A monster inside, p.31
A Monster Inside, page 31
part #1 of Undying Prince Series
Leon turned, ripping off the rag, and letting it drop. He ran back the way he had come, brown sack clasped tight to his side. It was a relief to be moving once again, somehow the fear seemed less consuming when he was on the go. Passing through an empty room, he grabbed a cloak hanging over a chair and threw it on. It was much too large, the hood kept falling over his eyes, and the hem dragged across the floor, almost tripping him with every step. But he managed, if barely. He thought the cloak might make him stand out more than not, but soldiers might be on the lookout for him. It was better this than nothing.
The corridors were more chaotic than only minutes earlier, ringing with distant sounds of battle and bells and the beating of gongs. While the bells denoted the fact that the outer walls were in danger, the gongs were an order for the servants to gather on the great square.
I’m running out of time.
Leon strode along purposefully, doing his best to look unhurried, blending in with a group of panicked servants rushing outside. He was grateful for their anxiety. It allowed him to go unnoticed. They were all too concerned with finding out what was going on to pay him any attention.
Outside, a handful of black-coated men directed armored soldiers, and a growing crowd of serving men and women milled about, unsure of themselves. Leon was thankful for their presence. The great square was like a festival, despite all the terrified faces and sounds of distant fighting. A festival just for him.
He skirted the edge of the crowd, wormed his way toward the inner gate and followed a squad of soldiers through it. He ducked behind a building, and a nervous flutter tickled his chest. It was almost over. Just a little longer and he would be free.
Leon did his best to avoid the scant rays of the setting sun, sticking to the shadowy parts of buildings until he reached his destination. The White Cranes’ stable. No lamplight shone in its windows or spilled out from under its door, giving it a slight aura of foreboding. He searched for any hint of movement that would indicate soldiers waiting within. He saw none, but that did not mean anything. Not in a world with Lightbenders.
I’m just going to have to risk it. It’s not like I have a choice anyway. There’s nothing for me here now. A gust of wind carried over the sound of crumbling stone. The fortress is falling.
Leon sped across the flagstones of the stable-yard; the familiar scent of the stable muck assaulted him, bringing with it a strange sense of comfort. He stopped in front of the sliding doors and opened them ever so slightly. Nothing untoward happened. He opened it wider and slipped inside.
A hand reached out from the dark and yanked Leon to the side. He began to spin then stopped. The cold edge of a long knife pressed against his neck. His breath rasped, terror swelled.
“Who are you!” A shaky voice asked. A boy’s voice.
Leon swallowed. “Morgan, it’s me.” The knife dropped from his throat.
“You made it out alive?”
Leon threw the hood of the cloak back and spun around. Morgan, a boy of twelve, stood with his back against the wall and a small smile on his face. He wore the same uniform as Leon and was taller. If not for the ugly burns on his face, he would have been considered beautiful, if a boy could be regarded as beautiful. Morgan claimed he had spilled a pan of hot oil on his face, but Leon knew better. It was no accident. Morgan had done it on purpose. Before Leon was the Viscount’s favorite, Morgan had been.
“Seems so.” Leon smiled.
Morgan wrinkled his nose. “Did you piss yourself?”
“I. . . .” Leon’s cheeks reddened. “No!” He turned away. Morgan had not known the exact details of the plan, and Leon was not going to share them now. Let him think what he wants!
With ten stalls, the building was on the large end compared to Hjörtur’s other stables. It was much neater than one might expect with wooden floors swept clean and bags of feed stacked on the lofts above the stalls. Four White Cranes observed the room from the comfort of their booths, looking graceful with their long necks, plumage the color of untouched snow, and their large, yellowish eyes.
“Don’t listen to him, Leon,” Nóel said, using the ladder to climb down from the loft. Like the other two boys, he was a member of the Air Scouts. Yet, at eight years old, he looked much too young to be doing anything but helping his mother around the house. He had a mop of golden-brown curls and an infectious smile that always cheered up Leon when he was in one of his moods.
