Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

 

Present Day

 

True pain found a voice as his mouth dislodged a gasp of agony. He sat up quickly in bed causing a number of tiny beads of sweat to slide down his face, plunging one by one to their eventual demise onto the dark blue silk sheets that covered the lower half of his body.

His efforts were by design. He crafted his body to engineer a system that would draw the eyes of the opposite sex, intimidate a rival, and function at optimal efficiency. However, at this moment all of that effort and calculation had left him, replaced by the rampant physical and mental destruction laid on him by this newest dream.

His skin was usually a deep olive tone, indicative of Middle Eastern or Mediterranean descent, a smooth, soft brown that complimented the dark mahogany king size bed frame around him. But now, in the wave of this nocturnal disturbance, his skin was absent of that color and was replaced by a deathly white that seemed entirely foreign.

Sam mopped off the drops of sweat from his forehead that had not escaped his face and placed a hand on the bridge of his nose. Thumb and index finger pinched it hoping that the counter pressure would relieve the ever-building stream of pain that was rushing to the back of his eyes. The ache would not subside, refusing to obey.

His mind raced back to the visions that dominated the entirety of his thoughts. This ritual he had of drowning his problems had become a practice that went on more nights than he could care to remember. It was one that he knew would bring with it consequences, yet still, one that he felt he had to endure in order to properly process this unfamiliar onslaught.

His dreams were mostly ephemeral, these images of things, people, and places which haunted his sleeping mind with a tableau of knowledge that he yearned to grasp but failed to grip with his conscious mind. Like sand, it evaded his grasp. However, this night was an anomaly. His dream did not feel like memory or frayed knowledge playing out.

It felt�"real.

Nauseatingly uncomfortable and very disorienting.

Sam closed his eyes to reorder his thoughts and consider the dream as it replayed itself to the discomfort of his throbbing head.

 

He was near the woods; that was the first thing that hit him. Sam could smell the overwhelming presence of pine before the lush green scenery had even chanced to fixate itself upon his vision. He heard the faint rush of water in the background, close by but not near enough to him that he could sense its exact position.

 

Then it struck him, or at least took hold of his stomach, flipping and turning those remaining contents of his prior night’s exuberance with no care for the consequences. “D****t,” Sam muttered to himself, a small bit of hope for better control of the situation lost, as the sharp bite of bile rose up in his throat.

He pushed himself out of bed, springing forth with as much surety as could be managed without allowing the expulsion of the foul intruder within. The hand that had so recently been used to soothe his face and mind now lowered itself down from nose to mouth switching from a comforter to a dam guarding the molten liquid hellfire demanding release. Sam had no desire to allow a drop of this vileness to land on his floor.

The cold wood felt refreshing on his bare feet which propelled him across the vast bedroom into the bathroom. This scene was not what one would expect in such a majestic bedroom covered in dark rich woods. It was a minimalist style. Bits of elegant furniture accented the luxurious bed as priceless pieces of artwork stared down at the room from the walls.

The one piece that was out of place here was Sam, running to the bathroom like a freshman in college after his first big kegger. This was the cost he had to pay for that excess, and now it came to full fruition; a necessary remedy to his usual late night behaviors.

A small bit of hell pushed its way past his teeth and was intercepted by firmly pursed lips and a quick hand. The frequency with which these dreams had been occurring had prompted Sam to place a small night light within the bathroom to help guide him to its location in the middle of the night and also to direct the filth he was about to expel into its proper receptacle.

 

As he entered the bathroom, he immediately was thankful for his single lifestyle, as any additional time spent raising the toilet seat would have fouled his end goal. Instead, as the burning rush of liquid fire shot out of his opened lips, it landed directly in the center of the porcelain bowl. Sam dropped down to his knees before the toilet and offered up all of the pain and suffering he had left within, his muscles heaving with every involuntary push. The Macallan doesn't usually taste this bad coming up, he thought to himself.

In between gut-wrenching attacks, more of the night’s dream rippled back through his mind.

