Guyver Dark Age, a guyver fanfic

DARK AGE

Dark Age

R E V E R S I O N E D

A Guyver Bio-Booster Armour Fan Fiction

By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)

Life…

An Infinite Energy

"At the dawn of Creation, The Gods arrived on Earth,

Now, we shall know their awful legacy and how it affects Mankind."

Part One - The Heart

Outside the window the palisades pierced the moonlight, the night chariots pale glimmer playing on the points of the wooden fence like cavorting fairies.

She sighed.

Burrowed deep within the down comforters and fleecy blankets she couldn't find sleep. It eluded her. She had many worries for one so young. She had overheard her father discussing her betrothal to the son of a neighbouring lord, her land was at war and recently she had become a woman.

Over the next two years she would need to learn how to become a suitable wife and mother. For another year she would become accustomed to the running of the household on the estate of her father-in-law to be and on the day of her fifteenth birthday she would be wed.

She despised the idea. The thought that her father would almost sell her off as chattel to the neighbouring family turned her stomach. However she could say naught about this as she was still considered to be a child.

Lord Sutton swore. Not loud enough to wake his household, but enough to redden the face of the maid that he had just dismissed. She quickly scurried off.

Curse that pox-ridden son of a whore. He had his hands tied and he couldn't do anything to remedy the situation.

It had all fallen apart when his wife Miranda had died in childbirth. And with her, his stillborn son Lucas. All he had was Gwen, the image of her mother, in visage and temperament.

And now that roach-spawned Arghill had played his cards. Sutton was a lord, yet his counting house was bare. Arghill knew this. Arghill had a son. And that was the dilemma.

For a large dowry, Arghill had 'requested' that Sutton's remaining jewel, Gwen be married to his son. Worse was that the Sutton name would die with him, and when he passed over the River Styx, his land and his daughter's would fall to Arghill and his line.

Sutton swore.

Sleep did not grace the Sutton homestead that evening.

It was 780 AD. Offa ruled the Kingdom of Mercia. The Kingdom of Mercia stretched from the now Worcestershire to the West Midlands. The British Isle's had been free of Roman occupation for over three hundred years, the Archbishop was established at Canterbury and the Northmen raiders seemed to be lapsing in their pillage.

Life was more or less good.

A year passed.

Sutton swung his heavy broadsword in a downward arc, his opponent, being small and lithe, quickly moving under his guard and placing her long dirk against the tender flesh exposed between the latches of his breastplate.

Sutton sagged his shoulders, signalling an end to the evening's proceedings. He resheathed his broadsword, checking it on its way into the scabbard for nicks and dents.

Moving his broad fingers to his sides, he began to unlatch the heavy buckles that secured his armour.

Small hands touched his and he sank into his large backed chair. The past year wore heavily on the man. His once golden brown hair was deeply flecked with grey; his once sparkling blue eye's sunken deep within his flesh.

As the nimble fingers undid the cumbersome latches, his mind wandered. The past year had been a nightmare, first his daughters' scorn of him, and then her understanding. Sutton respected his daughter, her mind as keen as that of her mothers, quick and sharp. Though Sutton would have been well within his rights to simply ship the child off to Arghill, the thought sickened him as much as it did his daughter. He had no need to explain his dealings to his child yet he felt compelled to. So he had.

And slowly his daughter had become his chief advisor, unofficially. As Arghill had placed pressure on the freeholders that Sutton employed and they fled in the night, gold become rare. The thought of serfs had been mulled over and discarded, Sutton and his daughter both believed that when humanity was forced to live at the level of dogs, it was a slight on humanity itself.

So as Arghill pressed his demands - long ago had they ceased to be requests - for Gwen to marry his son; and his henchman and bully-boys frightened and beat the freeholders, the management of the Sutton homestead had fallen to Gwen and the few loyal retainers that had served with the Sutton line for generations.

The old man sighed.

The nimble fingers stopped, and a warm hand was placed upon the old man's brow. Sutton turned his head to look deep within the green eyes of his daughter. It shocked him, how within a year, his girl child had developed into a woman, the spitting image of her late mother. Often late at night his eyes would shed unbidden tears.

