Darkness Over the Horizon

In the mirror before
him: the steel gaze of the older man standing behind him, his gray eyes the
only features unobscured by his dark helm, an obsidian device with a pair of upswept
black wings, relayed to him silently, *you*
are ready.  Proceed.

So the young man
proceeded, whether he was ready or not.
He took a step to the mirror but paused.

His head felt heavy
from the weight of his own winged helmet.
It thumped a constant throbbing against his head, independently, like
within the metal it had its own beating heart.
It did, in a way.  That was the
way it was forged.  As trained he let that
thumping sync with his heartbeat, as he had prepared.

He experienced a sensation
in his brain like all his thoughts and questions had one answer, one purpose, one
meaning: to survive.  And with the
sensation came a harmony of extrasensory perceptions: enhanced listening
channeled through the helmet’s little horns at its top, he could hear the older
man blink, and through the broadened awareness he attained echolocation; hypersensitive
smell, on the other side of the mirror, that was also a door, were several
sources of a rotting stench; and a narrowed visual field but with pinpoint
clarity.

He reached out to
the mirror and pushed.  It opened a crack
and through it he spotted the beasts.  They
were terrible clicking things as long as the height of a man with wide claws,
multisegmented bodies, and ravenous appetites.
They were also blind.

This is what the
older man meant by proceed, to enter the labyrinth.  Now joined with the helmet, the young man was
ready.  In his primary hand he held a
tri-pointed crimson staff with an end of sharpened steel, and in his other he
gripped a kite shield.  He pushed the
mirror door open all the way, stepped through, and shut it.  Down the descending tunnel his eyes locked onto
the first torch lit beast and he accelerated toward it.  He pointed his staff forward and aimed right
between two body segments, splitting it.
After a series of clatters it went silent, sliced through the central
nervous system, but it was not dead, the young man knew, since he felt nothing.

A blow to his back
knocked him down.  He hit the stone face
first and tasted blood on his teeth.  Through
the helmet the young man was aware the location of every other present beast, to
each side and in front of him at unequal distances, and the one that had struck
him was above and behind him.

He got to his feet
before it could strike again and he followed a safe course to the most isolated
one.  He locked onto its head and pulled
his staff back, then thrust it as the beast sighted him and opened its
claws.  It never had a chance to close
them, by then it was dead, punctured through the brain.

Immediately the
helmet felt lighter and a refreshing feeling traveled into the young man’s mind.  The taste of blood vanished off his tongue.  He felt stronger and healthier than ever
before.  It was a short term high, he
knew, but permanent was the healing of the wounds he had sustained.  At least until he was wounded again.

Of that the young
man had no intention, but things happened regardless.

The helmet gave him
abilities both defensive and predatory, with the sole purpose to prolong his
life, to survive, to stay alive.   They maintained his life by taking the life
force released from the creatures he hunted.

Such was the way of
the Bat Lord people, a methodology forged long ago and maintained now,
especially necessary now in the world’s darkening hours.  Hunt to survive.

Kill to live.

### 2

Five slayed beasts
and an uncounted number of scrapes and bruises later, the young man returned
from the labyrinth up a set of stone steps.
He had sustained injuries but of course there were of no concern to him;
out of sight, out of body; get hurt, kill, get healed; the way of the Bat Lords
sort of thing.  He felt the presence of the
older man, his master, at the top of the landing.  He followed the torches to the end of the
stairs and was immediately punched in the head.

“Seven times you
were lethally struck!” the old man roared, and swore, and he sent a high kick
flying to the young man’s face, then diverted it to the wall and shattered a
stone.  The young man remained silent.  He knew well not to interrupt Sumac when he
was angry; he was better at keeping his master from hitting him, than beastly
creatures.

His injuries were of
course a concern to the older man.

“Two months of
training!” Sumac growled while waving his hands at the air.  “We sparred one-on-one.  You learned all the moves.  Yet you continue to stretch your life force
thin like a bowstring!  Are you that
terrible a fighter?!”  He whirled on the
young man again.

“Or are you still
careless?” Sumac’s eyes narrowed.  He
flung off his helmet and then removed with sudden gentleness the young man’s
helm.  He leaned in close to the young
man’s face, who reflexively stiffened and tried not to breathe in, or out,
while Sumac ‘read his lines,’ as he called it.

The old man leaned
back, his face a different expression than before.  “Kaidrian,” he addressed his apprentice, “can
you read my lines?”

Kaidrian nodded.  He recognized its meaning.  It made him angry.

“I’m disappointed.”
Sumac muttered.  “We went over the matter
of your attitude.  I thought you had it
under control-“

He could take it no
longer.  “I am in control!” Kaidrian proclaimed.  “I just choose a different mindset than you!”

“Your carelessness
will get you killed!” Sumac shouted back.

“I have enough to worry
about and taking hits isn’t one of them, when killing undoes it all!” Kaidrian argued.  “That’s the way of the Bat Lords-“

“That’s *not* the way of the Bat Lords!” Sumac
interrupted.

“It will be, when I
am in charge!” Kaidrian yelled.

“Not if you’re *dead*!” Sumac punched the wall and cursed
when his hand bled.  It was a nasty habit
of his, punching things.  Cradling his
fist, Sumac shot Kaidrian one last look and handed the apprentice’s helmet back
before fleeing the area.

With his master out
of earshot, Kaidrian sought to curse as well, but he kept the words in his
head.  He clenched his fists.  Sumac was such a hypocrite.  He would flop between respecting him one
sentence and verbally punching him the next.
One day Sumac’s disrespect would catch up to and ensnare the old man.  Despite his youth, Kaidrian was smart.  Every child was, and for that he deserved
respect.  Why could the wise old mentor
not see that?

Why couldn’t
Kaidrian’s father?

“We eat with the
Longfoxes tonight!” Sumac’s voice echoed back, despite the distance amassed
between them.

Kaidrian’s mental chaos
quelled at mention of the name.  The Longfox
household joined their clan, headed by Kaidrian’s father, only a week ago.

*They’re already hosting?* Kaidrian thought.  That meant they were integrating well,
welcomed even.

That was good for
them.

And interesting for
Kaidrian, a young man almost two decades old.

The Longfoxes had a
daughter his age, and Kaidrian did not need the heightened senses of his Bat
Lord helmet to know she was very beautiful.