Morpheus Road 03 - The Blood (27 page)

Ree was torn between feelings of pride and guilt. She was tortured with the knowledge that none of this would have happened if she and Ennis hadn't gone into the Temple of the Morning Light. But they did go and it did happen. The best she could hope for now was damage control. See
ing the selfless intensity of the Guardians gave her the slight hope that maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

Zoe was with the Guardians, front and center, ready to defend the Black as she knew her father would have. As he would have wanted her to.

They all waited. And waited.

It was Zoe who saw it first.

A vague shape appeared deep within the purple glow of the Rift.

"They come!" she bellowed.

Every last person in the Colosseum tensed up.

Another shape appeared, and then another. They seemed like misshapen silhouettes, but the Guardians knew the truth. The amorphous forms would take shape, and when they did, multiple spirits would be coming through the Rift. Zoe raised her sword.

The others followed suit. They were more than ready to cut the interlopers down the moment they stepped out of the Rift.

"At the ready!" Zoe commanded.

The first spirit was about to appear directly in front of her, which Zoe was grateful for. She wanted to set the tone and be the first to destroy one of the spirits of the damned. She wanted to draw first blood. She hoped it would be Damon. The spirit stepped out of the Rift, showing itself to be a grizzled, bearded man with piercing blue eyes. Zoe raised her sword, ready to strike.

The spirit smiled at her.

Zoe was momentarily taken off guard.

The spirit took a step forward.

Zoe sliced down with her sword . . .

. . . too late. The spirit disappeared in a swirl of color
ful fog.

Zoe froze. The front line of Guardians stared in shock. What had happened?

Another spirit stepped out of the Rift on the far right end. A Guardian made the move with his sword but the spirit vanished, leaving the Guardian flailing at air.

"They're not going to fight!" Cooper called from above. "They know the deal. They're already moving between visions."

Two more spirits stepped out of the Rift and disappeared before the Guardians could attack. More appeared and then disappeared as soon as they arrived. The Guardians were left flailing at air.

"We must go through!" a Guardian yelled, and made a move for the Rift.

Zoe grabbed him and stopped him before he could enter.

"No!" she shouted. "They will tear you apart in there. The spirit swords have no power."

Spirits started arriving quickly and disappearing just as fast as they could come through. The Guardians started slash
ing wildly, hoping to strike a spirit before it could vanish, but there was no way to anticipate
where they would appear. With all the flailing swords they were more in danger of destroying one another than any spirit coming through the Rift.

"It's chaos," Ree said in a dazed whisper.

"No, it's not," Coop said darkly. "Those spirits know exactly what they're doing. Question is, where are they going?"

The Guardians began to have some success. The spir
its from the Blood became victims of their own numbers as many were pushed from behind into the Black and cut down before they had the chance to move on. The Guard
ians became more selective with their attacks. They stood at the ready and lunged the moment they saw the whisper of a shape coming through. It was an effective maneuver. They began destroying spirits by the hundreds.

It wasn't enough. The Guardians had hoped to stop them all from leaching into the Black, but even with their successes, just as many spirits were making it through as were being destroyed. And they kept coming. And coming. The Guardians had no hope of stemming the flow.

The crowd of spectators didn't know what to make of the scene. They had expected a battle. Instead they were presented with the scene of the Guardians having as much success with the fight as if they were trying to swat at van
ishing hummingbirds.

"Now." Marsh stood up, ready to leap over the wall and down to the arena floor.

"Now?" Ennis exclaimed. "It is insanity down there!"

"Exactly. But the spirits don't have swords and the Guardians are focused on stopping them from coming out of the Rift, so . . . we're going in."

Marsh vaulted over the low wall and landed on the sandy floor. He made a quick check to ensure the crucible was safe, then began dodging spirits on his way to the Rift.

His plan was to approach the far right side of the Rift, wait for an opening, and dash through. He tried not to focus
on the horror of the battles that were taking place, and the loss of life. He had to treat them only as obstacles he needed to skirt in order to move forward and get to the Rift.

He got to within five yards of the far right corner and knelt down on one knee. It was close enough that he could
spring forward the moment there was an opening. Two
spirits from the Blood stepped out on that same side. Their visit was short-lived, for a Guardian leaped forward and
slashed through them both with his black sword, turning them to shadows that instantly vanished. But as the Guard
ian followed through with his swing, another spirit leaped out from behind the first two. His timing was perfect. The Guardian couldn't swing back fast enough to strike.

Though at first the spirits had been recklessly leaping through the Rift and hoping for the best, they had soon
changed tactics. A spirit would make it safely into the Black by using another spirit as a shield. The first spirit would be cut down, allowing the second to leap out of the Rift and instantly move to another vision.