Morgan laughed. More bark than anything else.
Nóel dropped to the floor and rushed over to Leon. “You’re the bravest of us all. So what if you soaked your breeches? I would have done the same in your shoes. You did what needed to be done. That’s all that matters.”
Leon did not know whether to laugh or cry. He slapped Nóel’s shoulder good-naturedly. If Leon was honest with himself, Nóel was the main reason he had done what he had done. The Viscount had turned his eyes to Nóel, and Leon would rather die than let Nóel’s innocence get destroyed like his and Morgan’s had been. They were a family. Three orphans bonded not by blood, but by friendship.
Morgan brushed past the two boys on his way to the White Cranes. “Well, come on! The birds are already saddled. Unless you want to stay here and converse with the soldiers that are surely on their way here.” He sent them a glance over his shoulder, lips twisted in a wry smile.
Leon threw his arm around Nóel and dragged him along toward freedom.
Chapter 37
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
It arose from his depths, molten flames broiling everything, flinging shadows and fiery sparks across the room. Voices rose into frantic shouts. Voices that pulled at his memory but slipped through his grasp the moment he tried to remember their names. Golden bonfires crawled along the walls as the screams grew louder. Panicked voices. Frantic howls.
The sounds faded into nothing, and Asbjörn awoke sprawled on top of an unfamiliar bed. He fought to fill his lungs. He pushed himself upright but fell back down, helpless. Pain filled him with a sense of vileness; his burns were as prominent as his battle for breath, as near as the damp bandages that covered him from head to toe. Yet he was aware of every minute stir of air against the cracks in his lips. It was as if he had been cooked alive, but had somehow managed to survive.
A wet cloth lightly dabbed at his lips, and he opened his eyes. He took comfort in the soothing sensation and glanced at the young woman touching the moist rag to his mouth. She could not have been more than three or four years older than him, still little more than a girl. The barest instant and their eyes met before looking away. She was slender, he noticed, with long black hair that fell to her waist, deep dark eyes, and golden brown skin.
Who is she? Where am I? Why am I in such pain? The questions came one after another, all without answers. He opened his mouth to ask her, but even that proved too difficult.
“It’s all right,” she said, the way one might to a child; her tone angered Asbjörn. “Don’t try to talk. You’re safe now.” She took a step away from the bed. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” She rushed out of the room.
Asbjörn flared his eyes in rage—he was no child! He regretted it a second later. Eternal Father, even that hurts. He whimpered, lost in a tide of rising agony. He closed his eyes to better weather the assault, and when he opened them again more time had passed than should have.
The Fallnir Menn with slicked-back, oily black hair stood beside the bed, peering down at Asbjörn. The painted dots on his forehead seemed to stand out more in the dim light. “Good, you’re awake,” he murmured.
A swelling gust of fear bombarded Asbjörn’s tiny frame, spiking his heartbeat, doing battle with the tyrannical waves of woe already surging through his blood vessels. He gasped. No!
“My name is Sesar. You’ve earned the right to that at the very least. I owe you an apology.” Despite the Cultivator’s claims of atonement, his tone remained emotionless. “What you did should not be possible, but none the less I take full responsibility for what happened. I hope one day you’ll learn to forgive me.”
I’m one of. . . . Asbjörn shut his eyes to deny the reality. I’m one of them. Horror stood stark against despair.
“This is Nenna,” Sesar said, motioning at the brown-skinned girl standing at the opposite side of the bed. “Henceforth, she will be your Hearth Maiden. She has been raised since birth for this privilege. Treat her well. Your and her destinies are now intertwined. She’ll be able to answer most of the questions you have until you’re well enough to attend classes.”
Asbjörn’s eyes welled with tears. “Will I ever be able to visit my family?”
Sesar blinked. “I see . . . you don’t remember.”
“What do you mean?” Sesar did not respond, and Asbjörn grew frantic. “Tell me. Tell me!”
