Victor of Tucson

Book 7: Chapter 46: Terror

Book 7: Chapter 46: Terror

Sora tumbled over the hard, dusty ground, channeling wind Energy into her Gusts of Balance spell so she gracefully rolled to her feet. She lifted her bow, and one of her crystalline mesmer arrows appeared under her fingertips as she drew the string back, but Victor wasn’t where she’d last seen him.

She saw Elandor there, down on one knee, his hands grasping his staff as though it kept him from sinking into the earth, pumping torrents of green Energy into a shell as two massive, frothing, red-eyed, wolf-like creatures tore at his barrier. Looking around, seeing the others all dealing with similar canine antagonists, she had to wonder if one of the two on Elandor had been meant for her.

With a thought, she sent her arrow back into her bow and began firing simple moon-steel arrows into the wolves attacking Elandor; the others were managing fine. As she landed mortal shots, they disappeared in gusts of red-tinged smoke, and she wondered where they went. From what world had Victor summoned them? She tried to think of the word he’d used to describe them. Cotees? The thought was shoved aside as a firm, armor-clad hand grasped her shoulder, and Valeska growled, “You didn’t tell us he could fly!”

Sora looked up, peering toward the massive stalactites hanging down and the dense pockets of shadow between them all. “He flew?” She’d missed that part as she’d tumbled in the force wave of Victor’s charge. Before Valeska could say more, a terrible keening howl echoed through the cavern; the mists and reverberations made it impossible to discern its exact source, which made it all the more disturbing. Victor’s words came back to her, his warning about fleeing if she heard something that “turned her bowels to water.” That wasn’t happening, but perhaps it was only the distance that lessened the wail’s impact.

“Is he a man or a beast? Does he shift?” Brontes asked, lifting his club to his shoulder. None of the wolves remained.

Sora was quick to reply, “I never saw him change shape; I saw him grow, as I told you, but that’s all. I knew he could charge but never saw him fly.”

“He didn’t fly,” Arona rasped. Though her words were more a whisper than a shout, everyone flinched. “He leaped into the shadows up there. An impossibly high leap, but a leap, not flight. I’m sure he came down behind one of those protrusions.

“Stalagmites,” Elandor said, straightening from his kneeling position. He looked wan and exhausted. “I’ll need time to recover my Energy; my shield burned much, defending me from his charge.”

Sora watched Arona as Elandor spoke. The cowled woman smirked and shook her head. Elandor had a Core that utilized life and nature-attuned Energies, and Arona was ever looking for a reason to mock him. The Death Caster lifted a necklace of bones from around her head and said, “You can wait here then.” The consideration surprised Sora, but she supposed the stakes were rather high; they were the last ones in the dungeon, and none of them had finished a challenge like this. The previous champion was already working on his test of steel.

Arona broke the string of her necklace and scattered the bones around the rocky cavern floor. Sora knew what was coming; she’d adventured with her before. She backed up a few steps and watched as the Death Caster began to glow with misty blue Energy, and then the bones started rattling and jumping about.

A surge of grave-scented wind rushed out from Arona, and then the bones exploded with growth, stretching and multiplying until the clearing around the platform was crowded—dozens of skeletal horrors had sprung up from Arona’s scattered bones. No two were alike; some were the size of people with two legs and two arms, but others looked like giant canines and others like demonic predators. The only commonality was the eerie blue light in their eye sockets as they stared at Arona, waiting for their master’s instruction.

“We should have laid in wait further afield and surprised them both well away from the platform!” Valeska growled, her hand still gripping Sora’s shoulder.

“She’s with us now,” Brontes rumbled, stepping up behind the two women and nudging Valeska’s hand away with his enormous fur-wrapped arm.

“Indeed, but was her loyalty worth giving up the surprise?” Valeska flicked her right hand, sending both of her hatchets twirling in an arc before her, then snatched them again, one in each hand. She didn’t wait for a response, turning away from the giant savage and Sora, gazing at Arona through her thick, silvery visor. “What’s the plan, then, boss?”

The black-cloaked woman let loose a surge of cold Energy, and the small army of skeletons turned in unison and click-clacked into the forest of stalagmites. “My bones will fish him out.” As she spoke, another unnerving cry echoed through the cavern. Sora fought to keep her face neutral, and even Arona flinched.

Valeska hissed, “Dead gods! What is he?”