 

The moon, full and bright, rested along the horizon like a giant spotlight focused solely on him. He was definitely within the woods, as the trees passing by his vision confirmed. Time and perspective were both warped in the dream and, at times when Sam concentrated on the scene as it played out, it seemed as if the speed at which the trees passed by accelerated, rushing past his vision and becoming a disjointed blur.

 

The motion of it all shook the remnants in his stomach out into the open. There was barely a shot glass worth of bile coming from his mouth which was a morbidly perfect end considering the number of drinks that he had placed within the confines of his body mere hours before.

Sam heaved again but his tank was now on empty, and any further extractions would be futile. He pulled himself up and flushed the toilet, erasing all evidence of his night’s folly. Sliding over to the marble countertop, he waved a hand at the faucet on top of the polished white bowl that made up his bathroom sink.

Water poured forth at a nice even temperature which was pre-set for this very routine. Sam's hands were large and robust befitting those of a laborer, but the soft skin and manicured nails spoke to the apparent professionalism that made up the man who could afford such luxuries. He scooped water with one hand and wiped off his mouth. His other hand reached for a soft white towel. It looked like it belonged in a model home used only for display rather than wadded up and soaked in his hand.

The reflection in the mirror confused him. It was not the small string of bile that still clung stubbornly to the side of his chin, but rather it was the smoothness of his face. His mind darted along the avenues of memory as he searched for the time when he had last shaved. He would have sworn he went out the previous night with some stubble on his cheeks and chin but, try as he might, his mind could not remember touching his face with a blade.

He could see the unkempt version of himself but was not able to tell if it was real. He reminded himself that he could not precisely place the ‘when’ and ‘how’ of his getting home last night either. It was an accepted consequence for his penchant in indulging in such well-crafted liquors. Thankfully, this blackout had not erased some random beauty’s name from his sodden mind. At least on this night, his dreams had not disturbed anyone but himself.

The towel wiped his face clear of the vomit, water, and sweat but this motion did nothing to help return the color back to his skin. Very little could be done to shake off the natural appeal that radiated from Sam but his current state was the exception to that rule; he looked absolutely haggard. He stared back at his reflection, looking hard into his bloodshot eyes, barely any white was left to surround the near-azure gems in the middle. He focused on that color and was thrust promptly back to the memory of his dream.

 

 

The woods were lit up from the moonlight, and he was standing silently at the top of a hill, a platoon of trees stood guard as he looked out upon the landscape. In the distance, he could see the soft orange glow of a fire burning within the webwork of trees. It was emanating from the opposite side of a mound that stood between them. He could hear voices, faint but rhythmic, and it seemed as though the distant words were purposely borne on the wind and not merely a result of the acoustic nature of the area.

The words penetrated the very woods themselves. Then, Sam could hear other words, inaudible but unnervingly close to him, almost as though they had come from his own mouth. They were foreign to him, in both the words spoken and the sound of the voice, as if some puppeteer had placed them as part of the show. The world shifted again. The landscape jumped forward, skipping as it did so, and the motion disoriented him yet again.

 

His body convulsed but nothing was left to exit the confines of his stomach. Sam winced from the pain of the act, filled his clean hand with some water yet again and placed it in his mouth. He swished it around cleaning up what remnants were left and spat into the sink. The liquid and bile eddied around at the back near the drain then began to slow down. Sam shook his head using the motion to gain control of his perceptions or, at the very least, to try to shake off the last vestiges of drink. Regardless, he removed his eyes from his focus on the water and turned away.

As he left the bathroom for the bedroom, he was forced to stop, his body reminding him that such quick movements would be a guarantee for sleeping on the cold, hard surface of his wood floor instead of the soft, warm comfort of the king bed so near. His hands gripped the door frame and tried to support his falling weight as his mind slipped once more.

 

He was closer to the voices in the distance, not near enough to make note of details or pick out specific words, but close enough to see the fire and the group of figures that moved around it. Flesh glowed warmly against the light of the flames and the soft kiss of the moonlight. Suddenly, the view of these figures magnified as if someone had placed a set of binoculars in front of Sam's eyes, but the clarity of what he saw was more than could have been expected from such a device.