Gwen, looking deep into the old man's smoky blue eyes embraced him.

Another sleepless night, the moon playing across the palisades. It gave her a measure of comfort, the sheen of the moon, something that for all the evils of man and beast could not be sullied.

Her father was dying. She knew this. Often now she could hear his wracking cough long into the night, trying to stop its deep echo's within the house.

She often found blood on his collar.

When her father died, willing or not, she would be taken to Arghill and kept there, against her will.

Offa could do nothing to help; her father had beseeched him for aid or intervention. Arghill had the money in his coffers to hire the savage Northmen.

It was upon receiving this message, six months past, that Sutton had made his daughter the dirk that she now watched the moonlight reflect upon.

Unspoken was the blade's purpose, yet screamed between their minds.

The Great Ring of Stones was alight with many fires. The Druids had seen the future in their auguries. The Hero would rise again.

The time was ripe; all that had to be done was the picking of the fruit.

Sutton straddled his horse and looked out over his lands from the highest elevation that they provided. Things had been quiet for the most part over the last six months. He had managed to teach his daughter all he could of the arts of fighting and war, and had hidden his illness from her.

Or so he had thought until last night.

She had entered his rooms and found him sitting upright, his body heaving and shaking, the coughing more powerful than before. She had rubbed his back as the coughs had lessened and they had talked. He had told her of her mother and her mother's family, him in his youth and his family, the Sutton's.

He had told her of how he had sent a message to the King and had asked that she be declared his rightful heir. He had told her that he believed in her and that he was proud of her.

He told her how much he loved her.

He smiled as he remembered.

"Gwen, you must promise me that you shall be always your own person, never fall in line with another's beliefs if they conflict to your own. Be strong always and know that I, your mother and brother will be and forever are, proud of you, and know well, that we love you."

They had both cried, he for the first time in his life unashamedly.

She had fallen asleep in his arms, as he stroked her blonde hair.

As the sun had risen he had left her, curled upon his bed and made for the stable. His horse Brutus had welcomed him with a snort. Clad in his furs, his broadsword on his hip, Sutton placed his palm against the horse's neck, in silent communion with the beast.

After some time, Brutus nickered and nudged his master in the chest. Sutton grabbed the creature's ear and scratched. Brutus licked Sutton's face.

For some reason they both knew this to be their last ride together.

Brutus nickered, followed quickly by a snort, berating his master's flight of fancy. Sutton patted his mount on the flank and breathed in deeply. The sound was now audible, the breath struggling with the water.

He nudged his horse with his heels and they set off across his pastures, surveying the realm for one last time.

Gwen awoke, deep in her father's coverlets. He was nowhere to be seen. His sword was gone also. She knew that he had gone.

She had heard it; the head leaned up against his chest, as the sobs wracked her body. The conflict between the elements in his body. The water in his lungs.

He was dying, and he had left to say goodbye to the land he loved.

Tears sprung to her eyes again and she slumped into the pillows, their feathers muffling her tears.

She opened her eyes when a gentle hand placed itself upon her shoulder.

"Gwen, child?" a kind voice asked.

Standing beside her was Rebecca, her nurse. Rebecca had delivered Gwen and watched her grow into the woman before her. She had been best friends with Gwen's mother and was the glue that oftimes held the remaining Sutton's to reality.

"He's gone." Gwen choked, burying her head upon Rebecca's chest.

Knowing what the child meant, Rebecca attempted to soothe her.

The kitchen was warm, its large hearth casting its heat across the room, bathing the table in its warmth and illuminating all but the darkest corners. The sky had clouded over just after noon and the Master was not home.

Rebecca turned the large bread he was cooking with one hand and stirred the thick venison stew with the other. The weather was turning and winter would descend upon the land of Mercia soon. She sighed. From what she had seen herself of late and from what the child had told her, the Master would be with the Lord Christ before the spring came.

The scraping behind her finally broke through to her conscious mind and she walked to the kettle that hung over to the side of the fire, swinging it back over the flames.

"That, my girl, is the most annoying thing for you to have picked up off your father."

Gwen looked up from the small whetstone and her dirk, the scrapping softening and finally dissipating.

