His Final Secret

  Published by Quirky Algorithms

  Seattle, Washington

  This novel is a work of fiction and a product of the author's imagination.

  Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by M.R. Forbes

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Talon

  Talon stared in through the glass, his heart thundering in his chest, his eyes growing moist.

  Aren?

  He couldn't believe it. No matter how long he stared down at the face resting there, a cowl of torture placed over it, he couldn't accept what he was seeing.

  There was no doubt to it. No question. This was Aren. Rossum told him that the other wasn't his son, and now he had undeniable proof. His son, his true son, was in the Refinery, frozen, his blood being pulled from his body and delivered to vials.

  Vials that would be brought to Mediators, the contents injected into them to clean them from the Curse.

  He traced the lines of tubing that ran out to the vials. The truth was obvious. Kwille had wanted him to see it, to use it to explain what they were doing. How? How could he justify this? How could seeing his son in pain make things right?

  They were using him to create the cure for magic. No. He was the cure for magic. Somehow, some way, his blood not only remained pure but was able to purify the blood of others. His torture was their salvation. His confinement was his means of staying in control.

  He knelt down in front of the sarcophagus, draping his arms over it and staring in at Aren. He closed his eyes, and memories streamed in behind the lids. Two sons. He had two sons. He could hear their laughter. He could see their big eyes. He could feel Alyssa's hand on his shoulder while they watched them play together in the verdant halls of Genesia.

  His eyes snapped open. Genesia. That was where it had all began. The reactor. The experiments. They had called the Shifters to their world and created the Curse.

  And his son was the cure.

  He understood now why not all of them could live. Whatever the box he was trapped in was doing to him, there was only so much blood they could take for him to remain alive. There was a finite amount to this cure. A limit to the endurance of his suffering.

  But why? Why was he needed? Why were the Mediators needed? If the Cursed became sick, then they should be caring for them, not killing them. They should be searching for a cure, a real cure, instead of leaving his child imprisoned in an endless cycle of agony. He had years to seek a solution. Hundreds and hundreds of years.

  Instead, he had done this?

  Talon got to his feet, his jaw tight, his anger at the edge of explosion. He knew why Jeremiah had done it. To create the Mediators. To stay in power and remain in control. If there were no other cure, then he could take the Cursed, he could make them what he wanted them to be and kill the rest. Between the Nine and the magic, his rule was absolute.

  "No more," he said, running his hands along the box, trying to find a means to open it.

  The promise was nothing but a lie they were all too blind to see. Kwille was as crazy as the rest of them to allow this to happen. As mind-washed as the others that he would even think to try to defend it.

  "No more," he repeated, his motions more animated, his anger growing. He couldn't find a latch, a handle, or even a seam. Magic had molded this prison.

  Magic. Their pursuit of the ultimate power had brought them nothing but death and destruction, darkness and pain. For the people under his rule, at least that pain was limited to a single lifetime. For Aren, it had been an eternity.

  "No more," Talon growled, bringing up the knife and stabbing it down into the clear top. A small scratch appeared on the surface.

  "No more." He hit it again, and again, and again. Each blow left a deeper cut, the blade chipping away.

  "No more," he bellowed, continuing to stab it, over and over and over. A chip of glass flew up and into his cheek, slicing a clean line along it that began to bleed. He ignored the cut, his eyes streaming tears, his teeth clenched, his fist white against the handle of the blade.

  "No more."

  He continued to repeat it as he sought to open the box, his voice growing dry and hoarse, his muscles burning from the effort. He didn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Not until he had broken through.

  Finally, he did break through. One last stab, and the blade sunk deep into the glass, the edge reaching to the empty space on the other side, the tip only inches from Aren's face. Cracks spread around it in a web, branching out to cover the entire surface of the box. Talon could feel the cold of the inner air escaping out and running against his fist.

  He removed the knife and threw it away, his face twisting into a pained smile.

  "No more," he said one last time, bringing back his fist and slamming it hard against the shell. The weakened glass shattered, pieces raining in on the slumbering Aren in harmless dust, surrounding him in glistening motes.

  Talon examined his son, tracing him from his handsome face to his lean, naked figure. A tube was connected to a tiny hole in his throat, bringing liquid in. Another extended from his penis, taking liquid out. The bigger, wider tubes of blood vanished at his wrists.

  "What have they done to you?" Talon said, his rage subsiding now that his boy was almost free. "Aren? Aren, can you hear me?" He dropped his hand to Aren's face. It was so cold. "Aren?"

  Aren didn't respond. He was motionless in the chamber.

  Talon leaned in, putting his ear to Aren's mouth, waiting to feel him breathe. At first he thought there was nothing, but then he could sense the slight tickle of air. He was alive!

  "Aren. Aren, my boy. Can you hear me?"

  He stood over Aren. How could he wake him? His gaze returned to the lines of blood running from his wrists, over the top of the room to the vials on the table. Twelve remained. Twelve cures. It was more than enough for Eryn, to get her back to health and free her from the Curse. And if Aren was with him, he was sure his son would let them take a little. Just enough to keep her well.

