Silver Gray Book II, Sylvia Trick-Sword
Author's Intro: This is the second portion of Silver Gray, the story of the Claymore Sylvia and those lives that touched hers. It begins three years after book one and approximately thirty years before the manga begins with Clare meeting Raki. As there are inevitable references to the events of book one, readers are encouraged to read that tale before beginning this one. This story will deal heavily with the effects and aftermath of Luciela's awakening, an event that received little detail in the manga. It is not intended to conflict with canonical events.
First Thrust – Clouded Beckoning
The low ebb and flow of the fickle wind brought the tang of yoki through the air. It was strong here, filling that strange other sense possessed by half-human half-yoma, a continual presence that did not fade as it did in other places. So it always was in the region of Sutafu, where the organization made its home. Sylvia knew this well, she recalled it from those very first years when she had been only a trainee and not a warrior. They were not kind memories those, but then, it was rare for a Claymore to have anything pleasant in her past, perhaps even impossible. That was a truth Sylvia accepted.
Returning here was strange, to this land filled with yoki, a yoki unlike that which diffused in the air of other lands. It came not from yoma in this place, not from the murderous impulses of those demon beings, but from half-human half-yoma alone. That did not make the yoki any more pleasant, but it did give the very air a frightful familiarity, a sense of blending that seemed somehow improper to Sylvia. I do not think we were meant to be so concentrated as this, she considered. Training might make it necessary, but like the yoma we come from, solitude is our way. Considering this as she walked the road she shook her head briefly. Is that the truth? Or do I simply fear to stay close to others after the many years alone. She was uncertain, and turned her thoughts to other matters.
It was only the second time she had traveled back to the organization's base in her entire career. The only time previous had been five years ago, when she had brought back a pair of swords found by fishermen in a river, gravemarkers washed away in a spring flood. If not for that unusual event she would have never returned at all. There was no reason to, Sylvia knew well. Only the highest tier of warriors ever received orders directly from the organization, and even that was unusual. There was little business for Claymores in Sutafu, the yoma avoided this place mostly, they were not stupid, and the men in black handled the business of each warrior.
Now we are all called back at once, Sylvia shook her head as she probed at that truth once again, turning it delicately about in her mind, and wondering. Why? She had learned the truth by piecing together stories from travelers, from merchants and other humans on the roads and even two other warriors, met in passing. Every warrior called back to the organization's headquarters, and all given the order to arrive on the same day. So far as Sylvia knew, and as a warrior with thirteen years experience she knew more than most, it was unprecedented. Never before has this happened, to bring us all together. I can see no reason why, and many good reasons not to. The organization was built on the strength of blades, but also reputation and Sylvia had learned this, through the crisis she had suffered past. From her own posting, in the west, it had been a journey of over a month and a half, and several warriors would have to come yet greater distances. Three months travel in total, and in that time there would be no one to slay the yoma in her own region, or any other. All across the continent villages would suffer, trade would grind down, and yoma would feast. There would be a chaotic retaking afterward, and many would curse the organization and the silver-eyed witches. Some men might even dare to take up arms against the organization. Most of the warriors would scoff at such a thing, but Sylvia had learned that it could be a true menace. Humanity will hate us for this, and it shall make everything harder. The men in black would not make these sacrifices for no reason, so why? What is so important as to call us all together here?
It was late in the day now, and the sun hung low in the sky behind Sylvia as she approached the facility where she, like all the other half-human half-yoma warriors, had been changed and trained. She could feel the yoki of a great many warriors before her, the greatest concentration of power she had ever felt before. It grew clearer with each step, and soon she would be able to make out the signature of individuals within that mass. The Claymore knew she would be among the last to arrive, perhaps even the last. It was not by design, she had no intention of being late or not being prepared, but there had been an accident on the road this morning, and so she had been delayed waiting with a farmer thrown from his horse, dressing the wound as best she could and staying until another man came by and she could turn him over to his care. It had not been kindness, exactly, that moved Sylvia to do such a thing, but a sense of duty shared among travelers. I am numb to many pains now; she treaded in her regret, but not yet heartless. I would not turn away when it cost me nothing but a little time. She tried not to think on what other warriors might have done or not done. We all have our own way of holding ourselves in this place.
