The Silver Sphere (12 page)

"Ah, but we have a powerful weapon, have we not, Stuart?"
Presage fixed upon the shuddering teen.

Max frowned and examined Stuart.

"Huh? What do you mean?" Baffled, Stuart peered at
Presage.

Presage's eyes fell to Stuart's right hand, where he still clutched
the joystick. His white knuckles shook around the object. Max had no idea what the
thing in Stuart's palm was, but figured it had something to do with the game Vilaborg
had mentioned.

Stuart turned the joystick over in his hand, shaking his head.
Max wondered what Presage was talking about. Men were fighting for their lives just
over the hill, yet no one moved. He contemplated grabbing something—anything—and
sprinting to assist, when Presage shut his eyes. The joystick began vibrating and
a bright light emanated beneath the base.

A few feet away, a flash like that of a camera blinded him, and
in its stead appeared a huge, brilliantly clad warrior. The Kin gasped at the sight
of the muscular soldier. With his gleaming sword and battle chain at the ready,
the combatant nodded at Stuart.

Max frowned. He didn't understand how a holograph could hurt
something physical.

Atop the hill, the Minotaur came forth. Covered in blood with
arrows sticking from its flesh, the beast rampaged. Tossing its huge head, the creature
screamed at the night sky.

The thing loomed bigger than any linebacker he'd seen. "Holy
cow," Max wheezed.

"Stuart, your responsibility is to defend the Kin. Remember,
you are not alone. We're all here. But you must take the point on this offense,
since you are best equipped to handle things."

The monster, wild-eyed and coated in blood, charged down at them,
howling its treacherous attack.

Max had never seen anything run so fast.
His legs cemented to the ground; he couldn't believe he'd wanted to charge in and
fight this thing only a few minutes before.

Stuart pulled his joystick up and positioned the warrior. His
palms shook. It wasn't every day you fought a real monster.

The adversaries met with a bang. The fighter Stuart controlled
viciously clanged his sword against the Minotaur's axe in a savage parry. The noise
left Max's ears ringing.

"Fantastic," Mr. Dempsey mouthed in wide-eyed disbelief.

The Minotaur hefted its axe away from the blade. With a grunt,
he swung the weapon downward, aiming for the warrior's vulnerable side. In a flash,
the warrior barred the attack. The strike made the warrior slip. In an instant,
the Minotaur fell upon him, preparing to behead the stumbling man.

Stuart held his own as he furiously jerked his regulator back
and forth in an effort to keep the monster at bay. He forced the warrior to his
feet with a grunt.

Max gaped in awe as the soldier swung its chain. The enormous
chain slammed into the Minotaur's side and wound around the creature's torso. With
a yank, it was pulled toward the warrior, who aimed his sword at the creature's
heart.

The Minotaur parried the warrior's blade. Metal rasped. The Minotaur
yanked the chain from the warrior's grasp and threw it aside. Now the battle was
even. Stuart struggled to stay each blow of the heavy axe, operating the joystick
as though he were actually fighting.

The movements were more realistic than a Wii-mote's in any video
game Max had ever seen. He wanted to help, but found himself taking a step back,
too terrified to say or do anything.

The Minotaur grew stronger as the battle carried on. It grabbed
the warrior's arm after dodging his thrust and flipped him to the ground. A crack
resounded. For a moment, Max thought the warrior's back had broken. The armored
soldier swung his massive blade up just in time to keep the Minotaur from striking
him in half. The axe shook as the Minotaur pressed downward. The beast seemed determined
to shatter the saber.

Presage stepped behind the Minotaur and aimed a large pipe at
its back. The pipe blasted out a broad metallic net and entangled the Minotaur.
It roared as it struggled with its steely snare. The axe dropped from its clutches
and hit the ground with a thud.

Max couldn't tear his gaze away. The creature frothed at the
mouth as it fought for freedom.

Stuart pounced on the opportunity. He forced the warrior to his
feet. In a flourish of metal, the soldier thrust his sword into the Minotaur once,
then again. A shriek pierced the night air.

Max trembled. It was a horrific wail, a scream of death. At last,
the monster emitted a defeated groan and lay still before it evaporated. Seconds
later, Stuart's warrior vanished as well.

They stood in a stupor for a short period. Max glanced around
and his eyes landed on Shelby. She was shaken, too, as were the others. Some small
part of him was relieved he wasn't the only one scared to the core.

"Excellent, young Stuart. A gritty battle," said Presage,
applauding.

The Kin followed suit and clapped languidly, still in awe. Max
began to wonder if they had ever been in any true danger. He'd figured Presage would
have tried to defend them, but he seemed to be mistaken. He realized rather suddenly
that this was all too real.

They weren't here to be chaperoned. They
were here to protect themselves, their Kin, and everyone else.

Max turned to his fellow Kin.

Stuart surveyed his surroundings, rubbing his hair with both
hands. "This world is my world now."

Max nodded.

The cordless phone rang, smothered somewhere in the sheets.
Nick had been in a deep slumber, and now he patted the blankets for the moaning
phone he had taken to bed. He groggily glanced at the caller ID, and read, "out
of area."

His mind darted to his sister. Calls this late were usually
grave. He hit the green button.

"Hello?" he grumbled, his throat dry.

"You have been chosen, Nick Casey," a robotic voice
said.

Nick gurgled to clear his windpipe. "For... what?"

"You already know. And you will understand more when
the time has come."

The dial tone blared before his sluggish mind computed a response.