  He reached down, taking the end of the line from the left wrist and pulling it out, removing a long, thin needle of ircidium. He leaned over to the right wrist and did the same. The blood in the tubes continued to flow to the vials. It would be the last of it. Ever. The thought of it made him smile.

  "Aren?" he said again. Now that he was able to keep his blood, now that it was warm, he was sure to wake.

  Tense minutes passed, with Talon on his knees next to his son, stroking his golden hair and trying to remember. He could see him more clearly now. He could see their time in Genesia before the monsters came, laughing and playing, him and Aren and Teran. The bright times before the end. The shining reminder of what was lost.

  He heard a soft groaning.

  "Aren?"

  The groaning continued, a deep murmur escaping from his son's mouth, a verification of his existence.

  "Aren, it's me. It's your father. Tal-" He paused. That wasn't his name, he realized. Not any more than Silas was. He hadn't been born Talon Rast. Back then, he was something else.

  Someone else.

  "It's your father. Thomas," he said. That was it. The name before the fall. Before the Nine. The memory of it stirred him. "It's Thomas."

  The groaning continued, losing volume as the air completed its escape.

  "Aren?" Talon said, feeling his heart racing for another reason. "Aren?"

  He put his hand on Aren's cheek and tapped it gently.

  "It's your father. It's Thomas. Please. Aren. Aren?"

  The groaning stopped. Tears fell from Talon's eyes onto his son's cheeks. "Please." He turned his head, putting his ear to Aren's mouth, the last bit of hope threatening to crumble away.

  Th
ere was nothing.

  Murderer.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Spyne

  General Spyne knelt on the grass, a lone figure in heavy furs and ircidium nestled among the dead.

  They were burned. All of them. Caught in the Whore's flames as they had attempted to run her down and put an end to her stain once and for all.

  He didn't mourn the men. He didn't honor them either. His motives were his own, his thoughts turned towards Genesia, towards the past, when he had been the catalyst for similar slaughter though his methods had been much more grisly.

  His mind turned from death back to Varrow, and to the interim Overlord, Sazi. She was a feisty one, skilled in bed, skilled in affairs of state, and able to match his angry passion with her own. It had been so long since anyone had been able to match him. So long since he had seen his wife, held her close, told her he loved her.

  So long since he had cut her down, along with their child, to keep the promise he had made.

  He rose, standing among the charred corpses, looking out into the distance to where the Killorn Mountains split the Empire. The juggernaut and the girl were headed to Elling, or at least that was what Colonel Wolm had believed. He was wrong, of course. They were going towards Elling, not to Elling.

  He knew where they were headed. He had known the moment Worm pointed them a little too far north. It had come rushing back to him in a tide of memories, unlocked by his command.

  A reactor. Dead for all of these years, shut down when the war started. The wizards had buried it beneath the mountain in case the Shifters followed the resonance and forged a path into their world.

  He had spent time in the reactor, he remembered. Weeks during the construction, away from Genesia and his wife. He had traveled there with Talon.

  He smiled at the memories of his days on the road with his friend. Things were simpler then. He was simpler. He didn't carry the anger, the hurt, the loss, the darkness. He didn't seethe and gnash and roar.

  He shook his head, clearing it. He slid his sword from its scabbard and brought it down against one of the burned skeletons, hacking it into pieces. Those days were so far gone, and even the little bit of comfort he had discovered in Varrow was lost to him.

  Because of Talon.

  Because of his Whore.

  "Historians, mount up," he bellowed, striding quickly away from the carnage. His eyes fell across them, Peyn and Ollie and Worm, and the dozen recruits they had brought from Varrow. They were already mounted, positioned further away to keep clear of the smell and the buzzards.

  Spyne gained his horse and rode over to them.

  "Are you well, my Lord?" one of the men asked. His face blanched when Spyne looked at him, eyes burning past his thick beard.

  "Well?" Spyne said. "None of us are well. We simply are."

  The soldier bowed his head. It was the only thing that saved his life. Spyne lost interest before his anger could explode, and he turned his attention back to the mountains.

  "You're sure she's that way?" he asked.

  Worm nodded and pointed at the mountains again, putting up four fingers. Four days.

  "I want to be there in three."

  Worm shrugged. Spyne knew he didn't care. He never tired, never slept. He could make the trip in one if he ran himself there.

  Spyne swung his mount around to face the rest of his men again. He opened his mouth, ready to order them into a pace that would likely kill their horses.

  The mountains behind him began to shake.

  Spyne swung around once more as every eye looked toward the Killorns. The rumbling echoed across the sky, and he could see the snow against one of the spires shifting. A moment later, it all began to drop.

  "Avalanche," Peyn said.

  Spyne glanced at Worm. The painted man wasn't paying attention to the mountains. His eyes were closed. He was feeling the magic at work. Was that the hint of a smile on his face?

  "That's not an avalanche," Spyne said. "It's her. The Whore."

  "What's she doing?" Ollie asked. "Trying to kill herself?"

  "Don't be an idiot," Spyne snapped. He watched the mountains shake.

  She's opening the reactor. Why?