The road opened up into a wide flattened field, the grass pounded down by the endless trod of trainee Claymores. Those trainees were not here now, but the field was busier than it had ever been. Loosely scattered about, alone or in small groups, were the patches of white that marked out each of the organization's half-human half-yoma warriors. They did not in any way take up the full space of the field, vast gaps stretched between them, but Sylvia could feel the sense of crowding here. This place was not truly meant to hold so many of them.
And how many are we? Sylvia wondered. She began a count, not with her eyes, but with that other sense, the yoki sense, feeling each pattern and flicker of essence. It was a quick thing, for though her sense for yoki was far from the best among them, at this distance such a thing could be done easily, and Sylvia had an eye to take in things wide and narrow. Forty-two, she noted. We are forty-two, counting myself. Five are missing, but which ones? A little deduction provided part of it. Numbers Forty-one, forty-four, and forty-five are not here of course. Those warriors served in the northwest, the furthest place on the continent from this land, and with few roads and many mountains between them and the outside. No doubt it had been considered too much trouble to call them here. The other two were more curious, and Sylvia was at a loss until she realized something unexpected. There were not enough powerful presences. I sense only seven with the strength of single digits, when there should be nine. She could feel the powerful yoki of the number three warrior, a presence she recognized even from a distance, for she had served together with that woman not seven months gone, but nothing stronger. Where are the number one and number two? Does this thing we are called for involve them somehow? It was a puzzle that sent dark bells of warning ringing through the warrior's mind. She did not like unusual things, for it was in the unusual things that warriors' lives ended. Nevertheless, that was a matter for later, when the men in black chose to address them all. For now, Sylvia had happier goals in mind as she walked down among her brethren.
As she descended the low slope Sylvia was meant with many strange and sometimes even disgusted looks from the assembled warriors. She kept her own face easily composed, having expected this, even becoming used to it over the course of the past three years. There were whispers as well, and she caught a few, no doubt meant to be overheard given that they all knew each others' preternaturally adept hearing. 'Sylvia Short-Sword' they whispered in those conspiratorial tones, giving her the unusual name she had been labeled with. Confusion and the anger that could flow from confusion were behind that name, but Sylvia understood its source. It came from difference, something that many among them feared, though it was not acknowledged. The organization tries to make us all the same, warriors stamped out from a transhuman mold. We are all still wildly different on the inside, but they have shaped us to present the same face to the world. That I violate that scares many. It was indeed obvious, for Sylvia, unlike all the other silver-eyed, silver-blond haired, white-uniformed warriors, carried a shield on her left arm and had a sword that was not a claymore belted to her left hip. It was a broad-bladed sword, single-edged and slightly longer than her arm, and the organization's granted symbol was not on it. A human sword, that weapon was, and so it was considered inappropriate by many, though they could not have said why. Sylvia was proud that it was a human sword, for it was Tyrin's sword, and even as it pained her to recall why she bore it, there was nothing else she carried with even close to such pride.
Not all of the Claymores looked at Sylvia with suspicion. Many gave her brief smiles, or little waves, or some other, simple acknowledgement. These were the warriors she had met in her service, and they were numerous indeed, perhaps half of those present. It was a heartening thing to see, but it brought forth another, somber recollection. So many have I served with, she recalled. Thirteen years, so long, yet so short. There are these, and there are also the fallen. One face in particular rose above the other recollections, a head held easily in a hand, a quirky, spiteful smile on the face. Lynne, Sylvia's inner voice was bitter. I am thirty now, as you wished, but how many have died where I survived? That birthday had come on the long journey to this place, and now, reflecting, Sylvia wondered, looking at the warriors about her, how many of those present would see her age, or past it. She was not the oldest among the Claymores, but only a handful stood older than she at a mere thirty years. It was a desolate thing to look upon.
A shining beacon broke though such desolate thoughts, as the warrior turned to meet another face from her past, this one alive and well.
"Sylvia!" a voice bright and smooth and lovely cried out.
"It is good to see you Racquel," Sylvia turned to meet the younger warrior, holding out a fist to meet the one extended toward her.
A bright smile beamed back at her from a luminous face. While the three years since their meeting had not changed Sylvia at all, the nature of the un-aging half-human half-yoma, Racquel had matured even as she remained young. Her teenage face had become that of a true woman, and it had only made her more beautiful. Almost, Sylvia was jealous, but if there was a moment when such a feeling threatened it was buried instantly beneath the warmth of reunion.
"Three years then," Racquel smiled, her serene and lovely voice satisfied. "A long time, but you look well. The sword suits you, you've changed a little to carry it, I think."