“They’re dead, Asbjörn. You murdered them when you awoke your power. When you touched the Abyss.”
■■■
Surrounded by cold water and red and white marble, Erik’s eyes blinked open. The temple sank deeper into the lake’s murky depth. With a heavy grunt, he reached back and wretched out the swords thrust into his back. He savored how right Asbjörn’s weapons felt in his hands; it was as if they were made just for him.
Water pressure beat at Erik, growing more tremendous with each passing second, trying to collapse his roiling body mass in on itself. He focused his wandering mind; he sensed another memory rising within. There was not much time to do what he must.
He roared, and bubbles of air escaped out of his mouth. He gripped the hilts of Asbjörn’s swords ever tighter. Bones in his hands cracked to the point of breaking, but he did not care. He reached for one of those glimmering patterns within his mind and willed himself to transform.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
Asbjörn sat cross-legged above the churning vortex of the Abyss, encircled by an invisible barrier that protected him from the fluctuations of the void. There was an element of sadness hidden in his gray eyes that his blank expression did not quite mask. The glint of loss. The glimmer of a wound yet to fully heal.
“The Abyss is one of the two wellsprings of creation.” Nenna’s alluring voice rang throughout the darkness.
Asbjörn frowned. “One of two? What’s the other?”
“Don’t interrupt,” she said, and continued in a gentler tone. “The other source is from where Witches draw their power, but that’s a lesson for another day. There are many rules you must always keep in mind. But the first and most important is that you must never gaze into the Abyss for too long.”
Asbjörn leaned forward and did exactly that. He fell toward the center of the Abyss. The shield crackled and roared with turbulence around him, but he only had eyes for the glory of the huge vortex, pulsing with unspeakable power, glowing like a thousand suns. He sensed it surging into him with the power to boil all the seas of the world. With—
Asbjörn jolted awake to his cheek stinging from the force of a slap. He sat cross-legged on his bed. In front of him, Nenna stood with one hand cocked and the other on the handle of the dagger at her waist. She glared down at him, her face flushed with red.
“You must never do that again, do you understand? Never! You more than anyone else must know the destructive power of the Abyss.”
Asbjörn fingered his throbbing cheek. “How did you know what I was doing?” he asked.
Nenna looked uncertain, then dropped her cocked hand and smiled. “You all look the first time. When you tell a child not to do something, often that’s exactly what they will do.”
Asbjörn looked away from her as if she no longer existed. His insides seethed with droplets of glowing rage. He was no child, and one day soon she would come to realize that. Or he would. . . . He was not sure what he would do, but he knew she would regret it.
She relented. “To stare into the Abyss is to skirt the line between madness and sanity. Most that do become Fiendlords, yet I’ve heard rumors of individuals who can walk that line. Some fools say it’s the only way to increase your power past its limit. They are usually the ones that end up dead.” She grabbed his arm. “Promise me you won’t ever do something so stupid again.”
“I promise.”
■■■
The temple looked as if it had been picked up and tossed about like some child’s plaything. Half the floor and walls were reduced to heaps of rubble, some spilling out of the building as it groaned from the water pressure. The destruction did not stop there. The once-glorious domed roof was now nothing but ruin, every piece of glass washed away by the power of the lake.
The pattern within Erik’s mind flickered in and out of existence until it finally firmed. He swelled, doubling, then tripling in size, slowly twisting into the form of an immense serpent. His tail grew too large to be contained by mere stone, and pierced the temple’s heart. The structure groaned and cracked around him. He tore a huge rent through the marble, as if it was not even there, and it burst apart.
Freed from the interior of the temple, Erik swam toward the shore, now clothed in the Imugi’s blue-scaled body. The underwater world looked much different than it had only moments before. The colors were gone, reducing everything to black and white; yet he could see the heat glowing off of the bodies of nearby creatures. Sound waves rippled off of his skin and traveled from his muscles to his bones, sending vibrations up to the ears beneath his skull. He became aware of distant rumbles, of ten thousand whining hums like some bizarre acoustic melody. The marine lifeforms, moving, swimming.