  He rode up to where Worm was standing. The man opened his eyes at his approach. "Why?" he asked.

  Worm shook his head and shrugged. Spyne felt his anger threatening, and his raised his foot to kick the small man in the face. He paused before he did, reconsidering. There was only one thing in the world that brought even the hint of fear into him, and he was looking at it.

  Worm didn't seem fazed by any of it. His flat eyes bore into Spyne, waiting for instructions.

  "Come on," the General said. He urged his horse into a gallop, leaving the others to catch up.

  Four days. We will get there in four days. There is nothing in that reactor for the Whore or the juggernaut. Nothing but death.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eryn

  "It is awake."

  Oz's voice was the first thing Eryn heard when she opened her eyes.

  "Eryn." Frieda was at her side a moment later, leaning over her. "I was so worried about you."

  She looked around. "How much did you use?"

  "What?"

  "The cure. How much did you use?" She pushed herself upright. She had been tucked under a heavy blanket, and it fell away when she did. She noticed she had been cleaned up and that her old clothes had been taken, replaced with a tight fitting shirt made of- she didn't know what. It was light and warm, a shimmering blueish color.

  "Four vials," Frieda said.

  "Four?" she growled. "I have one left?"

  Frieda took a step back, looking frightened. "I... I'm sorry. Eryn, I'm sorry. You lost so much blood. We only gave you two at first, but you didn't wake up, and your skin-"

  Eryn raised her hand. Frieda had saved her from changing. How could she have used that much power and not changed if she didn't have the cure? "No, Frieda. I'm sorry. You did what you had to do. How long has it been?"

  "Four days. We were getting worried you might not ever wake up, but Oz insisted you would. 'It is well,' he kept saying."

  "Do we have enough food?"

  "Yes. Here." She reached back and then handed her a metal can similar to the ones Oz would drink from. It had some kind of brownish mush inside. "It tastes terrible, but Oz says it's 'optimal,' whatever that means. He found it somewhere in here."

  Eryn looked around, for the first time, realizing that they were inside, and it wasn't cold. She was in a small room, laying on a soft mattress. A strange glass candle rested on a desk, providing a dim light. "A reactor," she said.

  "What?"

  Eryn found Oz standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her. "You brought us to a reactor."

  "First of Nine. It remembers."

  "I don't understand?"

  "It is abandoned. It is functional. It is clear."

  "The reactor? It's running?" Was that why she was warm?

  "It is functional. It is not functioning."

  Not running, but able to be run. "What about Talon?"

  "It is waiting for it. It is this way."

  Eryn pulled the covers the rest of the way off and put her feet on the floor. Her pants had also been replaced with leggings that matched the shirt. "What happened to the people here?"

  "It is abandoned. It is buried. It remembers."

  "They left? Why?" Eryn stood up. Her head was still pounding, but she felt better than she had expected to.

  "It is war," Oz said. "It is afraid."

  War? The Shifters. Was it safe for them here?

  "Are there Shifters in the reactor?"

  "It is clear."

  Thank Amman for that.

  "Where is Talon's sword?"

  "Here," Frieda said, picking it up from the floor next to them. "I'll help you put it on." She reached around Eryn from behind, closing the sword belt over her hips. "The last vial is here, too." She retrieved Eryn's pack from the floor and handed it to Eryn
.

  "Thank you." She slid the satchel over her shoulder and put her hand to the hilt of Talon's blade. It was comforting to have its familiar weight back.

  "It is this way," Oz said.

  She followed it out of the small room, into a long corridor filled with similar berths. A glowing plant clung to the ceiling and walls here, making its way into the other rooms and snaking over everything. Oz must have cleared the hallway and her room of them to put her in there.

  "Where are the others?"

  "It is this way."

  "Loshe and Trock are standing watch near the entrance," Frieda said. "I don't know why, because who else would know this place is even up here?"

  They reached the end of the corridor and turned left into another. This one was as overgrown as the last, with a hole punched into it by the juggernaut's initial journey through the vegetation. They went halfway down and turned right through a wide archway where a stone platform rested in the center of a large room. Eryn looked up, expecting to find a tower or the remains of one over her head. There was nothing but solid rock.

  "There she is," Gesper said. He was sitting against the wall in the rear corner of the room with Wallace. They both stood when she entered. "Glad to see you're feeling better, my Lady."

  "Thank you, Gesper." She scanned the room, trying to get her bearings.

  It's like Genesia, but also very different.

  "If you're looking for where we came in, it's that way," Wallace said, pointing to a hole that had been punched into the wall. "You got us into a smaller room, but the doorway was caved in. Oz got us the rest of the way."

  "It is pleased."

  "That's some outfit you're wearing, my Lady," Gesper said. "I've never seen anything shimmer like that."

  Eryn looked down at the strange clothes. Gesper was right, it was shifting and changing color as it caught the light. "It's certainly different."

  "It is this way." Oz motioned back the way they had come. It must have known she would want to see the others before she would follow it.

  "I just want to go tell Trock and Loshe I'm well," she said. "Then you can show me whatever it is you brought us here for."