I use the time outside of the room to work on the key because each time I feel the tingling and bliss I struggle to push any shadowy feelings away. They crowd in, like the creatures wanting to eat me, threatening to turn me feral and lose control, but I had learned some level of mastery, able to herd the darkness away to harmless places. It’s been a month of next to no progress and I can feel my determination becoming more fragile. The mountain is being chipped away at by endless rain and rivers carving into me. In the time we spend here, Tchook and I talk through what’s happening. Well, when I talk, he responds with alien sounds, movements and rippling black that forces me to remember things that were once hard to recall. The good days, bad days and all in between, he still tries to teach me something. I knew the dead faces that are eating me hold secrets that would aid me on my path. Women or men, children or adult it didn’t matter. Soldiers from the trenches, native American Indians from the hunting, terrorists from countless black ops missions, they’re all there for a reason. They’re all here to help me find the key. Even the faces from the first room come to me.
“Tchook, were you there with me in the first room?”
“Prrt.” His tone was slightly positive as he held out a non-hand, fingers almost as detailed as mine spread apart and palm facing down. He kept the hand still but wobbled it slightly, mimicking a, “sort of” gesture I’d never used before. Surprised at him learning things without demonstration from me I raised my eyebrows in question, to receive another odd noise.
“You’ve been with me since I lost Eve?” A non-head nodded with a purr.
“But you only revealed yourself to me in that room.” Another non-nod. Thinking about that room again and the faces of the people I’d attacked I suddenly remember everything that happened in a painful flash. I was stood in the centre of that dank, pointless room, surrounded by people in black clothes, shrouded in body armour and holding weapons. I couldn’t remember how I got there and, in my crawling, bleeding stupor from months ago, I hadn’t fully taken the room. It was exceptionally clean, save for the scuttling of cockroaches. Not only did it look clean, it also managed to press its pristine appearance onto your spirit, suppressing any thoughts and emotions that tried to surface. I knew the room had a purpose and I was there for a reason, maybe linked with my episodes. Through all the long years, I never understood what happened in them, only that I was different in some way and that I was destructive. I’d only ever see the aftermath of one, yet in that moment, trapped and surrounded, I could perceive things beyond the obvious. Right there and then, I felt that magik was in me where I’d had no idea before. Looking into the helmeted faces of the dangerous strangers, feelings of being trapped began to rumble up in me from the pit of my stomach. The room was sick. The people in front of me were sick and their purpose even sicker.
Re-living the room now was strange, like the time I’d watched myself in the trenches. I could see what was happening and knew what I was feeling at each moment but it was, and wasn’t me. I watched me standing there, knowing I didn’t care how or why I was there. I didn’t care about these people around me and I felt the dead indifference swallow me up. The rumblings in my stomach increased, and I knew what was coming. Scratching and pain. I watched as I grew, fur sprouting out of me, claws protruding and my bulky form taking up the room. Black weapons trained on me, their wielders looked small and fragile compared to the huge, black form that I now was. I could feel time slow, seeing them start to raise their weapons and knowing it was already too late. Without hesitation I clawed a net-gun to the floor, my dirty and matted fur a shadow in their eyes before I took their head clean away from shoulders with a second blow. With incredible speed, I watched myself wheel on the spot and leap across the room towards a heavy machine gun. I knew what I was thinking as I did that. I wanted to reduce the more serious threats to my survival as quickly as possible, my own army training working through the strategic options available to me. Large calibre bullets would hurt, tear and rend my flesh, so were high on the list to neutralise after taking down something that would restrict my movement. The operator of the huge gun was shown the endless sleep before a shot was fired and the same fate was met by the second heavy machine gun, my jaw clamping down in lots of places to stop them from hurting me. Watching the scene from above, I traced each thought my past self-made, needing to incapacitate him and move to the next target before the untamed, feral, chaotic part of me took over. When I was in the trenches or chasing down Native Americans, I was sent on those destructive missions alone. Only after seeing those blackouts in my time here, it looked like I more control in those circumstances. I’ve yet to see a less deliberate episode, but in those memories, I was purposeful in how I moved. Now however, trapped like an animal, that part of me would win, the fear taking over and making me rash.