Marsh saw this success and expected the spirit who had made it through safely to disappear like the others, but the spirit caught sight of Marsh first.

"You," the spirit snarled.

"Sanger," Marsh said with a gasp.

"You ain't
gettin
' away from me again," the wretched
old man growled, and made a move toward Marsh with his fists up.

Marsh stood to defend himself but Sanger never got to throw a punch. Before he could get a step closer, the old spirit was hit with a flying tackle and knocked off his feet.

"Coop!" Marsh yelled.

Cooper scrambled to his feet, picked Sanger up by the
shirt, and nailed him with a vicious punch to the chin. Sanger
stumbled backward and slammed into the wall next to the Rift. "What are you doing here?" Coop screamed at Marsh.

"I'm going after Damon."

"You can't go with me, Ralph!" Coop argued.

"With
you?"

"I'm going back to the Blood."

"Marsh!" Ennis screamed.

Marsh and Coop both looked up in time to see Sanger lunging toward them . . . with a black spirit-killing sword up and ready to strike. It was Coop's sword. He had dropped it when he had tackled Sanger. There was a frozen moment. Neither Marsh nor Coop could think fast enough to move.

But Ennis did. He threw himself in front of the boys, and Sanger skewered him with the deadly weapon.

"Ennis!" Marsh screamed.

In his last seconds of existence, Ennis Mobley turned his head toward Marsh with his mouth open to scream, but no sound came out. He made eye contact with Marsh for the briefest of moments and then his body turned to shadow.

Ennis Mobley's spirit was no more.

Sanger stood there, still clutching the deadly sword, momentarily stunned by what he had done. He then lifted the sword in triumph, his eyes blazing.

"Now we're
talkin
'!" he howled with delight.

Marsh lost control. He lunged at Sanger, ready to take the guy apart.

Sanger raised the sword to claim his second victim . . . but Coop got to him first. Before he could swing, Coop hit him hard and wrestled him to the ground as the old spirit dropped the sword.

Marsh didn't move. He wanted nothing more than to tear into the guy who had just killed Ennis . . . but some
thing else had caught his attention.

The edge of the Rift was clear. No spirits were coming through, which momentarily focused the Guardians' atten
tion elsewhere. There was no telling how long that would last. Certainly no more than a few seconds. Marsh had his chance . . .

. . . and took it. He pushed aside the anguish over Ennis's sacrifice and sprinted for the Rift.

Coop was on the ground, struggling with Sanger. "Marsh, no!" he screamed out.

Too late. Marsh jumped into the Rift.

Coop's attention was on Marsh, and Sanger took advan
tage. He rolled away from Coop, headed for the spirit sword.

Coop saw him and jumped ahead, reaching the sword the instant before Sanger did. He brought it up, ready to skewer the surly spirit.

Sanger didn't give him the chance. He backed away and disappeared in a swirl of color.

Coop didn't care. He turned back to the Rift, ready to go after Marsh.

It was at that moment that a flood of spirits came through, directly in front of Cooper. The Guardians fought them off, ending some but losing others. The struggle made it impossible for Coop to get through. It was a dangerous spot to be in. He had no choice but to back off and accept what had happened.

Marsh was back in the Blood . . . alone.

Marsh was confronted by a sea of desperate fleeing spirits.

As he pushed into the Blood, he felt like a fish swim
ming upstream . . . against a sea of fish swimming down
stream. None of the spirits bothered to give him a second look. They moved, zombielike, as if hypnotized by the draw of the light coming from the Rift, and its promise of escape from their infernal prison.

Marsh couldn't fight the flow, so he pushed his way to the side, clawing to get out of the stream of souls. It wasn't until he gave up trying to dodge the spirits and instead low
ered his shoulder to
knock a few of them down that he was able to force his way out of the crowd. He barged forward, jumped from the stream, and ran for protection next to a pile of rubble, where he was finally able to catch his breath and take a look back to where he'd come from.

"Unbelievable," he said to himself, breathless.

It was a daunting sight. The line of spirits was twenty wide and snaked back from the Rift and out of the ruins of the Blood version of the Colosseum. There were spirits from every walk of life, every era and society on earth. There were old bent men, strapping boys, and women of all types and ages.

Marsh wondered if they knew the odds of their survival on the far side, and decided it probably didn't matter to them. If there was a chance to escape from this hell, even if it were a small one, they would take it.

He looked up to the spectator box that in the Black was the private viewing area of the emperor Titus. Hunched in the rotting throne was Brennus, proudly observing the snaking flow. What Marsh didn't see . . . was Damon. Marsh stood up on a marble pedestal and scanned the area, search
ing for his adversary, but Damon was nowhere to be seen. Marsh closed his eyes and put his faith in what the Watchers had told him. It had worked in the past and he had to trust it would work again. If he needed to find Damon, he would. He cleared his mind, trying to sense Damon's presence, or get a clue, or receive any kind of inspiration that would tell him where Damon might be. It didn't take him long to come to at least one conclusion.