Erik did not have time to spare the creatures a single thought. Another memory bubbled to the surface. Unseen mental waves tried to carry him away, bury him under the weight of another man’s yesterdays. He roared.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
Asbjörn rolled against the cold stone of the Training Hall, coming to his knees with his sword snaking out in front of him. Every scrap of prana he could draw went into powering the Esoteric Technique that sprung from his blade. An illusionary jet of water hurled toward a pale semblance of The Red Rose Blooms. Neither attack looked quite real, but when they met in the air, they fragmented into dazzling pieces of light that soon faded into nothingness.
Eyes blazing with hatred, Asbjörn stood, struggling to straighten the writhing mess of straining muscles he called his legs. This was his fourth match of the day, and he was exhausted. But that was what his enemies wanted. They could not win against him fairly. They had to wear him down so they could dethrone him from his first-place ranking. He would not allow that to happen. Dimly he was aware of the onlookers who watched the whole thing with faces as blank as stone.
Koggi sent a self-satisfied smirk Asbjörn’s way, and Asbjörn growled. Holding on to anger was easy when going up against your arch-nemesis. He would wipe that smile right off of Koggi’s ugly face, once and for all. Dressed in matching black robes, they danced their lethal dance.
We’ve grown over the last three years.
It was an odd moment of clarity that lasted just enough time for Koggi to steal the initiative and rush forward. Everything else faded away and all became one as he moved without thought to turn Koggi’s longsword with his own, falling into a rhythm that barely allowed him to match step for step and move for move.
The noise of battle rose again, filling the hall with the ringing of steel blades. Sounds like we’re celebrating. The extraneous thought disrupted Asbjörn’s rhythm, forcing him to give ground before Koggi. Any moment now, he knew his opponent would spin away and launch another Esoteric Technique. And he did not know if he had enough strength to resist it. The attack was unlikely to do more than sting, since Koggi’s First Stöðin had yet to reach the First Stratum. Even so, the three judges would count it as his loss. He refused to let that happen. With a roar, he charged forward, retaking his lost momentum.
Back and forth they fought, neither daring to give ground to their opponent for more than a second for fear of the Esoteric Technique the other might unleash. They exchanged blows over and over, banging dull training blades against each other, sweat glistening brightly on their foreheads, and their eyes narrowed in mutual disdain.
With a grunt, Asbjörn faked a swinging slash and threw himself into another roll. Reaching for the power that slumbered inside, he did something he knew he should not. He looked into the Abyss. Prana surged into his First Stöðin, a torrent large enough to level mountains, ripping at his very soul; his First Stöðin shone with all the brilliance of the blazing sun. He came to his knees, twirling and jabbing his sword in Koggi’s direction.
A popping sound roared in his eardrums, and a red rosebud bloomed a meter away from the tip of his blade. With petals made of tiny scarlet flames, it flickered in and out of existence, flying toward an unprepared combatant. After an instant, the rose solidified, and an intense, blistering fire radiated out in a mini explosion, catching Koggi in the blast, setting his robe ablaze.
Asbjörn stood with his enemy’s shrieks ringing in his ears. But it was not the other boy’s screams that held him transfixed. It was the fact that he had done something forbidden. He had gazed into the Abyss to induce a breakthrough in the midst of battle, and from now on, his Esoteric Techniques would no longer be illusionary because he had achieved First Stöðin, First Stratum.
Motion drew his eyes away from his burning opponent to the entrance of the Training Hall. Nenna stood in the hallway, her eyes shining with pride. He found himself smiling at her, even as the shame of breaking his word to her became choking.