I watched a man below me let out horrified screams full of panic as I tore into him, my normal self, helpless and trapped in this animalistic death machine as pieces of him flew about me. I stopped, sensing another attack coming and managed to dispatch the next victim with ease. Flicking my eyes to the side I saw the next poor attempt at stopping me and my jaws found flesh again. I knew I was calculating in that instant, five down, one to go and then I wouldn’t be able to hold the beast back. Sensing an opening as I paused, the last soul in the room managed to fire a grenade into my exposed ribs. Heat and shrapnel did their best to stop me, but I wasn’t to be stopped. Without restricting my movement, I saw myself level my entire fury at him, arms crashing down into him over and over again until they ached. Until I could feel my bones bruising. I saw myself slow and notice a sharp pain in my leg. One of the earlier victims was still alive and had fired his handgun at me. My rational mind had done the right thing, moving through the more dangerous targets and incapacitating when a final blow couldn’t me made. Speed was key and eliminating any threats in whatever way was prioritised. I then watched in horror from inside my own body as the dark, bloodied and matted fury won the internal battle. Eating, crushing and vengeance were all that mattered now, and I shamefully knew these scenes had be repeated across many of my blackouts.
When the flashing images receded, I looked at Tchook, suddenly tired and somehow sweatier than earlier. He saw I was in pain and I think he may have seen some or all of what I just had. He rippled gently, trying to soothe me with friendly sounds. I’d never been able to relive my episodes before and it initially scared me. I’d never wanted to relive them but now I realised that at some point, I must. I could access those black spots to seek the truths they held and that would bring me peace. Not now though. Now required something else of me and it’s enough to know I can do it. There’d be time to work through those nightmares, but they’d need to wait until the time was right. I almost looked forward to the time when I’d be able to accept all those experiences as moments that were inescapably a part of me. The past is the past is the past, and it shaped me in ways I like to think I’d be thankful for in the future, irrespective of how awful they may’ve been. Tchook continued to utter helpful sounds as Djoonga’s voice whispered into the room.
“You must hurry, Weyaal. One of the nameless is coming.”
“How long do we have?”
“In the outside, not long. In here, a few days.” I was frustrated as I knew Djoonga would be able to help me, give me the answers I need to pass through the final room, yet I know I’d need to come to the realisations myself. Mastery through sacrifice reverberated in my head, Aitch’s words comforting and cutting at the same time. I look at Tchook and nod, my eyes telling him we’d need to find ways to intensify our regime. Extra training, faster healing, more intense meditating, additional Bjørneskinn and non-hand healing, less sleeping, quicker eating, less talking. Djoonga informed us as outside events developed, increasing the pressure on me to succeed and slowing our progress. I was conflicted, my conscious and subconscious fighting with thoughts of the past present and future. Events were escalating around us, wrapping themselves around me and paralysin
g. If the nameless arrived before I got out, we’d be trapped, and I may be released to see Eve. Djoonga may even be destroyed at one of The Nine’s arrival. These realisations help me focus on moving forwards but the pain of death in the room was getting worse. The zombies were getting more and more ferocious as I try to forge onwards. My own history is dragging me down with guilt and I’m being torn apart in all directions. My debt is too high, even though it deserves to be paid. A price I’m willing, but unable to pay.