"When your Ma was in labour with you he ruined all the good knives in the kitchen, and started on his broadsword. Luckily your newborn screams broke through his nervousness and he was saved the cost of reforging it."

Gwen smiled at this and placed the stone and blade upon the table. "It is obvious I am worried, is it not?"

"Quite child, yet he has Brutus with him and that horse is as bloody minded as the man he carries. Together both could ride through Hell."

Gwen stood up and walked to the big woman, hugging her tightly. "Thank you Auntie," she said, walking over to the door and opening the top half, to gaze into the incoming storm for the fifth time since the bread was placed on the fire.

Rebecca sighed and returned to her cooking. The whole family was alike, strong of will and heart. Even that horse.

The grey mist had crept further up the valley since Gwen had last looked from the door. She stood there, her eyes and hears searching the wet silver air for any noise or ripple. As she turned to close the door, a soft clatter could be heard.

She turned to look again. Faintly and uneven, the noise sounded again, the mist parting to reveal the large black horse. Gwen stepped from the doorway into the chill air, moving slowly towards the horse and its rider.

Rebecca had moved her pots from the flame, wiping her large hands on her apron, adding more flour, rather than dispersing it. She made to scold the child yet saw the girl, standing stock still, like a statue. Looking up at the horse, she did the first thing that came to mind. She called her husband.

Her husband, the blacksmith and odd job man, Travis came around from the woodshed, his large frame covered in furs to ward of the chill with his leather apron in one hand, axe in the other. His long thick red hair streamed behind him, his wrinkled face, displaying shock as he saw the object of attention.

Brutus was riderless and bloody, cuts covering his flanks and a broken arrow shaft protruding from his side.

The large horse shook himself, and knowing he had the full attention of his onlookers, whinnied in rage.

This sound of fury, echoing from the beast her father had called friend, awakened Gwen, who in quick strides ran to the horse and grabbing the saddle horn easily vaulted into the seat.

Needing no more encouragement, the large horse turned and galloped off into the mist.

Travis entered the kitchen, ushering his wife before him. Telling her to ready water and a bath, he grabbed his think cloak and his axe, and headed towards the stables at a trot.

The horse seethed under the young woman, the heat in both its motion and its breath scaring her. She had seen Brutus like this once, two years ago. When Father had told the beast of her mother's death, the horse had destroyed its stall and its cry's could be heard throughout the valley.

Pushing the tears back, they pressed on.

The mist cleared as they entered a clearing, the deep grass wet with dew. The shadows were overtaking the daylight as the horse stopped. Gwen gently climbed down his side, not wanting to affect his wounds and walked to where the darkness was thickest. There lying bloody and beaten was her father's body; his sword drove deep into the earth his knuckles white as they clasped the hilt. Falling to her knees, she cradled her father's head in her lap, gazing down at his pale and sunken face.

His mouth hung slightly open, and she saw something within. As she removed the object, a small piece of paper, Brutus nickered behind her.

The body that rested in her lap coughed and its eyes snapped open.

"Father?" she asked, fearing what she knew was to come.

"Gwenivere..." he coughed the blood flecking his lips. She dropped the paper and placed her hands on either side of his head.

The large horse reared and screamed at the shadows.

The sky's opened and the rain fell.

Part Two - The Will

Travis kicked the door of the kitchen open. Rebecca looked up from her hands, her face tearstained. Her husband held the small body of Gwen cradled in his arms, her father's sword in her arms like a doll. Both were soaking wet. Travis had wrapped the child and sword in the cloak. Wordlessly looking at his wife, he handed her the girl, his eye's saying more than words ever could. He turned and walked back into the darkening afternoon.

Dreams assaulted the girl as she slept fitfully, wrapped in many blankets and furs. Her face contorted as the demons of her subconscious played through her sleeping mind.

Rebecca sat in the shadows, a lone candle casting its solitary light and comfort over both her face and the girl's.

Travis had returned with the body of Sutton sometime after dusk. Drying his friend's body, cleaning up the blood and stitching the wounds had taken a couple of hours. He had then wrapped his body in furs and left again, the clatter of hooves following him.

Now in the harsh darkness before the dawn, she could hear horses in the courtyard.

