A monster inside, p.28
A Monster Inside, page 28
part #1 of Undying Prince Series
He swallowed. It hurt him to even think it, but Patrick was right. The longer he waited, the more difficult it would become. He could not even begin to understand how Asbjörn was achieving half of what he was doing with the power of the Abyss. Madness pushed Cultivators past their natural limits. It just all seemed so unfair. Asbjörn, I can’t lose you, too!
Asbjörn stopped howling and glanced down at Erik the way someone might gaze at an insect. Less than an insect. Something struck Erik with immense force, sending him trembling backward through burning tree trunks. Bones snapped, turning his insides to jelly. The jelly shook, stifling the screams that tried to escape past his bruised throat. The world spun, and he was falling. The forest floor rose to meet him with a stomach-churning splat.
Get the fuck up! Patrick shouted. Get up!
Pain lanced through every part of Erik’s body. He lay on his back, gasping for breath, staring up at leaves swaying on branches. Fiery sparks sailed deeper into the forest interior, pushed by a wayward gust of wind. Erik felt bones mend, ripped muscles reattach, and new flesh replace broiled skin until only a few injuries remained, but he pushed harder, not knowing what he did, or how, only that he needed to heal quicker. The last twitch of pain was gone, and he was lurching to an upright standing position, bracing himself against a nearby tree.
Panting, he looked back the way he had come. He had been launched over forty meters from his original spot. A tree collapsed, half-eaten by the fire at its base, sending a sea of sparks dancing. The shrieking flames concealed both the shore and Asbjörn from Erik’s sight. But above the lake, something strange was taking place. A stone structure made of red and white marble turned slowly in the air. Erik could only gawk. With a domed roof that glittered like glass and a doorless doorway, it looked like some unholy temple of an unknown god. The glaring white snowflakes hung directly above it like trapped stars, and fresh water fed by the three waterspouts collected into streams that ran in circles around the building, from top to bottom.
Erik blinked. “How? Why is he doing that?”
Madness has its own logic. Who can say why Fiendlords do the things they do?
Erik nodded at Patrick’s words and dashed forward through the raging fire. Motion slowed, and his body covered itself in black and gold scales to protect him from the heat of the crackling flames. He jumped over a fallen tree and left the inferno behind him.
The ground rumbled as he searched for signs of Asbjörn and found none. Dull heartache driving him forward, he ignored the quaking earth and noted the black steps that rose before him. Each step stood alone and unsupported, reaching up to the distant rotating temple above.
This is the only way, Patrick whispered. It’s only been five minutes and look at what he has done. He has to die before he starts trying to tear the earth apart. The Lightbender gave a short, panicked laugh. He so powerful that he might succeed if he attempts it. Think of the other ones you love. Do this for them.
Erik heard Patrick’s words, but the greater part of him was lost in remembrance. He kept reliving his first meeting with Asbjörn, all those years ago. With a heavy heart, he mounted the first steps. Hold on, Da. I’m coming.
Wind surrounded him, groaning as it grated against his scales. The steps withstood his weight as if made just for him, and perhaps they were. When he looked back, those behind were yet there, hanging in the air, looking as real as anything else. He took the last step. Gravity reversed and he was falling up.
Taken completely by surprise, fear pulsed within him, pumping strength into his muscles, pumping energy, filling him with power. He slammed into one of the moving streams of water looping around the temple. With a start, Erik resurfaced, spitting out a mouthful of ice cold lake water. Gravity changed again, and he was falling across the sky, underneath a field of artificial stars.
Erik swam against the roaring tide, splashing as he frantically tried to free himself. Finally, he wrenched himself from the icy river and sailed toward the domed roof. Its glass surface glittered in the fading light of the sun. He struck it and it exploded into fragments. Wide-eyed, he fell toward a round table made of the blackest stone, surrounded by shards. Bones re-shattered in his shoulders when they met the polished table.
The melted walls of the temple were decorated with a hundred pairs of female legs, thrusting out of the stone, waving and wiggling in a sensual manner. Asbjörn stood with his weapons clutched at his sides, in front of a massive fireplace with its roaring, purple flames. Some of those faces that floated around him, laughing in torment, writhing in silence, stared at Erik in pity.