As he lay looking at the phone, his bed shook and a thick
fog materialized around him. He stepped off. The hardwood floors were as slick as
ice. He advanced toward the door, but slipped and crashed down, immersed in the
mist. His body shook, and the room dissolved.

Spiro stood over him, prodding Nick's chest. The pounding of
hooves echoed close by.

He stared at his hands, which were bound by handcuffs. A trickle
of blood and sore skin made his head spin. The manacles chafed his wrists. They
didn't resemble the sort of cuffs he'd seen on television or that police officers
carried. Thick, heavy rust covered the shackles.

"Wake up, outlander. A fog is upon us, and this is not natural.
Thieves' fog
and we must bolt," Spiro bellowed.

Nick recalled saving the young woman, Emily Lawson. The name
rang loud and clear as memories flooded his mind. He'd awakened on the grass and
stumbled over a strange campsite.

He rubbed his head. Chains clanked when he moved.

"Wha-what do you mean 'thieves' fog'?"

"What I mean is this mist is manmade or, more precisely,
Nightlander-made."

Something about the way he talked made it sound like Spiro himself
didn't believe their plight. "Now, we need to hasten." Spiro grabbed Nick
by the arms and hoisted him to his feet.

Nick stumbled forward, trying to follow the captain. Spiro stopped
abruptly and stared into Nick's eyes. The glare made Nick's blood run cold.

"Outlander, I am going to unshackle you. I'm doing this
because you may be easy prey if I do not." He leaned in and whispered in his
ear, "Stay close behind now."

Nick wanted to ask where the rest of the soldiers were, but decided
not to. The captain was already on edge, and Nick didn't want to risk upsetting
him more. He was content to be rid of the heavy cuffs and chains.

He stumbled as if wearing two left shoes behind Spiro, in an
effort to keep pace. Although he considered running, Nick had no intention of losing
his former captor. The idea of being alone out in the mist—with Nightlanders, thieves,
and the fog—didn't sound appealing.

Nick's heart beat hard in his chest, as he glimpsed a shape out
of the corner of his eye. Sprinting and panting behind Spiro, the figures emerged
with greater frequency. He wondered at first if they were Clayborn and the other
soldiers.

Something was not right with the shadows. They darted in and
out of the gloom around him.

Spiro turned to check if he kept up, but hunger and thirst made
it hard to follow. Exhaustion clouded his mind as the awful shapes contorted at
close range in the dark mist. His ribcage tightened and a head rush overcame him,
and he fell.

He rolled a few feet and settled onto his back. Chest heaving,
Nick tried in vain to stand. Spots danced in his vision and his head swam.

"Outlander, Outlander!" Spiro cried in his booming
voice, lost somewhere in the woods.

Nick strived to respond, tried desperately to call out to Spiro,
but his tongue was thick and dry.

A shadow moved toward him. His vision blurred and, even squinting,
he couldn't focus on the murky shape.

"S-Spiro?" he murmured.

The figure drew closer—a foreboding man wearing charcoal armor
with the emblem of a skull on his chest. The dark form stalked him, sizing him up.
A gleaming blade raised high in preparation to smash upon him. A black cape fluttered
behind the soldier.

Nick compressed to the fetal position. How many times could one
person die in a day? Had he actually died after being stabbed with that ice pick?
Was this some strange afterlife? Perhaps he'd go home now. He shut his eyes, expecting
the painful deathblow.

The strike never came.

He heard a crash and a yelp. Someone moaned in pain. When Nick
opened his eyes, the dark man-thing curled recumbent on the ground a few feet away.
His sword lay nearby.

Another shape stood close by and peered down at him. The figure
walked over, reached behind Nick, and hauled him up.

Nick exhaled, the tightness in his chest and the throbbing in
his head both gone.

"Thank y-you." He doubled over, panting.

"Shh, Nick, be silent and travel this way. This way is safe.
Now go," the man whispered, and then walked off.

Nick stared at the back of the mysterious figure as he disappeared
into the thieves' fog. A strange shock of recognition struck him. The man who'd
saved him was famous—Nick couldn't believe it—or had a striking resemblance to Lucas
Denon, one of the greatest poets and rock musicians in American history. Nick shook
his head, trying to clear it.

The man may have passed for Denon, but the world still mourned
Denon's tragic death in a car accident almost fifteen years ago. Nick thought for
a brief second; Denon saving his life from some bizarre knight showed how unhinged
he'd become. This all had to be an insane delusion.

Denon, or whoever he was, had said Nick's name clear as a bell.
Didn't that make what Nick saw a delusion? How else would Denon know Nick's name?
His temples pounded again. Regardless of the man's identity, he'd saved Nick's life.
Even if he weren't real, Denon had shown Nick the way to go.

Shaking his head once more, he stumbled after his Good Samaritan.

Nick shuffled along, but he lost his sense of direction. By this
point, he didn't care. His exhaustion had doubled, and he welcomed death. The fog
had an eerie odor and even a creepy flavor to it. The more he inhaled this thick
air, the further he became disheartened.

A morbid depression subdued him. He trudged, contemplating why
he didn't just ball up and allow whatever followed him to complete its task. He
pushed on, despondent and spiritless.

Wait. Maybe I've already died.
The ghost of Lucas Denon
had appeared to him. Perhaps he should go back and find Denon's spirit—if Nick were
dead, why couldn't Denon be here, too? He stopped and laughed hysterically, raising
his arms to the sky. He dropped to his knees, rubbed his face, and then rustled
his hair.