"Perhaps," Sylvia held her arms steady; she had taught herself to avoid fingering Tyrin's blade when it was mentioned. That was improper and foolish. "I think you have changed further, you are a true warrior now, and strong. Do you mind telling me your number?"
"I am number eighteen now," Racquel answered, confirming Sylvia's prediction that she would become a stronger warrior. The older Claymore suspected Racquel would rise farther still, in time. She had a grace and serenity that served her very well in battle. "And you? Surely that sword brought you a new number as well as a name."
"The organization has seen fit to make me number thirty-one," Sylvia replied, though without pride. Her skills had increased it was true, but even though she had now mastered Tyrin's sword and the human swordmaster's way of fighting, it was of less use against the everyday opponents of a yoma hunter. Not that she truly cared what her number was. She would hunt yoma regardless of rank, and that was enough to be content with. Sylvia did wonder though, if the organization might not have given her a higher number if she was younger. Surely they do not expect me to live many years more, she recalled the dark suspicion. But I will disappoint them in that. I bear too many memories to simply give up.
"So you two are friends Racquel?" a new voice, easy, focused, and casually confident, interjected.
Sylvia turned and noticed that another warrior stood beside Racquel, someone she had simply overlooked in her rush to greet her old acquaintance. She was fairy ordinary looking, having a simple, satisfied face, everyday pretty figure, and ordinary build for a half-human half-yoma. Even her hair was simple, cut to neck-length and swept to each side to form a smooth line all around her head. Had she been human she would have looked like any farmwife or town lady. Except she was not human, and that hair was not everyday brown but a shining platinum blond, as close to white as Sylvia had ever seen on a Claymore, and it shattered the illusion of simplicity in a shocking fashion. It made her wonder why this warrior kept the look; she must know its incongruity.
Racquel answered the question for Sylvia. "We served together three years ago, it was a difficult time. We share a bond, us, and those who did not survive." She cast her eyes down for a moment, an action Sylvia mirrored.
"Ah," the other warrior looked slightly abashed. "I guess it's always like that," she shook her head slightly, but then looked straight at Sylvia and held out her right hand. "I'm Caitlin, number twenty-two. I've heard about you from Racquel and others. I've wanted to meet you, Sylvia Short-Sword," she smiled.
Sylvia paused for a second, and then reached out her own hand and clasped Caitlin's. She seems in earnest, which is strange; I do not know her at all. It was puzzling to Sylvia, but she supposed another warrior might share her curiosity for the doings of their kind. It was nice to be met without hostility for a change. "A question, if I may," Sylvia asked. "Racquel, Caitlin, you two have been here longer than I, does anyone know the reason why we are called here?"
"No," Racquel replied, and Caitlin simply shook her head slightly. "Not even the single digits know," the lovely Claymore continued. "I spoke to several."
"There must be a very serious reason we were all called here," Sylvia explained, the worry deliberately kept back from her voice, but she knew Racquel could tell she was serious. "I have never heard of even ten warriors being gathered for a single task, so what could bring us all together?"
"We hunt yoma, and sometimes the awakened," Racquel mused. "That is the only thing we do. So shouldn't it be that?"
"All of us to fight together against some foe?" Sylvia felt a cold sliver of dread crawl deep into her at the mere thought of something like that.
"It could be…" Caitlin's face was clouded, but her words did not hesitate. "Perhaps Riful? …Or Isley?"
That was a truly grim suggestion, and Sylvia felt fear at hearing it. Even having no more than rumors to go on, and no experience with truly powerful awakened ones behind her, she could comprehend the terror of those legendary beings. Yet as she considered it instantly revealed itself to be an impossibility. The things she had learned from Tyrin about war and campaigns clearly ruled against such an action. "They might indeed gather us all together to challenge one of the Abyssal Ones," she acknowledged Caitlin's idea and her forthrightness in bringing up such a frightful possibility. "But they would not bring us here. Riful dwells in the west among the mountains and Isley in the north, upon freezing glaciers. They would have assembled us in those regions; it would be pointless to have us march weeks out of our way."
"Could there be a similar threat here?" Racquel's fluid voice was hesitant, tentative. "An army of yoma? Some gathering of the awakened?"
"Something like that we would have heard of traveling here," Caitlin noted. "An army of yoma would send humans fleeing across the continent, as would any march of the awakened." She grimaced. "Someday hell may open up and such an army march, but it is not now."