“ARGGHHHH!” Sam belted out at the sudden change of perspective.

One of the figures, a middle-aged woman who was shapely, covered in mud, dressed in a billowing skirt with two strands of hemp rope that crisscrossed along her stomach, breasts, and around her neck, turned from what she was doing and stared in Sam's direction.

The perspective of the vision snapped back to its original depth causing Sam to once again wince in pain. He heard the same unfamiliar voice from earlier, but this time he could make out a few words that were being spoken, “like. . .damn. . .child.”

Sam could feel his hands reaching for something at his side. As he grabbed hold of whatever he was looking for, he raised it up in front of his eyes. It was a very plain wicker man, though for some reason it seemed to be glowing, not aflamed but still, it radiated a light of some sort which hung in the air like the after-effects of a sparkler in a child's grasp. His hand began to paint the air in front of him with the wicker man and, with every stroke made, the light remained.

After some sharp motions, what remained were two symbols floating in the air, one in the shape of a square with a star in the middle and the other looking almost like a giant arrow. Then, the voice spoke, and this time it was as clear as if Sam were standing directly next to its owner, “Ama-gi!”

The symbol exploded with brilliant color and consumed all of his vision.

 

As he returned to the bedroom, he found himself hunched over on the edge of his bed, hands gripped tightly onto his sheets. He could still feel the cool wetness of the sweat that had fallen upon them earlier. His eyes adjusted back to his surroundings and something on the bed frame caught Sam's attention. His eyes were pulled to the headboard, drawn up to the very top and center of that massive piece of mahogany wood. There, at that center point, was the exact symbol which he had just seen within his dream, burned into the wood as precisely as it been etched into the air.

“S**t!” was all that he could muster in response to the sight of it.

 

4 Years Ago

Stumbling backward, Mark was barely able to retain his balance. His eyes went wide with surprise and relief to see his mentor alive. Even as the miles around the globe pressed in with a profound numbing fatigue, even as the years had fluttered by from fruitless searching, in his heart, he crowed with joy in acknowledgment of the moment.

Anyone else would have abandoned the quest, but Mark held true. However, this victory carried the faint taint of ashes in his mouth as he realized something was wrong. "Shamash?" Mark whispered as a tether to the rising figure.

No response came to the unspoken questions contained within that one word, only endless agonizing screams of pain. The sound waves reverberated along the confines of the cave, echoing louder and louder as they invaded Mark's ears.

There was something far more deafening which assaulted his system as it burrowed into his head like tiny whispering worms. The very fabric of the eT resonated across the distance between them with a raw misery impossible to ignore. It carried with it every jagged shard of torment that was etched in his soul and it was that onslaught which reverberated inside of Mark's head.

He grabbed at his temple and forehead for some hope of relief, but none was to be found. Concern was evident in his words, "What's wrong? What's happened to you?"

The screams continued, intensifying in volume and power. Mark fell to a knee and yelled, "STOP! Please, let me help you!" The words found no purchase and received no response, bouncing as meaninglessly off of Shamash as they did the rock wall surrounding him.

Mark edged closer, focused on providing some comfort to his friend. Again he placed a hand on his shoulder and called out, struggling to connect with the man, "SHAMASH!"

Crushing silence hammered the cave as feral eyes turned in Mark’s direction and the screaming abruptly ceased. The pain of whatever event or injury that had driven him to this remote refuge subsided for a moment. Shamash’s eyes focused in the near-darkness and saw his friend. Then, just as quickly as his mind was able to connect to that figure, it was gone, jumping to another picture, the only one available to his shattered mind.

 

He stood in the middle of a city, and though he could not tell its exact location, the buildings surrounding him rose as silent sentinels hinting at their origin, they were familiar but still held no solid connection.  The looming structures were unusually quiet, as though they had been purposely abandoned for this particular moment. The only other movement was of a man.