Standing and brushing the wrinkles from her dress, she hurried toward the dooryard.

Travis stood next to a horse, which he had obviously just dismounted. With him were three others, still mounted. Rebecca recognized them as freeholders from down the valley, men loyal to Sutton and his line. Quickly finishing what he was saying, the men wheeled their horse and trotted out through the gate.

Travis turned to Rebecca. "After dressing his Lordship, I went down to the first village and told Rand what had happened. I returned to the glen and he went and summoned Jon and Hamish. I just stopped for a bite and then I am heading to Offa. How fares the child?"

"She sleeps, yet not peacefully. She is haunted."

"It is expected."

Travis wrapped his large arm around his wife and they entered the kitchen.

In the harsh light of day the scene was gruesome. Four bodies lay scattered across the glen. Two bore the marks of a sword; another had a dagger deep in his eye. All bore marks of being trampled. All were dressed in rags and appeared to be brigands, their weapons rusty and notched.

The magistrate that Offa had sent with Travis had noted all this and had left. The remaining men, along with the newly arrived Travis, threw the men into a pile and set them alight.

Travis stooped down, something catching his eye. It was a small scrap of paper. Picking it up, he read the neat script, which he recognized as that of Sutton. All that could be made out was:

'that my daug--r b- made my le--l and rec-ogni-ed h-ir.'

The remaining ink was stained and faded due to the rain and dew.

Travis cursed. Why had his friend Sutton ever taught him to read?

Rebecca had sat with the child for sometime after her husband had left. Them feeling the need to have her hands occupied she returned to the kitchen. Pounding the bread dough rhythmically against the thick wooden tabletop helped to clear her mind.

Poor girl.

The girl awoke some days later, pale and drawn. She sat quietly at the table, eating in silence the rich dark bread and thick hearty stew placed before her. Occasionally she would sip from the tankard of water in front of her.

Neither Travis nor Rebecca wished to bring up the painful fact that they were sure was lurking quietly behind her green eyes. That her father was dead.

Travis sat across from Gwen; his eyes downcast as the child finished her meal. Rebecca would occasionally glance over her shoulder at the pair as she worked. She gave vent to an inaudible sigh. They had all suffered since his lordship had gone riding. Gwen had told Rebecca that her father had left to confront Arghill. Sutton had intended to ride the freeholding. He had not returned.

Not one of them wished to see the pain behind the girl's green eyes.

Rebecca wiped her floury hands on her apron and gathered the crockery from in front of the child.

Working at the bench she remembered what her husband had showed her. The scrap of parchment with Sutton's handwriting. The letter to Offa that the child had enthused about that fateful afternoon. Both husband and wife had discussed this long into the night, Travis leaving early the next morning to talk with the freeholders. Now they needed to tell the child. Rebecca sat down at the table, her husband on her left, the girl on her right.

Travis reached for his tankard, taking a deep pull of the beer. He placed the tankard down, the foamy residue leaving a trail in his bristly red beard.

"Gwen, child, we have something we need to tell you," he began.

"My father is still in state at the church is he not?"

"Yes, dear," said Rebecca, "he is being held in state until you are ready to have him interred."

Gwen smiled at the pair who were like family to her and reached a small hand out to each one.

Travis looked up at her, tears in his eyes. The girl had her fathers steel in her, she was strong. He decided the best way was to just say it.

"They killed him because of the note to Offa."

The girl looked him in the eyes. She then turned and looked Rebecca in the eyes. "Tell me," she said her voice hard.

Travis reached into his belt pouch and removed the scrap of paper. He placed it in front of the girl. "I found this after we moved the bodies. The damn magistrate was only concerned with his comfort."

The girl was fixated on the parchment. Travis continued.

"Rand, Jon and Hamish have been around the freeholding as have I. The freeholders offer support to you, and are prepared to make Arghill pay."

Gwen's voice was dry. "Do you have proof it was Arghill?"

"None mistress, apart from the fact that the brigands were starving and poorly armed. Tis possible they were employed as such, due to the high probability that they would be slain. The cur would have no need to pay them."

The girl looked up. Her face was hard, as was her voice. The thirteen-year-old girl was different, the past few minutes being like the weight of years upon her shoulders.