"Yes, I do believe you are correct, and thankfully yoma and awakened ones hate each other enough that such a thing is unlikely," Sylvia kept her face perfectly placid. Caitlin did not know, and did not need to know, of Katherine, and the army she had made. That was one secret she hoped Racquel too had preserved. It was not mistrust of her fellow warriors, but any among them might awaken, and then such knowledge would become a weapon against the organization. "Yet, a dangerous target might be out there," Sylvia recalled what she had learned walking here. "The number one and number two warriors are not among us. Could they have gone rogue, or awakened? I could see us all being assembled to attack two such powerful enemies, though I wonder what use I would be against such an opponent."
Racquel offered Sylvia a smile. "In some ways, you are much stronger than your number, Sylvia. The top two warriors are Luciela and Rafaela, I have not met them, but I heard from other single digits. They rarely go on missions, and supposedly they are sisters, but no one knows for sure."
"Sisters?" Sylvia and Caitlin spoke together, united in surprise. Almost all half-human half-yoma were lone girls, taken when they were the only survivors of yoma attack or some other tragedy. Siblings were an impediment, for a sibling old enough could take responsibility for the other, preventing the organization from claiming them. Sylvia knew that did not always work, she was tasked to find Tyrin's younger sister Celeca, likely still an organization trainee, but those two had been remarkably far apart in age and Tyrin had been far away. To find two girls who were both young enough, had no other relatives, and had managed to survive together was very unlikely. That they had proved strong enough to be number one and number two was even more unexpected. A virulent suspicion took hold of Sylvia as she ran this through her mind. The organization was something she fought under, but not something she trusted. Half-human half-yoma were pawns to the men in black, valuable pawns perhaps, but still pawns. Luny had practically declared it to her. Something is special about these two single digit sisters, and I think it concerns why we are here. Have they awakened together? Please no.
Bravado was an affliction that plagued many warriors deeply, but not Sylvia. She did not want to face two awakened ones of such power, it seemed suicide. If that is the order, I will go, but I hope fervently it is not.
"Could those two have gone rogue?" Caitlin asked Racquel, even her poised voice faltering some.
"I don't think it's likely," Racquel answered. "I mean, if the organization really does watch them closely, how could the black card have been missed?"
"That's true," Sylvia felt a little relief. "All single digits are watched with greater scrutiny than other warriors, and few things could threaten the number one and two such that they go over their limits by accident." She did not feel confident, but it seemed unlikely. "I do not have any good ideas then, and this has not been a very heartening exchange. Perhaps it is better to simply wait and not brood over dark possibilities."
"Sometimes that is best," Caitlin nodded, and Sylvia felt some small glimmer of affection for the other warrior. She thought they might work well together in the future, should it ever happen. "The men in black are up on the ridge," the forthright warrior pointed a white-gloved arm to the dark silhouettes, glowing with the last light of the sun about to set behind the trees.
"More than I've ever seen together," Racquel breathed, and Sylvia nodded in silent agreement.
As she watched, the men in black standing before the dug in doors that marked the myriad entrances to the vast network of cells, rooms, and halls sunk beneath the ground of Sutafu that formed headquarters parted, and a single one stepped forward. Two warriors walked behind him.
Sylvia did not recognize the man in black, and at this distance it was hard to make out much difference in the features of those scowling men with their held in expressions in any case, but she could see the resemblance between the two warriors. One had long hair and the other short, but otherwise they were much the same. So, these are the sisters, Sylvia noted. I cannot sense their yoki! She realized with a start. Why? Have they suppressed it completely, as if trying to hide? It took a great deal of effort and control to do that, Sylvia knew it from her own experience. She could not fathom why anyone would do it all the time. It was not without consequences, a warrior who suppressed could lose their awareness of the demon half within, and when they needed to call on it, they might lack the familiar resolve to hold back the rush. She had heard of that happening, had even felt something like it herself, after repressing her own yoki for two days once, when hunting a canny yoma.
The man in black motioned Luciela and Rafaela to a wide patch of open stony ground before him, so that they stood some distance from the line of men in black, closer to the warriors who waited below.
"Warriors!" the man in black began, raising his arms, calling all to look and focus on him.
Tell us then, Sylvia waited, her hand twitching, uncomfortable, wanting to move away, to grasp her sword hilt. Why have you called us here? Why must every warrior be present? It cannot be good, the only good news we ever receive is no news. That is our life. She knew this, accepted it, but she saw a new darkness coming now, and wished she could meet it prepared.