Eyes watering with pain, Erik staggered to his feet and scowled when he discovered that his limbs were sinking into the table like quicksand. “I wish it didn’t have to end this way,” he said.
“Always you say this same thing,” Asbjörn said, staring into the fireplace. His voice was unnaturally calm. “We’ve relived this moment a hundred times before. Why can you never remember?”
The table solidified after it reached Erik’s waist. It was hopeless, he could see that now. He blinked away the fresh tears forming in his eyes and steadied his thumping hearts. Mother, must it always end this way? With me on my own, and the ones I love dead?
Asbjörn turned to face Erik and did a double take. “My son, you came? When did you arrive?” He waved his own question away. “That doesn’t matter. You’re here, and now my heart is filled with such joy. Welcome to the House for the Dead. Glorious, is it not?” He raised his swords with a sadistic smile. “I solved it. You must die, this I already understand, but I found a way we can stay together. Forever.”
Erik, do something! Patrick yelled.
The walls began screaming. Asbjörn twirled his longsword and pointed it at Erik’s hearts. “Forever!”
Water shot from the blade, coruscating in a shower of golden droplets that encircled the Prince, entrapping him in a globe of water. The shrieks of the walls lowered into a guttural moan of pleasure, and Erik wailed. His mind boiled; it felt as if molten lava had been injected into his veins and was now trying to rip out his soul. Patrick howled, clawing at his skull with fanged hooks. The Lightbender’s scream would not end and neither would his own. They were soon joined by the Celestial Dragon’s own sounds of torment.
Erik did not know where their suffering ended and his began, only that it had to be ended. It has to end! He slammed his scaled fist down on the table, and it burst into fragmented bits. His hearts quickened, and he outran the splintered pieces of stone, escaping from the roiling ball of water’s torturous interior. Reaching forward, he pressed his middle and index fingers into Asbjörn’s throat and jerked his hand back. The Cultivator’s aged flesh caved like soggy parchment, and bright blood unspooled from his neck like a red ball of yarn.
Asbjörn gazed at Erik with unseeing eyes. He staggered back, swords clattering to the floor as he lost his footing.
Chapter 34
Erik caught Asbjörn before he could hit the ground. He cradled him in his arms the way someone might a sickly child. He stared at his scarlet-drenched hands as the black and gold scales retreated inside him. Emotions seemed to come in fits and starts, overwhelming him one moment, leaving him empty the next. His hearts thumped like a tempest, tossing thoughts around like rag dolls. A coppery scent filled his nostrils and his head.
I know it hurts, but it had to be done, Patrick said.
Erik dropped to his knees, wavering like seaweed in high tide, and clutched Asbjörn’s gasping form to his chest without looking at him. The purple flames swaying within the black fireplace filled his unblinking eyes. They seemed to dance to an unheard tune, standing still one second, then jerking back and forth. I don’t want to lose him. The thought grounded him, pulled him back from the precipice.
“Remember?” he said. “I told you, ‘You won’t like me. Nobody likes me when they really get to know me,’ the first time we met.” The memory crashed into his head-space like an avalanche, and he whimpered. “It took a while,” he whispered to himself, “but it looks like I was right.” There was no longer any reason to hold any of it back. “You’re dying because of me.” Tears poured from his eyes as his lips twisted into a snarl. “I killed you, too!” He yelled at the ceiling. Other memories came. “Elina!”
He looked down, and red eyes stared back at him. Trembling, panting for breath, Asbjörn struggled uselessly against Erik’s iron grip. With an effort, he fumbled to grab at the Prince’s blue robe. His hands shook when he succeeded; it took both hands to hold himself steady.
“Chaos reigns,” Asbjörn said. Feminine shrieks shattered the quiet of the temple, and the legs jutting out of the walls ignited in purple flames. They burnt into ash that floated down like flakes of untouched snow.
EAT!
