14. Forger of Destiny #2
Threads of all five elements erupted outwards from the man in a display of power Fane had only thought possible within a select group. Threads of Spirit and Fire sliced through Fane’s lightning, while Castor’s whips of Air were sheared in half, and he was sent careening backwards into the wall.
Fane kept moving, swinging his blade with his right hand while launching a pillar of fire with his left. The fire crashed against a Sparkward as the man caught the edge of Fane’s blade in his bare hand, threads of Air whirling in his palm.
“Come, Arcarian. Let us see what is required to write your name in the book of Arcaria now.” The man’s fingernails burst forward and broadened, his skin tearing, blood trickling.
They thickened and grew dark, extending into claws.
He swiped, and Fane only just managed to turn the strike away with his blade.
“A druid?” Fane narrowed his eyes as they danced steel and claw
The man just smiled and redoubled his assault, carving through Fane’s guard, then past his robes and into his flesh. Those claws cut through him as though he were made of paper, slicing into his chest.
He stumbled backwards, and by the time he’d regained his footing, Castor was on his feet, sword in hand, threads of Fire and Spirit whirling about him. At the slightest nod from Fane, they both charged.
Fane knew the powers that walked Epheria, and there were few opponents who could stand against both himself and Castor—and this stranger, this druid, was not on that list. But this man moved like water and wind, turning away strikes that he had no right in even knowing were coming before striking back with a swipe across the chest or up the arm or along the thigh.
Every movement was flawless, every drop of energy spent like it had been pre-determined.
Whips of Fire and Air stormed about the chamber; claws clashed with steel.
While unleashing a torrent of Fire over the man’s Sparkward, Fane pushed threads of Earth, Fire, and Spirit into the stone beneath his feet and above his head.
Fane lunged, stabbing at the man’s chest while Castor arced a blade at his neck.
When the man turned away Castor’s swipe and twisted to avoid Fane’s, he smiled. That smile sent shivers down Fane’s spine, but still Fane drove his threads into the stone. In his mind he both pushed and pulled. The stone on the floor and ceiling turned to liquid, one climbing the other falling.
And at that precise moment, the man leapt backwards and lashed threads of Air around Castor, dragging him into the rush of stone. Fane immediately froze the stone in place, watching as it hardened around Castor’s boots and fell just short of his head, hanging like a stalactite.
The strange man frowned, pausing for a moment to allow Castor to yank his feet free of the boots. “Hmmm…” He looked over Castor, then the stone, then Fane. “You hesitate. That will not do.”
“I agree.” Fane drew a short breath, then opened himself to the Spark, drawing from the elemental strands with a hunger that shook his bones.
The threads of Fire burned through his veins, Water shivering over his skin, Earth dragging through his mind.
The threads of Air pricked at the hairs on his skin, and Spirit filled his soul with the purest of sensations.
Still Fane drew deeper, the strands pulsating in his mind and whirling around him.
And there, in that moment, he pushed the threads into the stranger’s body.
The man’s eyes gaped wide, and he gasped, but a moment later he pushed back, and the power that seared into Fane’s blood was akin to nothing he had ever felt. Not even amongst the Arcarians was there one capable of garnering such strength.
Except for one.
Fane drew deeper, drinking as though from Heraya’s Well itself, and at last he saw fear in the man’s eyes for the first time. Fane stepped closer, the Spark burning in his veins. “Is this the path you were looking for… Amatkai? Forger of Destiny.”
The man laughed, his face twisting into a grimace as Fane pushed the threads harder again, drawing even deeper. “Apparently so,” he said, choking out another laugh. “Still a few steps left to determine.”
“You are not what I thought you would be.”
“And what is that?”
“Stronger.” Fane allowed the elemental strands to ignite in his mind, the threads flowing through and within him. He drew a breath and pushed.
Amatkai let out a grunt, his muscles tensing, his eyes glimmering.
“If you could not foresee your own demise, then what use are you to me?” Fane shook his head. “I am bitterly disappointed.”