Not another day had passed before he arrived. His grey stead prancing and his rich doublet and hose of the same grey. His short grey beard and long grey hair making him appear like a shade riding from the fog. The emaciated figure did little to dispel the illusion.

His grey liveried foot soldiers, four in number, stood around like they owned the place. Travis, exiting the smithy where he was working on new shoes for Brutus, saw them arrive and walked slowly towards the grey clad man.

"Welcome to Sutton, your Lordship." Travis said bowing.

The man looked down his nose at Travis and said in an imperious tone "Inform your mistress I wish to speak to her."

"Yes my Lord," replied Travis, pushing down the urge to spit on the mange ridden bastard.

Travis walked towards the kitchen, and leaned through the open top of the door.

"Rebecca, darling, could you tell Gwen that his 'Lordship' Arghill wishes to speak with her." The 'lordship' was said with contempt.

Rebecca hurried off to find Gwen.

Travis stood beside the kitchen doorway, arms folded. It was clear that no one was going to get past him.

Gwen was in her father's study. She was against the idea of giving her family lands to that wastrel and his equally slimy son. For sometime now she had been going through the law book and edicts her father had. Part of her 'training' had been the swordsmanship, another the study of law. She knew her father had been sick, yet obviously he knew he was not long for the world and had begun to train her for the running of the freehold. No wonder he had made her ride the fields with Travis and sent her with Rebecca to the merchants and fairs.

Her father had clearly planned ahead.

There was a knock on the door, and Rebecca poked her head in. "Mistress Gwen? Arghill is in the dooryard and wishes to speak with you."

"Please Rebecca, just call me Gwen, I am the same person." Her face hardened before she said, "I will be along momentarily."

Rebecca nodded and hurried off.

Gwen pulled her black shawl off the back of the high backed chair and placed it over her head like a shroud, covering her rich blonde hair which currently sat in a tight bun. Her long black dress was rumpled slightly so she stood and straightened the creases. Reaching down to her ankle and lifting the hem, she checked that her dirk was in place. Smiling she left towards the kitchen and the meeting with the man that had shattered her world.

Gwen walked out a way onto the stone that ended in the mud of the dooryard, her face concealed deep within the black shawl. Travis stood behind her to the left and Rebecca was quietly looking out from the kitchen, pretending to do work.

Arghill straightened in his saddle, his haughty look only disappearing marginally as he looked at the girl who he had come to address.

"Mistress Sutton, I wish to convey my condolences on the untimely passing of your father and extend to you the hospitality of my homestead in your no doubt trying time."

"I thank you my Lord," she curtsied as she replied, a sneer threatening to break her demure tone, "yet I regret I can not accept your hospitality at this time, being betrothed to your son, I fear it would go against the Church and the King."

"Got you," she said in her mind, watching the annoyance flutter across the man's face.

"Understood, my lady," he nearly seemed to choke on that, addressing this child as such, "yet know that any assistance you wish is the least I can do. Fare thee well." he finished as he turned his horse and trotted out of the door yard, his foot soldiers following.

Gwen watched them go and once they were out of earshot and sight, the large form of Travis stepped to where the horse had stood and spat on the ground.

"The least you can do, is die."

"My sentiments exactly," said Gwen.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Finally Travis spoke, "Mistress, that thing about the church and kings law, I have not heard of it."

"I wouldn't think you had Travis, it's quite old. The church part was simply the fact that living under the same roof as my 'betrothed'," the scorn was evident, "could be seen living in sin, the kings law was the fact the Offa agreed to the terms of the agreement my father was forced into."

Rebecca interjected, "But surely Arghill could subvert the King, Mistress?"

"Well, he could try, but having the church on my side will sway him. Offa will not go against God."

Gwen allowed herself a smile.

"Please, the both of you," she said as she made to retire, "just call me Gwen."

The litter was tied to the large war-horse. Travis had tried tying it to another smaller pony, but Brutus had bit it. When changing it for another pony, Brutus had bit him. Travis had considered punching the war-horse but understood the beasts desire to farewell his master.

The procession grew larger as it moved through the freeholding, Gwen, still in the black of mourning, leading the large war-horse by the bridle. Rebecca and Travis walked either side of the litter, as the other freeholders spread out behind them.