Erik’s nostrils flared. “Is that all you fucking know? Eat! Devour—” He paused, a ridiculous idea taking hold of him. His breath came in quick bursts, pumping air in and out of his lungs. “That’s it,” he whispered. “It will work. It has to work!” He crackled sadly, uncoiling his arms into tendrils.
What are you doing? Patrick asked.
“Don’t you see? This is the only way,” Erik said, enveloping Asbjörn with his tendrils, head first. Gargling blood, the Cultivator’s legs jerked and his dying eyes widened. The stone floor pitched, and the walls cracked. Patrick receded in horror while the Celestial Dragon surged forward with eagerness.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
He became aware of the ground first, uneven cobblestone poking into his back. Next came the pain, the memory of flying fists, the ache where they had smashed into his face. And a taste. A creamy, iron flavor, filling his mouth and oozing down his throat.
“Get up, Asbjörn! Get up!” a young girl’s voice called out, along with the clanging of bells.
Asbjörn. The thought rose up from an inner emptiness. That’s my name. His eyes blinked open to reveal a burly boy looming over him, dressed in a gray wool robe, with his fist cocked. Koggi. Asbjörn’s mind supplied the boy’s name.
“Not so clever now are you, Asbjörn,” asked Koggi with a mocking grin. There was a red patch on his left cheek—a birthmark.
The voices of the children surrounding Asbjörn rose in shouts of “Fallnir Menn” and fell silent. Koggi dropped his hand to his side and backed away from Asbjörn as if he burned, almost tripping over his own legs in his haste.
Asbjörn hoisted himself up, his muscles aching, and moved into a sitting position. A black-robed man walked among their group, and Asbjörn stared at him. Everyone else averted their gaze, but Asbjörn could not look away. The man’s oily black hair was slicked back and tied into a ponytail. Painted on his forehead were two black dots connected by a single white dot, and from the dark sash tied around his waist hung a shortsword and a longsword.
“Release her,” the man said in a voice devoid of emotion that somehow invoked the sense of a graveyard. The boys’ holding Asbjörn’s little sister, Gía, released her. “Good. Now disperse.”
The other children hurried away, and Gía helped Asbjörn to his feet, allowing him to lean on her small shoulder as they scampered away. Asbjörn glanced back at the Fallnir Menn who stood watching him besides the outer wall of the Hall of Lower Learning. A chill seeped into his blood, and he jerked his head forward. The Fallnir Menn were a bane on The Last Empire and man alike. Wherever they went, they brought destruction and were almost as hated as Sorcerers.
“Why didn’t you fight back?” Gía asked. “You just let him hit you and did nothing.”
Asbjörn observed his sister. She had her little face scrunched up like a balled-up sock, and tears glimmered at the ends of her long eyelashes. Freckle-faced and fair-complexioned, she took after their father that way while he took after their mother. Her curly hair was done up in two long braids with a blue ribbon tied at each end.
“Well, are you going to answer me?” She glared at him.
Asbjörn sighed. He regretted it a second later when his ribs throbbed. He pulled away from Gía, masking the pain that flashed across his face behind the act of fixing his blood-stained gray robe. But he did not think it worked. Gía frowned. “What would that have solved, sister of mine?” he said. “Would that make them any less envious of my abilities?”
Gía pressed her hand to Asbjörn’s side. He lurched away, almost knocking into one of the six bearers of a colorful palanquin rushing past, but Gía yanked him back just in the nick of time. “At the very least you would have fewer bruises,” she said.
“Violence only begets more violence,” Asbjörn said, holding his head high in a vain attempt to rescue what was left of his tattered pride. He strode past his sister without a backward glance, and she fell in beside him wrinkling her nose.
“You’re not a priest yet,” Gía said irritably, plucking at her dress. “Don’t count your roosters before they hatch.”
Asbjörn smiled. “Chickens.” His sister’s words awoke fantasies of the day he could don the priestly white and join the Munni, the highest caste, the caste of priests, scholars, and teachers. Unknowingly, his smile grew wider.
