Shattered Destiny (17 page)

Brok stood, his face contorted with rage. He advanced on Gerok
and Forka. “This is your fault! What were you thinking?” Brok screamed, his voice echoing across the square. He covered his eyes, as if he could shut out what he had witnessed.

“We were not to blame…”

Brok turned to face them and the two snapped their mouths shut. “You
are
to blame. And Mirka as well. Our duty is to protect the
Chosen! Our
lives mean nothing!” His gesture took in all three of them. “Your foolish rescue has cost us the lives of four of the Chosen.
Four
!” Brok's voice broke as a sob escaped him.

“We lost Mirka,” Forka said.

Brok raised his eyes and met Forka's, tears blurring his vision. He and Mirka had grown as close as siblings during their Guardian training.

“We are doomed.” The words came out before he could stop them. He staggered to a nearby building that had managed to escape the fireballs and sank to the step. His head dropped to his hands, and he sobbed. He cried for the loss of life on this day, he cried for the loss of life that would surely occur when the Mekans destroyed more worlds, he cried for the loss of time with his family, and he cried for the unfairness of it all.

Slowly, one by one or in pairs, the remaining Chosen arrived in the square. Those that had sustained fewer injuries carried the fallen. It was silent, save for the moaning that still echoed in the distance. Brok knew that as Mystic of this world, he should be rushing off to see what aid he could give, but he could not make himself care.

Mark gently laid Brent Fields down next to Seelyr. Saemus placed Number 3 next to Brent, and Sloan placed Number 2 on the other side of Seelyr. No one spoke for a few moments as they gazed at their fallen comrades.

“Where is Mirka?” Brok asked. His voice sounded as though it came from far away.

Gerok swallowed. “She was burned up. The fireballs created by the magic leave nothing behind.”

Brok could hear someone retching.
It is over.

A scream broke through Brok's dismal thoughts. He jumped to his feet, expecting more of Fa’ Vel's men to come running through the fog.

Jon came calmly striding through the swirling smoke, his eyes jet black. Following closely behind like a well-trained pet was Fa’ Vel.

“What has happened?” Brok asked.

“Isn't it obvious? I have caught the big, bad man.” Jon's voice sounded low and guttural, so unlike his normal voice that those watching got goose bumps and backed away from the pair.

“Yes, I can see that.” Brok was at a loss for words. Of all the things he expected to come through the fog, Jon, holding Fa’ Vel prisoner, was not one of them.

He shouted in alarm as the man flew through the air, directly at the building. Brok side-stepped and almost tripped over one of the dead men lying in the street. Fa’ Vel landed with an audible thud and crumpled to the ground.

Fa’ Vel flew up again, and this time the magic kept him in place. The man's eyes bulged from their sockets, and Brok was horrified and sickened to see his chest caving in.

“Jon! Stop this!”

“Why? He is responsible for all those deaths. He is getting exactly what he deserves.” Jon's matter-of-fact tone was more terrifying than the sound of the man's cracking ribs.

“If you kill him like this, you are no better than he is,” Brok said, trying to block out the sounds coming from the dying man.

Jon sighed heavily, and Fa’ Vel tumbled to the ground like a rag doll. Saemus and Kaelin were already linked and sending the power into the man, healing his wounds as best they could. The two were weary from the battle and from healing the major hurts of those who had survived the fight.

Fa’ Vel sat up, coughing bloody phlegm. “I knew you didn't have it in you.”

Brok turned to the man. “One word out of you, and I will finish what Jon started.”

Fa’ Vel laughed maniacally. “I know what you are. All of you.” His gaze took in the whole group standing in the square. “I
saw you!
” His eyes had a feverish glow, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “You will bring about the death of us all.”

“Fool! We are here to help!” Gwen retorted.

“Hush, child! Mind your tongue!” Brok glared.

“What does it matter if he knows? If everyone knows? We have failed. They will all know soon enough anyway.” Martha gestured wildly, her hair in disarray, blue eyes grief-stricken.

“It isn't over yet. We can't give up.” Sloan reached out to comfort her but stopped short, guilt at his role in her best friend Tess’ death preventing him from making that contact.

“Will all of you watch what you say? It is forbidden!” Brok tried to stop all of the Chosen from revealing the prophecy while keeping a watchful eye on Fa’ Vel.

“So was coming to our worlds early, but that didn't stop your Masters from going against the letter of the prophecy did it? I think the time for silence is over. We have lost five Chosen and a Guardian. The Mekans are coming. These people need to be told so that they can protect themselves.” Saemus hated going against his teacher, but he had been growing weary of secrets, the prophecy, and their destiny. He looked to Kaelin and gave her a small smile.

Fa’ Vel watched the exchange like a hawk. “You wish to throw me off your trail, but it will not work. You are tied into the destruction of our world.”

He is not wrong.
Brok wanted to put his hands over his ears and shut out the babble of voices.

“Can I ask you something?” Jon approached Fa’ Vel, his hands clenched at his sides.

Fa’ Vel gave the boy a knowing smile. “I know what you want, boy. I am not certain you are ready for the answer I will give.”

“I deserve to know why you took me.”

Fa’ Vel looked at Jon so long that the boy began to fidget under the intensity of the gaze. “You want to know why I chose you and why it was necessary to kidnap you and bring you to the Queen.” At Jon's emphatic nod, he laughed. “There wasn't a need for any of it. I have eyes and ears scattered across both continents, bringing me tidbits and news that I can use to my advantage. When I heard that Queen Cheye desired a young man for her magic pools, I thought I could find someone suitable and pocket some gold in the process.

“And then you came walking into my tavern.” The man smiled at Jon as though he were looking on a piece of choice beef. “I could sense the potential in you to be a powerful dark magician. I will
admit I was surprised at how much power you had. And you were not even aware of it.”