He was immaculately dressed in archaic clothes and a style that was fit for royalty. He was nearly a blur, the fractured memory not allowing exact detail to his features, but it was clear that he had sharp angular features and greying hair. His only adornments, an old katana strapped to his back and a necklace with a large clasp clutching a strange looking hunk of rock. As he spoke, the words that fell from his tongue carried a pain that cut as sharply as any blade would, "Shamash…"

 

The pain of the memory bonded with that of his body and became the primary focus for his instincts as any further details of that time were burned out of his mind. He knocked away Mark's hand and delivered a solid blow to his chest, sending him flying across the cave.

He barely had time to shield his body from the impact against the stone. It gave him enough protection to avoid any significant internal damage, but it still hurt. More than physical pain was the emotional trauma from the realization that Shamash would strike him. That wounded him on a much deeper level.

 

Power spilled out from his mentor's skin, like cracks splitting along a broken mirror, they licked at the air, disappeared and then, were replaced by even more lines. He rose fully upright and stepped towards the exit of the small alcove, determined to find freedom from the now offensive dank prison.

"Stop! D****t, what the hell is wrong with you?! STOP!" Mark yelled.

Nothing. His words had no effect, and with each measured step by his mentor, Mark was nearing a choice he vehemently did not want to make. Loyalty and confusion weighed heavily on his heart and stayed his hand, but his conscience pulled with even greater force.

There was also the unknown question of just how much of the man remained there with him. The eT radiated off his frame, pulsing like a supernova ready to ignite everything in its path. He could not allow that kind of power to endanger anyone outside the confines of that pit they were in. D****t, Old Man. Just know that I didn't want to do this, he thought.

Clenching his fists, he pushed off the ground and used the eT to close the distance. Swiftly, he Walked in front of his mentor and struck. The force of the blow was immense, and it sent Shamash flying back into the far wall of the cave with disturbing velocity. The impact from that collision provided Mark with two significant bits of knowledge.

First, the mere fact that the blow had sent him airborne told him that his Sifu's mind was not ordered, as such a primary strike would never have provided such favorable results otherwise. Secondly, as he crashed into the rock wall, the impact showed that his power was still unnervingly high and untempered.

His body was reacting at a primal level and providing him with enough protection to essentially have turned him into a wrecking ball. Mark spat his next word with no small amount of concern, "S**t!" Nothing he saw made him look forward to the moments that would follow.

Energy shot out from both of Shamash's hands as he returned to his feet. The golden beams lighting up the darkness as they sped toward their target.

Mark’s own hands danced about his frame, redirecting the beams around his person as they wove the energy into a shield of sorts to be used as a buffer from the balance of the attack.

Shamash’s pain shifted to anger at the denial of his only desire. Escape. That emotion manifested into actual pulses of power that flashed concurrently with his breathing. He stalked toward the exit once more with renewed determination.

A physical confrontation did not seem to be the best course of action, so Mark's hand dove into the satchel at his side, his eyes never leaving the approaching behemoth of power. A wicker man leapt from the musty confines, and as it met the atmosphere of the room, the tiny doll became consumed by its own glow of power. Without thought, he painted a symbol in the air. It was plain but carried a great deal of power in that simplicity. "Kalu," Mark commanded, his will fueling the word.

He thrust his arm at the floating glyph, and a band of energy lashed out across the distance between them. It wrapped itself around Shamash like a snake constricting its prey, slithering down along his appendages until his entire body was engulfed. And then, he was still, frozen in place once more.

Suddenly, Shamash began to fight against his confinement, each muscle fiber straining with an ever-increasing strength. He would not be held, his body and fractured mind craved freedom from the depths of the cave, and no force would deny him that.

"Have you gone MAD?! What the hell happened to you?" Mark dared to question, a tinge of fear coloring those words.

Blades of eT shot out of each of Shamash's arms as he screamed out in defiance against those bindings. Muscles flexed, veins throbbed and every inch of him seemed to erupt with a power that was fueled by his rage, even his eyes began to drip in a fountain of gold. He thrust both arms up, and the energy blades severed his restraints. Free, he stormed toward both Mark and the exit with definitive purpose.

