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Chapter 2: Eyes in the Dark Vic ran out of his room and down the hallway, his giant shoulders knocking everything off both walls. When he reached the living room he could see weird flashes of green light in the darkness of his back yard, accompanied by high pitched thunder, harsh shrieks and unnatural howls. Suddenly, a figure appeared at the sliding glass patio door. It was a cloaked and hooded human form, the twin embers of its eyes glaring balefully at Vic from the darkness. “You cannot protect him!” it rasped. “Give us the Son of the Mountain!” The figure shattered the door with one kick of its leather boot and stepped inside. It raised an arm and Vic could see it held a small crossbow. With a slow hollow hiss that might have been laughter, it leveled the bow’s silver-gray bolt at Vic’s chest. Through the green flashes outside Vic could see more figures dressed like the first running toward him. Several dog-like shapes bounded onto the patio and stopped, howling and shrieking. “Get out of my house!” yelled Vic, his voice now a booming baritone. The hooded figures hesitated. For a moment nothing happened. From the darkness a commanding voice called out. “It is him! Do not fear him! Take him!” Vic felt something strike his chest. In the dim light he saw a crossbow bolt hit the carpet and bounce behind a table. “Take him!” the hooded figures echoed. More bolts came, striking him and bouncing off. Vic backed up, overturning his dining room table. From within their robes, the hooded forms drew large, cruelly shaped knives. They advanced. They cut at him, they stabbed at him, they sliced at him, but Vic felt only the pressure of the blades running across his skin. There was no pain. There was no pain because there was no injury. The blades could not cut Vic’s new skin. But Vic didn’t know this. He instinctively threw his arms up to defend the blows. He was convinced he was going to die. “Leave me alone!” he yelled. Then one of the blades got through and a bright white gash appeared across Vic’s chest. Vic growled in pain and lashed out with one arm, striking his assailant and sending him flying into the opposite wall. The robed creature slumped to the ground, unconscious. The hooded figures stopped, frozen. Some retreated to the center of the room. “Look at his hand!” one exclaimed. They did. Vic looked too. His hand was gone. In its place was a fist-shaped piece of gray stone the size of a microwave oven. For a moment he marveled at it. What the hell did that guy do to me? he thought. He looked down at his attackers. They stared up at him, six sets of eyes in the dark. “He has been given the power of the Mountain,” said one. That tone, was it fear or awe? Vic didn’t know. Vic didn’t care. Whatever was keeping them from slicing him open was a good thing. Then the voice from outside called again. It was a cold, emotionless voice. It made Vic think of a midnight graveyard. “He has been Protected. Do not fear it. He is not yet a true Son of the Mountain. He can be overcome. We must take him! We must bring him to the King!” But the figures didn’t move. They swayed, on guard, knives at the ready, but did not attack. One stole a quick glance at its unconscious cohort crumpled on the floor. Vic knew an opportunity when he saw it. He knew the best way to defeat a blitz was to strike quickly and decisively. Sliding a foot under him, he bolted forward with a speed that amazed him even as he was doing it. The bodies of the hooded ones flew in all directions. Glass broke. Before he knew it he was outside on his patio facing the dog-like howlers and a red robed man. Debris crashed to the ground around him as the roof of his living room gave way. Though surprised by Vic’s attack, the red robed figure raised his glowing staff while the howlers cringed and sprang back. “You will not escape!” “Who’s escaping?” growled Vic, and leaped at him. He caught the mage with a clean shoulder, just like he’d done a thousand times in football practice. He drove the leader’s breath from him and sent him flying into the side of the garage. The howlers leaped over the back fence and disappeared. Stomping over to the dazed figure, Vic lifted him by his neck with one massive fist and slammed him against the stucco wall. Cracks spread out from behind the mage’s head like spider webs. Blood began to run down the collar of the man’s robes. “So you are human,” growled Vic. “What have you done to me?” “You are doomed, Victor Grant,” coughed the man. “Tell me what you did to me or I’ll snap your neck!” “I? I have not done anything to you,” said the mage, struggling for breath. “The Order. The Order has cursed you. They have made you a freak, twisting your body into a monstrosity. They mean to take you to Paragon City, to use you, sacrifice you, destroy you!” “Tell me how to get my body back!” This time the man only laughed; a hollow gravelly sound that gurgled with blood. “You will never be the same, Victor Grant. You have been placed on the playing board. You are just another piece of the game, another of Malmochai’s naïve soldiers being led to slaughter. The Circle will hunt you. We will not stop until you are dead. Your life is gone! Not even the Protection of Iaia can save you now!” “What is Iaia? Who is the King you mentioned? Who is Malmochai? What do mean I’ve been Protected? Protected from what? Answer me!” With a crooked grimace, the mage pulled a knife from within his robes. He uttered three words in a tongue Vic had never heard and looked to the sky. “May I have vengeance in death! The power of the Circle endures forever!” In one swift motion the man plunged the knife into his eye and slumped in Vic’s grip. Horrified, Vic released him and he fell to the ground, lifeless. Vic stepped back, his eyes fixed on the body. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Oh, my God.” Sometimes life sends you little surprises, things you don't expect, like little bits of chaos. Not a lot, mind you, and never enough to really upend your life. And these little packages of randomness may annoy or thrill you, depending on your outlook. Vic had always been the kind of young man thrilled by the unexpected. In fact, as a linebacker he thrived on delivering little bits of chaos to the opposing team on every play. He liked being the architect of turmoil, the stick that stirs the anthill. But sometimes, instead of a little package of randomness, life mails us a pipe bomb. First Class overnight guaranteed delivery. Sometimes life turns our world upside down for no reason at all and nothing is ever the same. And we ask ourselves Why? How could this happen and why did it happen to me? And these questions either disable us or force us to recognize the new course of our lives. Vic was not ready for this. This was no little bit of chaos. This was Chaos itself. This was a pipe bomb. Vic had always been the kind of person who thrived on knowing certain things would always be the same. He would live in his house and go to school and take a scholarship and play ball in college and get drafted and play pro until he won a championship. Simple. Easy. These were the plans of a young man for whom opportunity and achievement went hand in hand. And for a young man who caused such upheaval in the plans of others, he very much relied upon his own plans going forward like clockwork. It gave meaning to his world. But now? Oh, now it all had changed. In the space of only a few minutes Vic’s life had changed forever. And for a high school kid who planned for a life of regimented success it was the kind of change that gripped him at his core and shook him like a dog shakes its prey. You will never be the same, Victor Grant, the robed man had said. You are just another piece in the game. He knew the man was right. His life here would never be the same. He had to leave. The answers he sought were in Paragon City, almost a thousand miles away. Somehow, some way, he was going to travel there. He was going to find the man who changed him, who turned him into a marble-skinned monstrosity. He was going to find the fugitive mage from the Order of the Rose and get his body back, get his life back. He was going to take himself off the playing board. Then everything would be okay. As if waking from a bad dream, Vic realized he was naked. Where are my clothes? he thought. Then he laughed. What difference does it make? They wouldn’t fit me now. He turned and went back in his house. He had to wake his parents. The fugitive mage said they were in a deep sleep. He had to make sure they were alright. If those howlers hurt them… The house was dark. Only the kitchen light showed the rubble and debris of the fight. Picking his way around the timber and drywall from the collapsed ceiling, Vic walked down the hall again and peeked into the master bedroom. Like a miraculously preserved room in an otherwise defiled tomb, his parents’ bedroom seemed untouched by the night’s violence. They lay on their backs, covers up to their waists, peacefully asleep. Vic slowly approached and stood over them, like a graveyard statue guarding the dead. What do I tell them? Hi, remember me? I’m your hideously deformed son. About fifteen minutes ago my body was changed by magical spell into an eight foot block of marble with legs. I just got through defending our three bedroom home from wizards, alien dogs, and hooded kidnapers with glowing red eyes and crossbows. Who uses crossbows nowadays, you ask? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. You see, I’m going to Paragon City. I know you told me never to go there, but that’s where the man who changed me said he was from. I’m going to find him and get him to change me back. I’m going to take myself off the playing board. I didn’t want any of this. I don’t believe in destiny or bogeymen, or Cosmic Mountains. I’m going to make this all go away. I’m going to make everything go back to the way it was. I don’t want you to worry. I’ll come back. I promise. His mother stirred, then his father. They slowly blinked their eyes as they began to wake. “Mom? Dad?” It would not be the last time Vic saw his parents, but it was the last time his parents ever saw their son. And perhaps for Vic that may have been enough, except for the way they looked at him. Such shock. Such fear. Yes, it may have been enough for Vic, except for the ice cold stab of horror that raced up his spine as he realized they did not recognize him. To them he was a monster, something incredible and unholy, a creature of nightmare come to hurt them. They crawled off the bed and into the corner. They began to pray, choking out the words in halting, breathless gasps. Vic took a step toward them. They began to scream. Oh, how they screamed. He threw up his hands as if to say Wait! Stop! Let me explain! I’m your son! Mom! Dad! Please! He opened his mouth to say the words…. …and heard sirens. |