He's not here.

It made no sense to him. Damon had waited centuries for this moment of glory. Why wasn't he out in front, lead
ing the way?

Marsh's mission hadn't changed. He had to find Damon, no matter where he was. He took one last look at the stream of damned spirits as they marched into the Rift, and shud
dered. Dozens were moving through every second, with no sign of slowing. He knew he had to move fast, so he jumped off the pedestal and ran out of the Colosseum. When he
cleared the outer wall of the structure, he stopped short and stood staring in awe at the sight in front of him.

A line of spirits extended across the otherwise empty expanse and wound like a meandering river back through
the hills of Rome before disappearing far in the distance. There was no way to estimate the number of spirits who were lined up, eager to risk their existence for the chance to escape from the Blood.

He tore himself away from the impossible sight and jogged deeper into the dark terrain. He didn't know exactly where he was going, but felt confident that his journey would eventually bring him to Damon.

He moved through decimated city streets, overgrown jungle villages, and the wastes of suburbia. At one point
he found himself walking down the quaint main street of a small town. It stopped Marsh cold. The street was familiar. But it wasn't Stony Brook. Where was he?

He took another look around and his jaw dropped.

There was a castle at the end of Main Street that had been caved in by the toppled Matterhorn mountain. Several yellow submarines were piled at the base of the mountain next to a handful of giant colorful teacups.

"Disneyland," Marsh said, horrified.

In many ways it was the most disturbing image he had seen in the Blood, but he couldn't let it affect him. He had
done his best to ignore the reality of the ghastly visions. He couldn't let anything stop him from his mission, least of all his own fear and revulsion. Without another thought he turned off Main Street, ran past a pile of discarded
Dumbos
, and hurried on.

Another disturbing realization soon followed. He had passed through many different visions and had yet to see another spirit. The implication was mind-numbing:

Hell was being emptied out.

He moved past a shattered car factory filled with the twisted remains of a hundred half-finished vehicles, to find himself on the edge of an ancient village of stucco homes.

Marsh stopped. It wasn't the sight of the village that froze him, it was a sound. It was faint but unmistakable and it brought back disturbing memories.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip.

It was the sound of dripping water.

This time the incessant sound didn't frighten him, for he knew it could mean only one thing: His search was over. He stepped forward, turned the corner of a small house, and immediately knew where he was.

The vision was just as Coop had described. He was on a dusty street in ancient Greece that was lined on either side with small stucco buildings. At the far end of the street was a domed church. Halfway to the church was a fountain that held the massive statue of Alexander the Great. As in the Black, the slight stream of water coming from the foun
tain created the dripping sound that had haunted Marsh since this nightmare had begun. The street was a ruined version of what Coop had seen in the Black. The buildings were empty, the church's dome caved in. Oddly, the statue of Alexander was unscathed.

It was the vision of Damon of Epirus.

Marsh walked forward slowly. He knew Damon was there. Somewhere. He felt his presence. This was the moment he had hoped for, and as he feared, he had no idea what he would do once he confronted his tormentor. He felt the weight of the crucible in his hoodie pocket. It was useless to him in the Blood. He was feeling very much alone, and vulnerable. But he kept walking.

Halfway to the fountain, Marsh saw something that at first made him catch his breath in surprise, but then gave him the slightest bit of hope. Stuck in the street, like a dark version of
Excalibur, was the poleax. The monstrous weapon was the root from which all his troubles grew, and it was there for the tak
ing. It may not have spiritual power in the Blood, but it was a
weapon and Marsh wanted it. He picked up his pace, eager to get his hands on the sword that he would use against its owner.

He was no more than five yards away, ready to reach out, when Damon appeared from the far side of the fountain, now wear
ing his armor, prepared for battle.

Marsh stopped in surprise and cursed himself for doing so. He should have kept going. The poleax would have been
his. Now it was a standoff. Both had an equal chance of reaching it first. They stood facing each other like two gun
slingers, waiting for the other to make the first move.

"Why have you come?" Damon asked.

"I . . . I'm not going to lie," Marsh said. "I came to end you."

"For what purpose? Revenge?"

"I don't care about revenge. This is about the Morpheus Road."

Damon laughed. "Then, yours is a misguided mission. Destroying me will not salvage the Morpheus Road. The
campaign now belongs to Brennus. I am no more than a spectator. But if you still care to do battle, I would be more than willing to oblige."

Damon made a quick move for the poleax.