“Whatever. You know what I meant.” Her eyes were hot coals on his face. “You may still fail the Imperial Examinations and be placed among the Fætur, or worse.” Unless sired by nobles, children were born classless and remained so until the age of thirteen when they took the Imperial Examinations, and their caste was determined based on their skills.
“You wound me, sister.” He spoke perspicaciously as if already numbering among the brightest scholarly minds within The Last Empire. “Like the others, your jealousy taints your innards. It is not my fault women are not permitted to take the Imperial Examinations, that you’re forced to stay at—for that matter, why aren’t you at home? I thought mother didn’t want you leaving the house on your own.”
She did not reply, and they walked on shrouded in hostile silence. Guilt pricked at Asbjörn’s sense of pride. Sometimes his temper got away from him, and he was a little harsher with Gía than he should be. She deserved better, he knew that. Just say you’re sorry, stupid. No. Yes!
“Do you remember that pie I baked for you last week?” Gía asked.
Asbjörn took a deep breath. Here it comes. “I thanked you for that. And if I recall, it was a bribe so I would take you to watch the horse race with me.”
“Well, I want you to know I put my boogers in it as a special ingredient.”
Eyes wide and incredulous, Asbjörn jerked to a stop. “You what?”
“That’s better!” She threw her head back and roared with laughter, holding her sides. “Wiped that high and mighty look right off your stupid face.” In spite of himself, Asbjörn smiled. It was such a girlish response. And so childish. Unruly little sisters, everywhere.
“You’re such a brat.” He laughed. He touched her cheek and pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive your pigheaded brother?” The common people of the city walked around the clasping siblings.
“Only if he reads to me tonight,” she said, still giggling.
Asbjörn gently tugged at one of Gía’s braids. “Deal.” Still embracing, they walked down the sloping street, crowded with peddlers and merchants, hawking wares.
“When do you think father will be home?”
“Soon. The 5th Legion should have crushed the Twin Towers by now.” Asbjörn flickered Gía’s earlobe. “Answer me truthfully, did you really put boogers in my pie?”
“Race you home.” Gía dashed forward, freeing herself from Asbjörn’s arm.
“Hey!” He broke into a shambling canter. He rounded a corner in pursuit of his little sister, and men and women scattered like dust on the wind. I have to win! I can’t let her beat me!
Arms and legs flailing, Asbjörn struggled to keep up; his bruised ribs made every step agony. Tottering, he almost ran into a group of street performers laughing and singing in the streets. He ducked under a palanquin and slammed into a stone wall. He took a shortcut, sprinting through a gap between two buildings. Staggering, he escaped the gap, pulling ahead of Gía as they galloped toward the red-painted gates of the Vopn district, which stood wide open. Shouts rose from the overweight guards posted at the gates, but Asbjörn did not slow his pace for even a moment. He bounded into the district, half-filled with modest-sized villas. There was the white stone statue, pockmarked with age, of a gaping warrior thrusting a broken sword at the sky. It stood in his front yard as decoration, as an ancient protector.
Under the afternoon sun, panting and gasping, Asbjörn leaped up the steps. He ignored the surprised yells of slaves and servants, entered his home, and shouted, “Mother, I’m home!” He went from chamber to chamber, finally arriving at his father’s office.
“Mother! Mother, where are you?” A dark-skinned woman looked up with brown eyes from where she sat behind a large desk, flowers in her braided hair, and blue ribbons. She was slender, beautiful, and teary-eyed. “Mother, what’s wrong?”
There were two men with her, one with a bloody bandage over his left eye and a dented helmet held at his side. The other stared off into space, fingering the tattered red cloak that hung from his shoulders. Both men wore the black-scaled armor of the Imperial Legion.
The unhelmeted Legionnaire turned to Asbjörn and asked, “How old are you, boy?”
“I’m . . . thirteen, sir.”
The soldier nodded to himself and whispered, “Young.” Louder. “Your mother and your sisters will need your strength in the time to come. You’re the head of the household now.” He donned his helmet and exited with the other Legionnaire on his heels.
Asbjörn could not bring himself to meet his mother’s eyes. Instead, he looked just above her head, at the old map of The Last Empire that hung on the wall.
