’s hands and landed in the dirt not far away. Rich ran to it, though he dared not touch it.
He fixed his eyes and concentration on it, and suddenly, a voice penetrated his mind. “Help me! Release me!”
The thin, strained voice was accompanied by a wave of agony, very similar to the pain he felt when looking into Axel’s eyes. He glanced down at the sword in disbelief and wondered if someone was in there.
Rich impulsively reached out, as he had to heal Angela, and recoiled at the pain. It was like he had slammed his hand up against a wall of broken glass. One thing was for sure, however—there was something alive about the sword. He bit his lip and reached out again.
“Heal,” he whispered. “Heal.”
Pain coursed through him, but he could see and feel the sword changing before his eyes. Bits of the darkness surrounding the sword fell away and dissolved, leaving spots of gleaming golden metal behind.
With a bellow, the dark knight barreled past Rich, bowling him over in an attempt to retrieve his sword. Rich’s concentration broke. He tried to rebound quickly, though he found that his knees had grown weak. With effort, Rich struggled into a stooped position just in time for his nemesis to retrieve his sword. Before Rich could launch his own attack, his nemesis lashed out and yelled something in a strange language.
A tendril of jagged energy leaped from his sword and engulfed Rich’s arm. He could feel the dark fingers digging into his skin, etching magical patterns into his flesh. Rich screamed and clutched his wounds, which burned and sizzled.
A sour look crossed the nemesis’s face as he drew back the blade, as if he’d taken a deep whiff of a steaming trash heap.
“What have you done to my sword?” He growled and leaped forward, catching Rich with a vicious kick in the center of his chest. Rich fell, and the nemesis bared his free hand in a gesture like a claw. Dark purple sparks danced at the ends of his gnarled fingers, and suddenly, Rich was gripped by paralyzing panic.
“Surprised?” the nemesis seethed. “Do you think you’re the only one with special abilities?” The dark sparks continued to fly, and Rich remained plastered to the ground, “Though, I must say, some powers are more useful than others, don’t you think? You’re easy to toy with, little Richie—too easy! I mean, do you really think you just found this place on your own? You think you‘re that lucky? I called and you stepped right into my trap!”
The nemesis raised his sword. “I’d ask you for some last words, but I wouldn’t want you to disgrace yourself in your final moments.” He raised the sword to strike, and Rich snapped his eyes shut and braced himself.
“Ahem.”
The voice came seemingly out of nowhere, and was so sudden that the nemesis whirled about in mid-strike to face it. “Who’s there?” he spat. “Come out, or you’re next!”
A short man in a beige robe and a pair of unassuming silver spectacles stepped out of the darkness. In one hand, he held a scroll, while the other held a quill fashioned out of a green feather. He cleared his throat and took another tentative step forward.
“Ahem. Excuse the intrusion. I am Alfonds, the family scribe. I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time.”
The nemesis stared back with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. “Right now? You can’t be serious. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”
Alfonds bobbed his head slightly. “Well, ah, yes, I can see that, and I’m sorry to butt in, but it’s important and all, you know.”
The nemesis gave him a look that might have turned milk sour. “You had better not be trying to interfere. I have no desire to remove your head from your shoulders, but I won’t hesitate if you insist on being a nuisance.”
Alfonds looked about, glancing everywhere but at the nemesis’s eyes. “Oh, you know I never interfere. I’m completely impartial in this little family squabble of yours. I just record what I see. And, might I remind you, there are severe consequences for harming me set down by your own family. I’m sure that last remark was just an … unfortunate oversight.”
The nemesis kept one hand curled over Rich and turned the rest of his body to face Alfonds. “Get on with it, then. What do you want?”
Alfonds glanced down at his scroll and gestured with his quill. “I was just documenting this truly epic conflict that’s been taking place, and I wanted your opinion on the wording.” He stepped forward and offered the scroll to the nemesis. “You see, for example, do you think it should read, ‘Then the mighty nemesis smote the helpless paladin,’ or ‘clobbered the helpless paladin’? I’m not sure which is more appropriate. You are using a sword, but it is looking rather dull.”
The nemesis opened his mouth to protest, but the scribe went right on talking. “And the adjective for describing your opponent. Would you say he’s ‘writhing,’ or perhaps ‘trembling’ down there? I think ‘writhing’ has more of a twisting connotation, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I don’t care!” the nemesis spat. “I don’t really want to read about it later.”
“Ah, yes,” said the scribe. “That may be true, but think of all your adoring fans.”
The nemesis turned to argue with the scribe, and his clawed hand relaxed a bit. The panic faded from Rich’s mind, and he wasted no time in reaching out for the sword again. He shut his eyes even tighter against the pain and began stripping away the layers of darkness from the blade.
The argument intensified. Rich played dead, just hoping that his opponent would stay distracted a moment longer. Most of the blade was visible now, and the pain he felt was increasing rapidly. It took all his energy to keep from crying out, and so he clapped his hand over his mouth.
It felt like miniature people were hammering nails into every inch of his skin, and he could feel his body lapsing into unconsciousness. He imagined his mother, as if she were working alongside him to heal the sword. She smiled and reassured him and ran her hands through his hair, just like she had when he was a little boy.
He could hear the conversation between his nemesis and Alfonds as though they were both far away. “Do you think it matters how I write it? It would take me a little longer, but I could write it all up in a very impressive calligraphy.”
“Enough!” the nemesis roared. He brought the sword around and struck out at the scribe with all his might. However, just as the sword passed over the nemesis’s head, his arm jerked, and he dropped the sword as if it were on fire. He cried out in shock and pain and sank to his knees, gripping his sword hand with the other.
“My sword! What happened to my sword?”
The nemesis lashed out with one hand at A
lfonds, who leaped to the side at the very last second.
Alfonds’ placid demeanor ignited. “You would dare strike a family scribe? I warned you!” He stretched out a hand, and a ruby shaft of light burst from his palm. It hit the nemesis full in the chest and rendered him motionless. He stood there like a sculpture that belonged in a fancy hedge maze, and Alfonds walked over in a huff.
“It was shaping up to be such a dramatic account, too! Now what will I have to write? This isn’t dramatic at all. That’s the problem with you warrior types—you have no appreciation for art.”
Rich watched in disbelief as Alfonds laid a hand on the nemesis’s shoulder, and the two of them started to dissolve into the air. The scribe shot one last severe glance at Rich. “You had better make up for this, if you know what’s good for you. Go do something dramatic! Give us a good show next time.”
And with that, they were gone.
Chapter 5: A Razor-sharp Companion
Rich couldn’t agree with the scribe. The events of the past week had been a bit too exciting. But the scribe was now not around to argue, and even if he had been, Rich thought it best to stay on his good side. Perhaps next time he met his nemesis, he’d have a good speech prepared to liven things up.
Rich glanced up and saw that the Corridor had moved far away during the fight, and now it was just a faint glow in the distance. Rich tried to rise, tried to move at all, but found that he barely had enough energy to keep breathing. Healing the sword had taken almost everything out of him, and if he had gone much longer, he might not have had anything left at all.
His head fell to the side, and he caught a glimpse of the golden sword lying on the ground. It let off a faint, warm glow, and a feeling similar to the one of the amulet around his neck.
As he stared at it, the same voice he had heard before entered his mind. “Thank you, Paladin. I am forever in your debt.”
Rich tried to respond, even in his thoughts, but couldn’t compel the words floating around his mind to line up in complete sentences. As he watched, the sword twitched of its own accord, and then twisted around to stand upright. Rich drew in a quick breath, and his heart raced. After all he had done, was the sword going to run him through?
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