Marsh was caught by surprise and reacted too late. Damon would easily reach it before him.

Damon reached forward . . .

. . . and was knocked off his feet by a flying shadow.

Marsh didn't hesitate a second time. He jumped for the weapon and pulled it out of the ground before he under
stood what had happened. Taking a few steps back to give himself time to defend himself, he saw two spirits wrestling on the ground. One was Damon.

The other took control, pulled Damon to his feet, and hissed, "I've been
so
looking forward to this."

Cooper nailed Damon on the chin with a vicious punch that sent the warrior stumbling backward until he crossed his feet and fell against the fountain.

Coop stalked forward quickly and stood over him, poised for a fight.

"Get up!" he screamed.

Marsh ran up next to Cooper, holding the poleax threat
eningly toward the downed general.

Damon wiped his chin and laughed. "This must be so satisfying for you, Foley. Finally, the chance to take sweet revenge the way you know best, with your fists. And you, Seaver, holding my own weapon on me. So poetic, and so futile."

"Futile?" Coop screamed, his rage growing. "How's this for futile?"

He picked Damon up by the edges of the body armor he now wore, lifted his squat frame until he was standing, and then nailed him with another punch that spun the general around and dropped him to his knees.

"I got a whole sack of futile to unload on you," Coop taunted.

He made a move to pull Damon to his feet again, but Marsh held him back.

"Wait," Marsh said. "This is wrong."

"Wrong?" Coop exclaimed. "It's why we came back. Thanks for waiting for me, by the way," he added sarcas
tically. "I thought my head would explode when I saw Disneyland."

"What do you mean the campaign belongs to Brennus?" Marsh asked Damon.

Damon sat down and leaned his back against the fountain.

"My quest has come to an end," Damon said with res
ignation.

"Liar," Coop spat. "The spirits are moving into the Black right now."

"They are," Damon said, sounding tired. "Without me." He made a move to stand up, but Marsh kept the sword pointed at his chest.

Damon sat back and gave him a dismissive wave. "You understand that has no power here."

Marsh held it on him just the same.

"The battle for the Morpheus Road is indeed imminent," Damon said. "But leading the charge will be Brennus, not I."

"I don't get it," Marsh said. "Why?"

"The spirits of the Blood are as loyal to him as those in the Black are to me," Damon said with resignation. "Centuries of planning have resulted in nothing more than my exchanging eternity in the Black for eternity in the Blood. So you see, whatever pitiful revenge you exact with your fists is but a trifle to me."

"So that's it?" Coop asked. "Brennus takes over and you're just . . . done?"

Damon glanced up at the statue of Alexander, as if it stood in silent judgment.

"As in life . . . yes."

"Oh no," Coop snarled as he lunged at Damon and picked him up by his breastplate. "You can't just walk away."

"You may prefer that I be destroyed, but as you have seen, the poleax has no power here. I am afraid my sen
tence will be to remain in the Blood. That is, until Brennus destroys the Morpheus Road, and in spite of his amateurish military skills, I have no doubt that he will succeed."

Coop screamed in rage and threw Damon back to the ground.

Damon hit hard,
facefirst
. He spit dirt, coughed, and
said, "Is this how you plan to spend what little time you have left?"

"If Brennus is such an amateur, why do you think he'll succeed?" Marsh asked.

"Because he has the brute strength that comes with num
bers. He will lose millions of souls knowing he has millions more to draw from . . . an inelegant strategy, to say the least."

"And what strategy would you have used?" Marsh asked.

"Who cares?" Coop bellowed.

"I am a general," Damon said with pride. "A tactician. You may see me as brutal but I treat each battle like a game of chess that requires strategy and cunning."

"While people die around you," Coop said, scoffing.

"People die in battle, yes, but death is not the ultimate
goal. Wars are waged over territory or power or riches—"

"Or glory," Marsh said.

Damon wiped the dirt from his face and said, "Yes, you are correct, Seaver. I sought glory. But no matter what you may believe, mankind would have survived my adventur
ing. Changed perhaps, but I would not have brought about the end of days."

"And Brennus will?" Marsh asked.

"His goals are very different than mine. Where I sought glory, he seeks chaos."

"What's the difference?" Coop scoffed. "He can't win a battle in the Light any more than you can. I don't care how many spirits he's got behind him."

"
Agreed. He would not triumph in the Light . . . if the Light were his objective."

"It's not?" Coop asked quickly.

"What other objective is there?" Marsh asked with trepidation.

"Brennus has accumulated the evil of untold souls,"

Damon cautioned. "Even I shudder at his dark thoughts. His aim is to conquer the place that holds the collected wis
dom and knowledge of mankind. It is the final destination of every completed soul."