■■■
Erik rose from the lake, still clothed in the Imugi’s flesh, and splashed onto the shore. The ground quaked beneath his vast mass, spraying dirt and water into the air. Hammers made of memories powerful enough to tear apart entire fortresses struck his mind. Any one could end him, eradicate him as if he had never been born; of that he was positive. Erik fought against them, rolling, shaking as he struggled against the onslaught. His body writhed, shrinking in on itself, even as he waged his unseen battle. His movements caused vast rumbles that filled the air with booms.
The corridors were more chaotic than only minutes earlier, ringing with distant sounds of battle and bells and the beating of gongs. While the bells denoted the fact that the outer walls were in danger, the gongs were an order for the servants to gather on the great square.
I’m running out of time.
Leon strode along purposefully, doing his best to look unhurried, blending in with a group of panicked servants rushing outside. He was grateful for their anxiety. It allowed him to go unnoticed. They were all too concerned with finding out what was going on to pay him any attention.
Outside, a handful of black-coated men directed armored soldiers, and a growing crowd of serving men and women milled about, unsure of themselves. Leon was thankful for their presence. The great square was like a festival, despite all the terrified faces and sounds of distant fighting. A festival just for him.
He skirted the edge of the crowd, wormed his way toward the inner gate and followed a squad of soldiers through it. He ducked behind a building, and a nervous flutter tickled his chest. It was almost over. Just a little longer and he would be free.
Leon did his best to avoid the scant rays of the setting sun, sticking to the shadowy parts of buildings until he reached his destination. The White Cranes’ stable. No lamplight shone in its windows or spilled out from under its door, giving it a slight aura of foreboding. He searched for any hint of movement that would indicate soldiers waiting within. He saw none, but that did not mean anything. Not in a world with Lightbenders.
I’m just going to have to risk it. It’s not like I have a choice anyway. There’s nothing for me here now. A gust of wind carried over the sound of crumbling stone. The fortress is falling.
Leon sped across the flagstones of the stable-yard; the familiar scent of the stable muck assaulted him, bringing with it a strange sense of comfort. He stopped in front of the sliding doors and opened them ever so slightly. Nothing untoward happened. He opened it wider and slipped inside.
A hand reached out from the dark and yanked Leon to the side. He began to spin then stopped. The cold edge of a long knife pressed against his neck. His breath rasped, terror swelled.
“Who are you!” A shaky voice asked. A boy’s voice.
Leon swallowed. “Morgan, it’s me.” The knife dropped from his throat.
“You made it out alive?”
Leon threw the hood of the cloak back and spun around. Morgan, a boy of twelve, stood with his back against the wall and a small smile on his face. He wore the same uniform as Leon and was taller. If not for the ugly burns on his face, he would have been considered beautiful, if a boy could be regarded as beautiful. Morgan claimed he had spilled a pan of hot oil on his face, but Leon knew better. It was no accident. Morgan had done it on purpose. Before Leon was the Viscount’s favorite, Morgan had been.
“Seems so.” Leon smiled.
Morgan wrinkled his nose. “Did you piss yourself?”
“I. . . .” Leon’s cheeks reddened. “No!” He turned away. Morgan had not known the exact details of the plan, and Leon was not going to share them now. Let him think what he wants!
With ten stalls, the building was on the large end compared to Hjörtur’s other stables. It was much neater than one might expect with wooden floors swept clean and bags of feed stacked on the lofts above the stalls. Four White Cranes observed the room from the comfort of their booths, looking graceful with their long necks, plumage the color of untouched snow, and their large, yellowish eyes.
“Don’t listen to him, Leon,” Nóel said, using the ladder to climb down from the loft. Like the other two boys, he was a member of the Air Scouts. Yet, at eight years old, he looked much too young to be doing anything but helping his mother around the house. He had a mop of golden-brown curls and an infectious smile that always cheered up Leon when he was in one of his moods.
Morgan laughed. More bark than anything else.
Nóel dropped to the floor and rushed over to Leon. “You’re the bravest of us all. So what if you soaked your breeches? I would have done the same in your shoes. You did what needed to be done. That’s all that matters.”