“Allow me to rectify that.” A burst of power erupted from Amatkai, sending both Fane and Castor sprawling backwards.
Fane caught himself, managing to stay on his feet, but he was too late to react. Amatkai wrapped Castor in threads of Air and smashed him against the wall before pulling him back into the open air between Fane and the druid.
The lightning was already arcing from Fane’s fingertips when Amatkai’s clawed hand carved into Castor’s gut and burst out his back. With a simple twist, he pushed Castor’s body into the path of the lightning, the man’s flesh catching fire in an instant.
Fane released his hold on the Spark, staggering forwards as he watched Castor scream in pain.
Amatkai lifted his arm, dragging Castor into the air once more. The man flicked his wrist, and Castor slid free, crumbling on the ground, lifeless, blood flowing freely from the gaping wound in his back.
Fane opened himself to the Spark again as Amatkai marched towards him.
“Trotke bin kas. Huartan og hnokle. Seier vol hoskyrt.” Runes ignited on the walls of the chamber with Amatkai’s words, glowing with a blue light.
The air pulled from Fane’s lungs, every fibre of his body feeling weaker, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. He tried to draw from the Spark, but where once he had found his home in the Spark’s warmth, now he felt nothing at all, as though a piece of him had been hollowed out.
“What are you without your Spark, Fane Mortem?”
Fane looked up at the approaching Amatkai and threw himself to his feet, wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, and charged.
He swung for the man’s arm, but Amatkai evaded it with ease, landing a monstrous punch to Fane’s exposed ribs. Fane collapsed to one knee, then dragged himself upright again. He had never imagined he would die in a sewer, but if it was his time, he would do so on his feet.
As he readied himself, Amatkai started laughing.
“What?” Fane snapped, glancing down at the bodies around them. “You find some perverse pleasure in death?”
“No,” Amatkai said, puffing out his lower lip. “It is just a sweet thing to see such ignorance in a man who treasures logic so. You still do not know what I am, do you? All your endless hours in books, chasing stories and tales. And yet, you do not see it.”
“Whatever you are, druids bleed like any man. And I will find your blood before you best me.”
“That’s the problem.” As Amatkai spoke, his muscles seemed to swell and thicken, his bones growing longer before Fane’s eyes. Within heartbeats, the man was nine feet tall, and his pupils had stretched into long black slits. He opened his mouth to reveal long fangs. “I’m not a man.”
Fane tried reaching out to the Spark one last time. When he felt nothing, he dropped his sword, letting it clatter against the ground.
“Hmmmm…” Amatkai tilted his head to the side as though appraising Fane like a piece of jewellery. “You are what I had hoped you would be. This is the right path.”
“You’re a Seerdruid.”
“I have the power of the Pathfinders, indeed. And this is the path.”
“What is all this?” Fane opened his arms, gesturing at the bodies and the runes marked into the wall. “Why?”
“Because this was the path,” Amatkai said, looking at Fane as though he’d asked the most ridiculous question that had ever existed.
“And because you, Fane, are a living Nexus. An anchor in the winding paths of time. A rock around which the river flows. You have a destiny, Fane Mortem. And it is grand. You want to see The Order broken down, want to see change in this world. I offer you the chance to enact that change. I offer you the chance to have your eyes opened.”
“My eyes are already open.”
“In the way a child believes the same. When you leave this place, Fane, you must travel to where the Naiwell Woods meet the foothills of Mar Dorul. Promise me this, and I will show you the path.”
“And what if I don’t.”
“You will.” Amatkai smiled. He reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching Fane’s forearm. “What you are about to see will come at a cost. You must know that. It will not be pleasant – you will not find joy where we go.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Perhaps. But that will be up to you.” The man grabbed Fane’s forearm. “I just need you to remember one thing.”
“And what is that?”
A blinding light erupted in Fane’s vision, and the world shifted and turned. And as everything flitted about him, Amatkai’s voice echoed in the aether.
“All great things require sacrifice.”