I stand there once again in the room as pale images of the dead creep out to welcome me again. The mass grave is whispering to me, its inhabitants impatient and expectant. As a hundred times before, the wriggling and crying starts. Clawing and scraping comes next and the remains of long dead bodies come to life, faltering, rolling and forming foul versions of their former selves. A wall falls, and the undead creatures are revealed again. Rotting, shambling, limping, hobbling things of untold loss are coming for me. Teeth and claws, distended jaws and sunken flesh want to show me the way to the endless sleep. An army of soulless eyes begin drudging their way towards me. I sweep my eyes across the torturous view and pick out the faces I recognise, holding all of those evil deeds in my hand. So much death. So much sorrow and misery, but all of them mistakes. Were I given a second chance, I’d change them all in a heartbeat. It’s no excuse though, even if I was a lost soul when I did those things. I thought I’d be scared, accepting my own death and the debt I must pay. Djoonga was wrong and this room wasn’t there to show me mastery of the soul. Too much blood had been spilled and some souls couldn’t be saved. I know I have to die and die for real this time. That was the key. I want to see Eve again, but it’s more important I embrace my past and help these souls rest. They are more important than I am.
“I’m sorry.” I close my eyes, sink to my knees and hold out my arms wide, ready for the debt to be paid. I wait for the storm rain to come, the waves of pain to cascade through me once again and experience the sweet relief of the endless sleep, wondering whether my soul would remain here or if it could even survive what was coming. But there’s no rain. There’re no waves and the endless sleep waits. Opening my eyes, I see the dreadful army in front of me change. Most disappear all of a sudden and what’s left are friends and family that I’d lost in the lifetimes I’d walked the worlds. Grotesque, evil creatures shrank and changed into familiar people. A loose spiral with a cross through the middle of it hovers in front of each of them as they whisper words of encouragement and love to me. Decades upon decades of regret fall away from me and the release brings tears of joy with them, my breathing calming as the figures begin to disappear in front of me, wisps of smoke on a breeze that fade to memory.
Eventually, I feel another presence next to me. Tchook was stood there, as tall, broad and strong as I am now, gold sliver shimmering to his surface every now and then. In front of me, a ghostly representation of myself forms before taking the shape of my bear self. The phantom begins shifting between the two forms slowly at first before gathering momentum and phasing between the two shapes too quick to follow until it stops, half me, half bear me. Djoonga’s voice offers congratulations from behind us and I hear him swing open. Something burns on my chest and when I look down, I see a circle that contains a triangle symbol with a line cutting through the top of it, about three quarters of the way up. Thinking about the symbol, I shudder at remembering what the loose spiral with a cross through the middle of it means. I think I’ve been dealing with visions in the transcendence room, but after seeing the symbol appear before each of the ghostly figures I know I’ve been communing with the dead. I know The Protectorate have been using Necromancy. Memories unlock, my past becomes clearer and I can see where I’ve been. What worlds I have visited and what my life before losing Eve was like. I’m whole for the first time in centuries and as questions race through my head, I hear racing footsteps from past The Pilgrim Door. Rushing out to meet them, three Sløv were approaching, a mission written across their faces.
“We need to go.” One of them said urgently.
“I know, Djoonga told me.” I reply to confused faces. Didn’t they know what Djoonga or the rooms were for? Did they know that one of the rooms required communing with the dead? Did they know that The Protectorate was using Necromancy? Making to leave, questions in my head still racing, a large tactical team rounds the corner, weapons raised. Images from my flashback smack me in the face, whipping up more feelings than I can name. Tchook and I gently ease the three Sløv behind us, not waiting for permission to do what’s necessary. Tingling. Bliss. End.