The priest, Father Jacobi, performed the final rites over Lord Oswin of Sutton.

The prayers and hymns echoed across the small churchyard that served the freehold, the bells tolling for lost souls.

The gathering had dispersed.

The rain had come, crying tears the young woman could not.

Gwen knelt in the dirt beside her father's grave, her dirk in her hand. She ran the sharp blade across her palm, her deep red blood dropping onto her father's grave, a tear from the heart. Her unspoken vow was echoed by the nickering of the large war-horse.

Gwen rose, crossing herself, Brutus shook his mane.

Off in the shadows of the church building, Father Jacobi watched.

As it turned out, Offa did as Gwen had said, and when Arghill tried to circumvent the law, the church jumped in and blocked his advances.

Time was very short; one year remained for Gwen at Sutton. When she turned fourteen she would be required to live in the Arghill Homestead, learning the ways of that household.

A time she did not look forward too.

So, she spent the year in training. Learning her numbers, practicing her letters and her swordplay. All facets of life at Sutton came under her nose, the daily structure, the planting schedule and the intimate secrets of the freeholders.

Gwen became as well loved as her late father, kind and fair, yet just. She would listen to all available evidence before passing judgement. The King heard of her deeds and charity and many new freeholders asked to work her land.

Arghill sat in his tower, fuming.

Brutus regained his strength and become the steed of his master's daughter. Occasionally the pair would ride to the clearing and sit watching the sun go down, each lost in their own memories.

Yet the seasons passed and Gwen grew older, in body and in mind. Her learning progressed until the sad day that saw her birth, and essentially, the death of the Sutton line and way of life.

The day dawned, cold and misty. The dawn bird's song was accompanied by the clattering of horse's hooves in the dooryard.

Arghill had arrived.

Drudgery. Or it seemed like it. Arghill maintained some semblance of being a good host, giving Gwen a maid and her own chambers.

That is where it ended. Her days were structured, planned out weeks in advance and the mind numbing tedium crept into her soul, cankering her with melancholia. Her maid Kasumi tried her best to bring Gwen out of this shell but the depression seemed too deep.

The mornings were concerned with her learning the kitchen work. Simple tasks. The head cook looked down on Gwen for whatever reason and gave her the low-end job, cleaning the grease catchers and peeling turnips, potatoes, or whatever root vegetable seemed handy.

Afternoons, after a bath, were occupied with other 'womanly' pursuits, such as embroidery and herb lore. Things Gwen had learnt at her mother's knee before her passing and then from Rebecca.

Rebecca.

And Travis.

Arghill had done one thing to Gwen that had unknowingly accelerated her spiral into herself. She had been effectively locked away from both Travis and Rebecca, her days regimented so as to broke no interference.

What she didn't know was the fact that Sutton had fallen into disrepair, Arghill kicking the couple out merely days after he had Gwen at his keep. The homestead she had grown up in was now a run down rat infested shell.

The reasons why Travis and Rebecca were not permitted at Arghill was so as to keep Rebecca oblivious. Arghill wanted to break her will, leave her a willing compliant wife-to-be to his son.

And then, when Kasumi, the young maid could not bear to see the girl she had come to love like a sister as she was, compared to how she had been, the maid took action.

She went to the freehold of Sutton.

The fieldwork was a change from running the homestead but both he and his wife had adjusted. Arghill had kicked them out of their home and subverted most of the freemen under pain of injury or death.

Travis had been an example to that.

Three months after the fateful day when they had been evicted, he had taken the concerns of the freeholders to Arghill, his being in control of Sutton land.

After speaking with Arghill and gaining no ground on the tariffs he imposed, Travis had asked to see the child that was almost his daughter. This request refused, he had asked why. He was beaten by some six of Arghill's soldiers. Not fighting back, aware that that could mean his death, Travis took the beating and was thrown bodily from the keep.

A day later, the freeholders went searching for their unspoken leader to find him bloodied and bruised in a ditch, covered in filth.

Now, three months on, Kasumi, clad in hooded great cloak made her way towards the hut that housed the couple. Her concern was enough to make her risk losing her status, low as it was, at the keep.