“I . . .” Elandor started to say, but another cry cut him off, and when Sora turned to him, she saw his face had grown even more pale. His eyes were wide, and he licked his lips, clearly feeling stressed in his depleted state. “I can feel fear biting at me, permeating the air. Is that from him? I thought he was a Berserker!”

Arona waved a hand. “Many Spirit Casters have more than one affinity. Get a grip on yourself, nature boy. If this bothers you, you’re lucky you haven’t glimpsed the things I’ve seen through the veil.” She turned to Valeska. “You and I will search in that direction.” She waved vaguely northwest. Then she pointed to the southeast, “Brontes and his little girlfriend can go that way. Elandor, recover yourself here.”

“Alone?”

“He’s clearly not here. If he returns this way, we'll see him—he’s not small.” She shrugged and gestured toward the backs of some of her bony minions. “My bones will likely flush him out shortly, in any case.” Turning back to Sora, she added, “Fire something bright into the heights if you find him. I’ll do similar.”

#

The Aspect of Terror hung high above the cavern floor, clinging to the rough stone of a stalactite, fully shrouded in shadow. The cavern was dark, but darkness didn’t exist for him. Everything was cast in shades of gray save the bright spirits of those he wished to feed upon. They sat clustered down there, brilliant sparks flaring in the monochrome world. He wanted to leap upon them and feast until he burst, but a vestige of his former self, that one called Victor, still clung to his mind, curbing his enthusiasm. No, these were powerful spirits, and the feast would be short-lived if he tried to enjoy them all at once.

So, he lurked hundreds of yards overhead. Now and again, losing himself in his hunger, he’d cry out, sharing his fear and burning need with the world. A lesser predator might have been cautious of making such noise, but Terror knew better. His instincts were crafted over millennia, and he knew his cry would echo strangely in the cavern. Hadn’t his kind hunted in the depths of the earth for thousands of years? His screams would echo, and his prey would begin to taste his fear, and when they felt his claws, they’d be all the more ready to succumb.

His great, shadow-clad, black-feathered wings hugged the stone, his talons bit into it, and there he perched, just another shadow among many as he watched the pale blue spirit burst, sending tiny motes of herself into nearly thirty smaller ones. Even so, her spirit still flared brighter than any other, and those tiny motes were hardly tempting. While he puzzled over the strange phenomenon, he heard snatches of voices drifting up to him, tickling his ears and fanning the flames of his hunger. Why did he wait? What could these morsels offer to him in terms of a threat? He started to loosen his hold, preparing to dive, but then a thought came to him from that other, a command that bristled the feathers along his spine: WAIT!

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So, Terror hung there, his shadows, steeped in fear, pooling around him like a comfortable bath. He watched as the tiny spirits drifted away from the five brighter ones, spreading out through the enormous cavern, several passing directly beneath his perch. A few more words drifted up to him, meaningless in the face of his hunger, and then, to his delight, the five spirits separated. Two moved off to his left, two to his right, and one, the dimmest, frailest, lingered. Terror’s hunger surged, saliva dripped over his grinding teeth, down to his razored beak, to slide along the surface of the stalactite.

Still, the other urged him to bide his time, to wait until the four had well and truly separated from the lone straggler. He glanced around the gray, monochrome environment. He saw the distant fall of a frigid waterfall and the tunnel behind its sheeting water. Some instinct or sense he couldn’t understand told him a draft moved up through that tunnel.

He saw other spirits, too, bright in their sluggish movements. There were denizens of this world that he could feast upon when he finished with the five who’d troubled his alter-ego. Fantasies of ripping flesh, drawing fear-tinged Energy into himself, and gorging on the cries of his prey filled his mind for several minutes before he came back to himself and took stock of the wandering spirits. They’d moved a long way from the lone straggler, which had, in turn, begun to grow brighter.

Terror couldn’t restrain himself longer. He released his hold on the hard stone and fell, his dark, shadow-clad feathers rippling in the wind as he plummeted, streaking for his prey, talons extended. As Terror fell, he saw his prey sitting on the stone, his soft gray form awash with the light of his spirit.

Something must have given the pale green spirit a hint that he was in danger—halfway there, feathers hissing in the wind, the spirit leaped to his feet, and a bright green orb of Energy surrounded him. Terror didn’t care. He screeched his hunger, his fear, and his frustration, sharing it with the world. His bright, silvery talons began to glow, soft orange, then bright yellow-white as they gained more and more heat. Black smoke trailed from them, joining the shadowy tendrils streaming from his wings. Then, he impacted the spirit with another horrible, screaming cry of hunger.