Leon did not know whether to laugh or cry. He slapped Nóel’s shoulder good-naturedly. If Leon was honest with himself, Nóel was the main reason he had done what he had done. The Viscount had turned his eyes to Nóel, and Leon would rather die than let Nóel’s innocence get destroyed like his and Morgan’s had been. They were a family. Three orphans bonded not by blood, but by friendship.
Morgan brushed past the two boys on his way to the White Cranes. “Well, come on! The birds are already saddled. Unless you want to stay here and converse with the soldiers that are surely on their way here.” He sent them a glance over his shoulder, lips twisted in a wry smile.
Leon threw his arm around Nóel and dragged him along toward freedom.
Chapter 37
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
It arose from his depths, molten flames broiling everything, flinging shadows and fiery sparks across the room. Voices rose into frantic shouts. Voices that pulled at his memory but slipped through his grasp the moment he tried to remember their names. Golden bonfires crawled along the walls as the screams grew louder. Panicked voices. Frantic howls.
The sounds faded into nothing, and Asbjörn awoke sprawled on top of an unfamiliar bed. He fought to fill his lungs. He pushed himself upright but fell back down, helpless. Pain filled him with a sense of vileness; his burns were as prominent as his battle for breath, as near as the damp bandages that covered him from head to toe. Yet he was aware of every minute stir of air against the cracks in his lips. It was as if he had been cooked alive, but had somehow managed to survive.
A wet cloth lightly dabbed at his lips, and he opened his eyes. He took comfort in the soothing sensation and glanced at the young woman touching the moist rag to his mouth. She could not have been more than three or four years older than him, still little more than a girl. The barest instant and their eyes met before looking away. She was slender, he noticed, with long black hair that fell to her waist, deep dark eyes, and golden brown skin.
Who is she? Where am I? Why am I in such pain? The questions came one after another, all without answers. He opened his mouth to ask her, but even that proved too difficult.
“It’s all right,” she said, the way one might to a child; her tone angered Asbjörn. “Don’t try to talk. You’re safe now.” She took a step away from the bed. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” She rushed out of the room.
Asbjörn flared his eyes in rage—he was no child! He regretted it a second later. Eternal Father, even that hurts. He whimpered, lost in a tide of rising agony. He closed his eyes to better weather the assault, and when he opened them again more time had passed than should have.
The Fallnir Menn with slicked-back, oily black hair stood beside the bed, peering down at Asbjörn. The painted dots on his forehead seemed to stand out more in the dim light. “Good, you’re awake,” he murmured.
A swelling gust of fear bombarded Asbjörn’s tiny frame, spiking his heartbeat, doing battle with the tyrannical waves of woe already surging through his blood vessels. He gasped. No!
“My name is Sesar. You’ve earned the right to that at the very least. I owe you an apology.” Despite the Cultivator’s claims of atonement, his tone remained emotionless. “What you did should not be possible, but none the less I take full responsibility for what happened. I hope one day you’ll learn to forgive me.”
I’m one of. . . . Asbjörn shut his eyes to deny the reality. I’m one of them. Horror stood stark against despair.
“This is Nenna,” Sesar said, motioning at the brown-skinned girl standing at the opposite side of the bed. “Henceforth, she will be your Hearth Maiden. She has been raised since birth for this privilege. Treat her well. Your and her destinies are now intertwined. She’ll be able to answer most of the questions you have until you’re well enough to attend classes.”
Asbjörn’s eyes welled with tears. “Will I ever be able to visit my family?”
Sesar blinked. “I see . . . you don’t remember.”
“What do you mean?” Sesar did not respond, and Asbjörn grew frantic. “Tell me. Tell me!”
“They’re dead, Asbjörn. You murdered them when you awoke your power. When you touched the Abyss.”
■■■
Surrounded by cold water and red and white marble, Erik’s eyes blinked open. The temple sank deeper into the lake’s murky depth. With a heavy grunt, he reached back and wretched out the swords thrust into his back. He savored how right Asbjörn’s weapons felt in his hands; it was as if they were made just for him.