“None of this matters. We need to free the Patriarch so he can regain control of the city,” Brok said, suddenly unwilling to hear another word the man had to say.

“You will never free the Patriarch. My men will kill him if they hear you coming. They might have already done so.” Fa’ Vel looked back to Jon.

“As a dark magician, I could sense your ability to touch dark magic. But I was surprised at your raw strength. Hard to believe that you could have gotten such powers from two country bumpkins.” The man's eyes widened, and he laughed cruelly. “Is it possible? Could it really be?” The man's laughter rang out, chilling Jon to the bone.

He is as mad as Mystic Anali!
“I will not listen to this any longer.”

Fa’ Vel jumped up so quickly that Jon staggered back a few steps, frightened of the man, though he was shielded and his hands were bound. “Oh, I think you will, my
boy.
The answer was right here in front of me the whole time.” Fa’ Vel stared hard at Jon's face, studying the shape of his nose, the curve of his forehead.

“What do you mean?” The question escaped Jon's lips before he could stop it.

“Believe it or not, I have not
always
looked like this. Women once threw themselves at me, both common and noble alike. Oh yes, I have sown my share of bastards across the land, of that I am certain. Is it possible….” The man sneered. “Are you adopted by any chance?”

Jon snarled and curled his hands, ready to unleash his power. “Of course not, you vile filth!” Jon gazed hard at the man and couldn't help but notice the shape of Fa’ Vel's eyes and nose.
Could I really be this devil's spawn?
Jon shook his head, chiding himself for being ridiculous.

But the damage had been done, and the seed of doubt had been planted.

ASTRA

IT CAN'T POSSIBLY
be true.

Jon couldn't look at the dark magician as the man doubled over in laughter. Jon's anger flared. And with the anger came the lure of the dark magic. He wanted to fill himself with it and burn Fa’ Vel to a crisp.

“Easy, boy. It is not for us to decide the man's fate. We must….” Brok's words were cut short by a small explosion. When the dust cleared, the dark magician was gone.

“You let him get away!” Jon shouted.

“I did nothing of the sort! If you hadn't been acting the fool…” Brok pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he could turn back time. “It doesn't really matter does it? He's gone. Let's focus on what our future holds,” Brok said, rubbing his eyes. He felt twenty years older.

Jon stalked off, wishing to be as far away from the rest of the group as he could get. His emotions were in turmoil. The idea that this man could be his father was ridiculous, and yet something crept about the edges of his awareness, something dark and secret. Jon closed his eyes and willed the awful feeling to depart his brain.
He is
not
my father.

Gwen wanted to scream, wanted to follow him, wanted to run away. Her special ability to sense when someone was lying had not alerted her when Fa’ Vel had spoken.
He has to be lying.
Gwen had known Jon since they were both young. She was certain that if Jon had been adopted, the entire village would have known.

Any more discussion of Fa’ Vel and his statement was put on hold. There was an argument of sorts occurring near the bodies of their fallen comrades. Neither girl wanted to go anywhere near the dead, but they felt compelled to find out what the fuss was all about.

“That is not how things are done here! We can't be seen doing something like what you propose.” Brok ran his hands through his hair, creating a snow-white halo around his head.

“It is the way we honor
our
dead. If you don't want us to perform the ritual on your fallen, we insist on doing it for Seelyr. It is a sacred rite, one that we don't get to do often enough for our dead,” Feeror said.

“Surely if anyone asks, we could claim that they are doing an ancient ritual they learned about somewhere. Most of these people have never even seen the Eastern continent,” Saemus said. “What right do we have to deny them treatment of their dead?”

Brok sighed in defeat. “If you mean to go through with this, do it quickly.”

“May we also treat your dead in the same fashion?” Feeror looked to the Kromins and Earthmen.

--Do what you wish. Number 4 said blandly.

“What do your people normally do with your dead?” Martha asked.

--They are placed into a holding area that is eventually released so that the contents fall into the liquid surface of the planet.

Martha put her hands over her mouth. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

--The corpse is no longer useful. What would you have us do with them?

“I don't know. But tossing them into a burning lake is awful.”

--We have nowhere else to keep them.

“Do you have some sort of service for them? A gathering to remember their life, to reminisce about what they accomplished?”

--Why would we do that?

Martha's eyes filled with tears. “So on your world someone dies and is thrown away like garbage, is that about right?”

--The corpse is no longer useful. When a clone dies, a new one is awakened to take its place. It's very simple.

Martha turned to speak to Kyron, unwilling to continue contemplating life and death on Kromin. “What exactly will you do? Will you bury them?”

“The ritual we propose is ancient. We do not bury our dead below ground. All of the soil and dirt would trap their spirits. We burn our dead and sing their praises, songs of their prowess in battle. The smoke from the fires takes their spirits up to the sky, where they reside and watch over the younger generations,” Kyron explained. He had not participated in the burial rituals for quite a long time, and he was eager to lift his voice in song.

“I suppose that would be alright…” Martha looked to her fellow Chosen, who did not appear to be paying attention to the Volgon's words. They seemed lost and uncertain.

The Volgons dispersed around the square, picking up what bits of wood they could find. Kyron entered several buildings and came out with armloads of timbers. Brok wanted to stop them, afraid of what the townsfolk would think of such a funerary practice, but he knew how important this was to them and he was fascinated by the change in the warriors. The Volgons’ normal posture was that of a predator, ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Their muscles were taut, their eyes never still. As they gathered wood and placed it around the bodies of the fallen Chosen and Guardian, their demeanor changed. They relaxed, and their eyes were half-closed, as if they were about to lay down for a midday snooze.