He could feel the Energy of the orb surrounding his prey, trying to fling him off, but, with crackling sizzles and drips of smoldering Energy, his talons pierced it, grasping hold, refusing to be dislodged. Terror flapped his wings, using them for leverage as he dug and dug at the obstacle.

The spirit was bright, but he could see it fading; he could feel the barrier growing more and more fragile as his talons sank deeper and began to rend it. With a final, savage cry, he drove his beak into the shield, and it shattered. He was much larger than the little spirit and bore down on it, hooking his burning, knife-like talons into its flesh. He put his horrible maw before the spirit’s eyes and opened it wide, screaming, projecting his fear-attuned Energy like a geyser.

His terrible grasp, horrible aura, and projected Energy twisted the spirit’s Energy into something he could feast upon. Terror clung to his prey, drinking deeply of the radiating fear. The spirit had gone entirely limp, lying on the stone, hot juices pouring from the deep, burning holes Terror had put in it. The feast was rich; despite this spirit being dimmer than the others, it was something incredible—satisfying on a level he couldn’t remember.

The satisfaction was brief; his hunger, after all, was insatiable. Worse, before he could even drink the last dregs from the limp vessel, the flow of Energy was suddenly cut off, and the System announced it had cheated him. Terror screamed.

#

Sora moved closer to Brontes as yet another scream echoed through the cavern. “Was that from behind us?”

“How can anyone tell?” he grumbled, his consonants, as ever, indistinct. “These stone columns echo and distort the sound.”

“It felt louder.”

“Aye,” he rumbled.

“We shouldn’t have separated. Even if I launch a fire arrow, who’s to say Arona will see it? These stalactites hanging above might block it from view.”

“Hush, little bird. Your arrow will shed light in the dark, making itself seen, even around these rocks.” Sora blushed at his words; she’d known Brontes for a while, one of the first people she’d met when she’d come to the city. He doted on her, but she’d never been wholly comfortable with his pet names. Another shriek sounded, and this time, she felt the hairs on her neck stand on end, and some moisture gather on her palms. Was the thing wearing her down? Was she losing control? Was her overactive imagination making things worse?

“Gods, that sound grates,” Brontes rumbled. “Why doesn’t he flee? He could move on or hide. Hells, he could use the Lifesaver. Why risk,” he gestured at himself and vaguely back toward Arona and the others, “this?”

Sora shook her head. “You didn’t see him fight. He’s . . . well, he’s like you—fearless, powerful, shrugging off anything thrown at him. I would have stayed by his side if you weren't here, despite my earlier arrangement with Arona.”

“Don’t let that witch hear you say . . .” his words were cut off by a shriek far louder and more frenzied than before. It also sounded like its source was moving. One cry after another split the air, echoing sharply off the stone walls, each one driving a knife of fear just a little deeper into Sora’s chest. It sounded like Victor, or whatever he’d become, was going mad or . . . “He kills something!” Brontes growled, hefting his club and turning in a slow circle. Was he right? Sora thought it made sense; it reminded her of when she’d been a child watching her father hunt—the sounds his hawk made when it fought a fox.

“A creature?” She asked, knowing full well there had to be dungeon monsters in the cavern with them. Before Brontes could ask, the shrieks rose into a crescendo of outrage, and a message appeared in her vision:

***Elandor Wildspeak has been rescued from certain death and removed from the dungeon. Five entrants remain. Prepare for an Energy infusion.***

“Bastard!” Brontes roared, turning to jog back the way they’d come. Sora trailed after him, her heart cold, her eyes wide, looking up into the shadows of the cavern.

Her voice was small as she gripped her bow, “We shouldn’t have separated.”

#

When his feast was interrupted, the Aspect of Terror launched himself up, soaring to the heights of the cavern. Something crackled and ripped the air behind it, but too slow, dispersing in a cascade of ghostly blue flames that fell downward, effectively blinding anyone trying to track his movement into the shadows of the stalactites. Once he rounded a large cluster of them, he banked to the right, cracking his wings to launch himself further afield. His fear-attuned Core was pulsing, thick and swollen with Energy—time was on his side. Once he’d maneuvered to the point where he could see the bright spirits of his pursuers, confirming that they’d lost sight of him, he dug his talons into a stone stalactite and hugged it close, watching their movements.