No fear grips me like it had before. No danger of losing control entered the equation and Tchook and I cut through the team in the blink of an eye. Visions of Eve and I practising our Dyad formations in the training square replace any other feelings. Putting into practice what the rooms had taught me, Tchook and I drift, seeing everything and nothing, we balance ourselves individually and together and using each other’s bodies and wills, we’re unstoppable. Barely investing any effort in the attack, we look back on our work having only just started it. The tac team stood less than no chance against us as we’d been perfectly in sync and were more powerful than they could ever have imagined. Like a Dyad, knowing, anticipating and flowing, we calmly put each member of the squad on the floor before they could move. Groans come from some, others lay still, forced dreams keeping them from waking pains. I look at my fur, multi-coloured now and shimmering like Tchook’s gold did. We hear explosions, screams, thuds and growls coming from somewhere in the distance. One of our kind was in trouble and without communicating in any way, Tchook and I fly from three stunned Sløv faster than they can comprehend.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN - HAMMER AND BLADE
Sylvane stepped forward, ready to attack Bonedust, muscles already bulging and veins popping with the effort of transformation. Clenching his fists and flexing, the Werewolf Prince stood tall and proud, on the verge of unleashing his built-up agony at his torture on the new foe, but Gerard held him back. He looked at the man in front of him, feeling he was part of the problem. He was why The Protectorate was failing and he’d lost faith in the cause. In that moment he was the sum total of all that Gerard hated about his organisation and he’d pay dearly before the sun set on this day. For years, Gerard had held his tongue and informed The Hammer of what he saw and now it was time to take action. Lars Engen, one of The Twenty-Seven, one of the people that should be respected, had covered for atrocities, manipulated people and documentation, lied, threatened and sent many to meet Surelikai herself. He’d killed, all in the name of justice. Their form of justice. This kind of dogmatic belief, this blind following of orders was dangerous to the worlds and he must be stopped. Gerard had personally seen two innocent Orcs die by his hammer. He knew of others he’d shown the way to the endless sleep through hearsay and Parod. The callous, arrogant Skellflak had tried to kill Enyo. Not today. This pitiful excuse of a man would be the focus of his fury.
“Are you sure, Elias?” Gerard hated Lars using his name like that. Patronising. Knowing. “You look a little…” His eyes flicked to Gerard’s shoulder. “… injured. Are you sure you can keep up?” There was that irritating, smug, know-it-all smile again. Gerard wasn’t a high Våpen so to anyone on the outside, he was sure to be the next victim of Bonedust’s hammer. Throw in the injury and most would bet against him, brave as he was. This man didn’t deserve Gerard’s words though, so he took a wide stance, right shoulder towards Lars. Both his hands moved towards his left hip, as if he were to unsheathe a samurai sword. Then he did.
“Whispered night, unyielding death. Mourning widow and liquid steel. Wound.” When he’d finished, an awe-inspiring blade was cradled softly in Gerard’s hands. The hilt of the sword was expertly crafted, weaving itself into the golden guard adorned with swooping dragons and cherry blossoms. A few Japanese letters marked the exquisite blade, glowing faintly with the rest of the near-real sword. It glowed a dark, deadly light, unlike any weapon Lars had seen befor
e.
“Quite the manifest weapon you have there, Elias. You didn’t use forms and your incantation was out of order.” He paused, enjoying the moment and taking his time with his prey. “This may be more fun than I thought.” Lars smirked. At once, and without warning, Lars and his three Sløv attacked in an unbreakable line. Gerard waited. Patient. He felt, more than he saw, Sylvane the werewolf fly past him on his right, smashing into two of Bonedust’s companions, fur and sinewy body forcing them backwards. Surprised cries came from them as they brought their weapons up defensively – just like they had when the sisters attacked – followed by the crunching of a large Werewolf prince and two bodies hitting the wall. Two on one it is then Gerard thought. Two hammers to my one blade. Better odds than he’d have gotten earlier. He looked at Lars, fixing all his desire to kill on him. Fusing that hatred and energy into his sword so he could be calm, calculated and patient, he waited for the large hammer to come to him. For the second time that day he saw the arrogant blond man surprised as Haverforth flew past him on his left, attacking the remaining and unsuspecting Sløv. Lars’ attendee was too determined to land the first hit on Gerard ahead of his master to notice the man advancing on him. Sean was expertly wielding two short blades in his hands, bent back against his forearms as he charged forward silently, his own deadly focus bent towards his opponent. Gerard joined Lars in his surprise, thinking there was a lot more to this man than he thought and congratulated himself for favouring him over the years they’d known each other. More than just a book worm he chuckled inside his head, as he watched dual blades land on a last second defensive manoeuvre from Lars’ final man. One on one it is then. Better odds. One hammer to my one blade.
A Dyad in Time Page 43