Water pressure beat at Erik, growing more tremendous with each passing second, trying to collapse his roiling body mass in on itself. He focused his wandering mind; he sensed another memory rising within. There was not much time to do what he must.
He roared, and bubbles of air escaped out of his mouth. He gripped the hilts of Asbjörn’s swords ever tighter. Bones in his hands cracked to the point of breaking, but he did not care. He reached for one of those glimmering patterns within his mind and willed himself to transform.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
Asbjörn sat cross-legged above the churning vortex of the Abyss, encircled by an invisible barrier that protected him from the fluctuations of the void. There was an element of sadness hidden in his gray eyes that his blank expression did not quite mask. The glint of loss. The glimmer of a wound yet to fully heal.
“The Abyss is one of the two wellsprings of creation.” Nenna’s alluring voice rang throughout the darkness.
Asbjörn frowned. “One of two? What’s the other?”
“Don’t interrupt,” she said, and continued in a gentler tone. “The other source is from where Witches draw their power, but that’s a lesson for another day. There are many rules you must always keep in mind. But the first and most important is that you must never gaze into the Abyss for too long.”
Asbjörn leaned forward and did exactly that. He fell toward the center of the Abyss. The shield crackled and roared with turbulence around him, but he only had eyes for the glory of the huge vortex, pulsing with unspeakable power, glowing like a thousand suns. He sensed it surging into him with the power to boil all the seas of the world. With—
Asbjörn jolted awake to his cheek stinging from the force of a slap. He sat cross-legged on his bed. In front of him, Nenna stood with one hand cocked and the other on the handle of the dagger at her waist. She glared down at him, her face flushed with red.
“You must never do that again, do you understand? Never! You more than anyone else must know the destructive power of the Abyss.”
Asbjörn fingered his throbbing cheek. “How did you know what I was doing?” he asked.
Nenna looked uncertain, then dropped her cocked hand and smiled. “You all look the first time. When you tell a child not to do something, often that’s exactly what they will do.”
Asbjörn looked away from her as if she no longer existed. His insides seethed with droplets of glowing rage. He was no child, and one day soon she would come to realize that. Or he would. . . . He was not sure what he would do, but he knew she would regret it.
She relented. “To stare into the Abyss is to skirt the line between madness and sanity. Most that do become Fiendlords, yet I’ve heard rumors of individuals who can walk that line. Some fools say it’s the only way to increase your power past its limit. They are usually the ones that end up dead.” She grabbed his arm. “Promise me you won’t ever do something so stupid again.”
“I promise.”
■■■
The temple looked as if it had been picked up and tossed about like some child’s plaything. Half the floor and walls were reduced to heaps of rubble, some spilling out of the building as it groaned from the water pressure. The destruction did not stop there. The once-glorious domed roof was now nothing but ruin, every piece of glass washed away by the power of the lake.
The pattern within Erik’s mind flickered in and out of existence until it finally firmed. He swelled, doubling, then tripling in size, slowly twisting into the form of an immense serpent. His tail grew too large to be contained by mere stone, and pierced the temple’s heart. The structure groaned and cracked around him. He tore a huge rent through the marble, as if it was not even there, and it burst apart.
Freed from the interior of the temple, Erik swam toward the shore, now clothed in the Imugi’s blue-scaled body. The underwater world looked much different than it had only moments before. The colors were gone, reducing everything to black and white; yet he could see the heat glowing off of the bodies of nearby creatures. Sound waves rippled off of his skin and traveled from his muscles to his bones, sending vibrations up to the ears beneath his skull. He became aware of distant rumbles, of ten thousand whining hums like some bizarre acoustic melody. The marine lifeforms, moving, swimming.
Erik did not have time to spare the creatures a single thought. Another memory bubbled to the surface. Unseen mental waves tried to carry him away, bury him under the weight of another man’s yesterdays. He roared.