The blue and orange spirits had stopped, lingering near where he’d feasted, and the enormous golden spirit ran through the stalagmite forest, aiming for the same spot. They were reuniting. Still, the more diminutive silvery spirit was lagging, hardly moving. Had it become wounded? Was it time to strike again so soon? He eyed their movements for several seconds, trying to time things in his mind. Something in him growled, the other. It was angry that he waited. A thought came to him: Momentum. Terror’s hunger surged as it let go of the stone and drifted down, gliding toward the small but very bright spirit.

He desperately wanted to scream his hunger and frustration, wanted to project his fear into the world, but he was on the hunt, and this time, he had to be stealthy as he struck. So, gliding on palpable waves of darkness, he descended like an eagle toward a rabbit. The spirit was strong with Energy, and she must have sensed him. Bright streaks of light and biting metal filled the air between them, punching holes in his wings and slamming into his fur, feathers, and scale-clad ribs. They ground furrows in his shadowy flesh, but the darkness streamed out of him, filling the holes, patching his bones, and wriggling the lodged missiles out, dropping them to the cavern floor as his talons slammed into his target.

Terror didn’t stop his glide. He latched onto the spirit, pumping his wings and dragging her over the stone as he worked to turn his descent into a climb. He pulled the bright, silvery spirit into the air, trailing rivulets of Energy-tinged blood through the air. It splashed against the stone as it fell, a bloody, glowing trail. He felt his quarry writhing, struggling to do something, and he squeezed his talons, driving the knife-like hooks through her body, punching them through her chest and back. He’d just gained the heights again, swerving left and right to avoid collisions with the many stone protrusions, when he suddenly lurched up to crash into the ceiling; his burden was gone.

***Sora Deval has been rescued from certain death and removed from the dungeon. Four entrants remain. Prepare for an Energy infusion.***

The Aspect of Terror screamed his bloody frustration, and a new but familiar sensation came over him. Hot rage was seeping out of his Core, crowding the dark, fear-attuned Energy, and something stirred deep in his mind. The other was starting to assert himself again.

#

“What in the name of the ancient dead gods have you unleashed on our students?” The man was livid, red-faced, spittle flecking his pale green lips. Ranish regarded him; he was Fonroy Boloviture, the master of Elandor Wildspeak. He was a well-regarded man known for his impressive healing abilities. Still, he was apparently unwilling to accept that his “student,” a grown man well into his sixth decade, had started something he couldn’t finish.

Ranish would have shrugged, but his physique didn’t lend itself to the gesture. Instead, he turned his thick, black palms up and rumbled, “I did not tell your student to join four others to attempt the assassination of mine.” Fonroy had appeared at his table not five minutes after Elandor’s elimination. Either he’d been in the building or had teleported; both options were equally plausible. Still, Ranish didn’t know why he was accosting him. “Is there aught I can do? He escaped with his life; count yourself blessed. Kim Jyster’s loved ones mourn today, thanks to the efforts of your student’s team.”

“He is a shell of himself! Something in his wounds, unhealed by the System and its Lifesaver, taints his soul! He appeared on the ground, curled into himself, unable to speak coherently, fear alive in his eyes.”

“Ah! I knew my boy had a fear affinity, but I wasn’t quite aware of how strong it was. A pity, but I’m sure we can help to mend Elandor’s spirit; time and the right meditations will do wonders. Perhaps I’ll give the task to Victor; he has much to learn in the areas of finesse.” He paused and rubbed his chin in contemplation. “What of the Fae girl? Is she similarly stricken?”

Fonroy’s pale green flesh was still hot, and he scowled deeply, but he knew better than to press the matter further with a man like Ranish Dar. He frowned and glanced from Dar to Lo’ro, who watched the exchange with an amused grin. “I don’t know. She funded herself; does she even have a mentor?”

“Ah,” Lo’ro clicked his tongue, “Shall I send someone to find out, Dar? I’m sure your boy will feel poorly if something terrible happens to her.”

Dar nodded. “That would be well received, old friend.” He looked back to Fonroy, and his heavy, stony brow shifted lower in a scowl of concentration. “Tell me, Fonroy, do you think those other three have communication with the outside?” He knew they likely did. If anyone in the contest were cheating, he’d lay a bet that it would be Arona and her master.

Once again, the man’s cheeks bloomed with a scarlet flush of blood. “How would I know? Are you making an accusation?”

Ranish Dar chuckled, a sound like axe blades on a whetstone, and shook his head. “No, no. I was simply going to say that if those other three were my students and I had the means of contacting them, I’d probably encourage the immediate use of their Lifesavers.”