"Just f*****g perfect," was all Mark could think as his mind began to assess what had just happened, and more importantly, what kind of new trouble was coming his way.

That answer was delivered swiftly and with great force. Shamash's fists rained down on him with no regard for style or grace. He was like a cornered beast, reacting instinctively rather than with any finesse.

This was the only advantage Mark had.

He dodged the initial blows, but with each additional unsuccessful strike, some innate bit of instinct or muscle memory began to adapt until Mark found himself forced to physically intercept and deflect the blows. The eT fortified his body and offered him a reasonable level of defense. These are going to definitely leave some bruises, Mark thought to himself as the impact of one overhead strike literally pushed him into the earthen floor a bit. Best defense is a good offense!

As he flowed with a thrown punch, moving it past his body, he followed through with a swift elbow to the jaw nearly buckling Shamash. Unfortunately for Mark, the blow also brought him all too close to his mentor. A hand snapped up, latched around his throat and lifted him into the air with a vice-like grip. Like little more than a piece of debris, he was tossed to the back of the cave.

Mark twisted his body a moment before landing and was able to find his footing quickly. Almost a damn superhero landing, he quipped to himself trying to find some levity in the wretched situation, especially considering the terrible choice he was about to make.

He slammed both fists into the rock at his feet, reaching out and connecting to the rest of the cavern, feeling the strata around the small tunnel which provided the only exit from their current locale. Using an extension of his will, he worked the eT, fracturing weak spots in the rocks that caused a minor collapse to fill the void of the passageway out, sealing them both inside this tomb.

 

Mark was about to bring down the rest of the cave as well when his instincts warned him to move. Opening his eyes as he rolled away and watched as the blast of eT burrowed into the spot he had just left. "Have your attention do I?" He offered as he readied himself. Then, the two balls of fire which had been illuminating the cave suddenly burned out.

That darkness only lasted the length of a breath, for with every push of air that Shamash exhaled, so did a fog of energy light up the cave as it spilled from his mouth and body. That power roiled, coalesced and found a focus from which to concentrate in, manifesting a blinding ever-growing orb in front of his chest.

To hell with that, Mark concluded, not wanting to see how that would play out. Instead, he reached into his satchel and withdrew a small stick. It was only a foot long in length and had it been placed in the hands of a child could have been mistaken for a toy wand. This stick was no mere twig nor was it so mundane an item as a wand.

 

It was the Yggdrasil, a piece of the World Tree itself and with but a thought, it expanded to its natural size, nearly as long as Mark was tall.

He slammed it into the ground and allowed the energy to concentrate, siphoning the eT around him through its connection with the staff, and then shot it at Shamash in the form of a concentrated beam.

The blast consumed his mentor and the orb he was constructing. As it dissipated, the cave slipped into darkness, and the THUMP of a body hitting the ground was the only confirmation Mark had of his success. He slammed the Yggdrasil down again, and this time some runes along its side lit up, brightening the cave enough that he could see again.

He hurried over to the side of his Sifu and rolled him over. The rise and fall of Shamash's chest told him that the gamble had worked and more so that he had not gone too far. As the seconds passed, wisps of energy began to form along his naked flesh, and Mark knew that this state of incapacity would be over.

He dug into his satchel and pulled out a small black object. Flipping the phone open, he held the number two and then tossed it aside as it dialed. Mark's hand reached out to the staff as the phone rang through to the contact. It flew into his grip, and as the wood made contact with his flesh, he lowered himself into a meditative state.

He focused nearly all of his concentration and being into his next task, leaving only a fraction of it to utter one phrase. A cocoon of energy wrapped itself around Shamash's body, putting him into a similar stasis as when he was sealed in the ice. This time, however, as his power pulsed, desperate for freedom, so did that shell, bits of electricity snapping to life around its exterior fighting back.

The phone connected and the man on the other end answered, "Hello?"

Mark strained to reply, "I need your help. NOW!"