■■■
Memory Fragment - Asbjörn Maki
Asbjörn rolled against the cold stone of the Training Hall, coming to his knees with his sword snaking out in front of him. Every scrap of prana he could draw went into powering the Esoteric Technique that sprung from his blade. An illusionary jet of water hurled toward a pale semblance of The Red Rose Blooms. Neither attack looked quite real, but when they met in the air, they fragmented into dazzling pieces of light that soon faded into nothingness.
Eyes blazing with hatred, Asbjörn stood, struggling to straighten the writhing mess of straining muscles he called his legs. This was his fourth match of the day, and he was exhausted. But that was what his enemies wanted. They could not win against him fairly. They had to wear him down so they could dethrone him from his first-place ranking. He would not allow that to happen. Dimly he was aware of the onlookers who watched the whole thing with faces as blank as stone.
Koggi sent a self-satisfied smirk Asbjörn’s way, and Asbjörn growled. Holding on to anger was easy when going up against your arch-nemesis. He would wipe that smile right off of Koggi’s ugly face, once and for all. Dressed in matching black robes, they danced their lethal dance.
We’ve grown over the last three years.
It was an odd moment of clarity that lasted just enough time for Koggi to steal the initiative and rush forward. Everything else faded away and all became one as he moved without thought to turn Koggi’s longsword with his own, falling into a rhythm that barely allowed him to match step for step and move for move.
The noise of battle rose again, filling the hall with the ringing of steel blades. Sounds like we’re celebrating. The extraneous thought disrupted Asbjörn’s rhythm, forcing him to give ground before Koggi. Any moment now, he knew his opponent would spin away and launch another Esoteric Technique. And he did not know if he had enough strength to resist it. The attack was unlikely to do more than sting, since Koggi’s First Stöðin had yet to reach the First Stratum. Even so, the three judges would count it as his loss. He refused to let that happen. With a roar, he charged forward, retaking his lost momentum.
Back and forth they fought, neither daring to give ground to their opponent for more than a second for fear of the Esoteric Technique the other might unleash. They exchanged blows over and over, banging dull training blades against each other, sweat glistening brightly on their foreheads, and their eyes narrowed in mutual disdain.
With a grunt, Asbjörn faked a swinging slash and threw himself into another roll. Reaching for the power that slumbered inside, he did something he knew he should not. He looked into the Abyss. Prana surged into his First Stöðin, a torrent large enough to level mountains, ripping at his very soul; his First Stöðin shone with all the brilliance of the blazing sun. He came to his knees, twirling and jabbing his sword in Koggi’s direction.
A popping sound roared in his eardrums, and a red rosebud bloomed a meter away from the tip of his blade. With petals made of tiny scarlet flames, it flickered in and out of existence, flying toward an unprepared combatant. After an instant, the rose solidified, and an intense, blistering fire radiated out in a mini explosion, catching Koggi in the blast, setting his robe ablaze.
Asbjörn stood with his enemy’s shrieks ringing in his ears. But it was not the other boy’s screams that held him transfixed. It was the fact that he had done something forbidden. He had gazed into the Abyss to induce a breakthrough in the midst of battle, and from now on, his Esoteric Techniques would no longer be illusionary because he had achieved First Stöðin, First Stratum.
Motion drew his eyes away from his burning opponent to the entrance of the Training Hall. Nenna stood in the hallway, her eyes shining with pride. He found himself smiling at her, even as the shame of breaking his word to her became choking.
■■■
Erik rose from the lake, still clothed in the Imugi’s flesh, and splashed onto the shore. The ground quaked beneath his vast mass, spraying dirt and water into the air. Hammers made of memories powerful enough to tear apart entire fortresses struck his mind. Any one could end him, eradicate him as if he had never been born; of that he was positive. Erik fought against them, rolling, shaking as he struggled against the onslaught. His body writhed, shrinking in on itself, even as he waged his unseen battle. His movements caused vast rumbles that filled the air with booms.