Her heart burned for this shell of a child.

Her knock on the door, echoed through the still night, seemingly loud enough to wake the ghouls from their rest.

A voice, female, once strong, yet now somewhat timid, crept through the tight wood of the door. "Who is there."

Kasumi could feel the fear in this voice, its loss of hope.

"Maid Kasumi, I bring news of Mistress Gwen."

That opened the door. Cautiously. The moonlight glinted on the hunting knife, held ready.

"I come unarmed and mean no harm," her voice cracked.

An arm pushed the knife away and a hand clasped the girls shoulder.

The female voice spoke again, stronger, more sure "Enter child, we mean no harm."

The girl entered.

Darkness, shattered by the spark of flint on steel and a naked flame, cast muted light over the cramped hut.

The once cheery, homely and warm face of Rebecca now carried a hint of fear, a lack of hope. The larger male figure had placed the knife in it's sheathe yet remained outside the glow of candlelight.

"Tell us of our girl" the male voice said, broken and disjointed. Kasumi had heard of this man, the one who had taken a beating from six guardsmen and lived to tell the tale as an example.

Kasumi sighed, tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.

She began.

In the predawn light Father Jacobi made his way back to the small church and the rectory in which he lived. The plans and work of his brethren crushed by a wastrel with more concern for his coffers and crotch then what the portents foretold.

He would be among the first to fall, Jacobi was sure of it.

Little by little, the shell receded and Gwen came back to the world. Her disbelief at the time she had spent trapped in her mind was quickly broken by her grief, the pain at what she believed was her folly, had led to occur.

Time and time again, Kasumi, led by a love for the girl fighting to regain her sanity, returned to the village and bore news back and forth from the couple to the child they treated as their own.

From her chest of possessions, under the false bottom, Travis had the foresight to install, the long dirk, crafted by her father was removed, its blade made ready.

The afternoons, once for embroidery and herb lore, became a time for practice. Clad in her undergarments, Gwen would practice the guards and blocks her father had taught her, while Kasumi, ever silent and loyal, embroidered for the pair.

The fire within was hidden however. Once aware again, Gwen was aware she was watched. Whenever she left her chambers, she was followed. When in plain sight and out of her chambers, she portrayed the defeated soul, withdrawn and solemn.

Kasumi they believed was safe. This belief was groundless.

Arghill was aware. He knew of the late night meetings in the village of the Sutton freehold. He had since the first time the traitorous wench had defied his will. He had planned for this. Bring the girl's hopes high, and then shatter them with a well-aimed stroke, breaking her will forever more.

Kasumi hurried through the main courtyard of Arghill Keep, her form staying hidden in the shadows. She had been very lucky. She had been later than expected. The payment to get out was the usual, a horrible price she paid. The guard stank of liquor and tumbling him was a vile experience. She had been lucky to arrive before his replacement arrived.

She hated the toll she paid, and if her mistress was aware, she would put a stop to these excursions to the freehold. Yet what Kasumi did was out of pity and love for the broken child she had come to see as a sister.

Climbing the stairs, head bowed, she was unaware of the shadow above her until it spoke.

"You have been a very naughty girl, Kasumi." The chill voice was low and barely audible.

The maid looked up into the cold face, fear clutching her throat, threatening to release the contents of her stomach.

She had no chance to scream as a thin hand pushed her off of the stair and down to her death.

The grim news sat heavy on Gwen. She had quickly deduced Arghill's transparent plan and played along. The tears were real, for both Kasumi and the couple she looked upon as uncle and aunt. They would no doubt feel Arghill's wrath.

News of their death in a 'peasant uprising' was expected but no less hurtful.

Her new maid was a haughty woman. Gwen trusted her as much as she would a snake. The temptation to stab her dirk deep into the woman's eye was almost unbearable. All her movements were relayed to Arghill.

Time seemed to sink back into the routine of three months prior, the melancholy, the schedule.

Anger banked the flames.

And he returned. Her betrothed.

The slimy young man, an opposite of his father, rolls of greasy fat covering his body, an effeminate voice and if rumours were true, having a penchant for livestock.

A month and a half had passed since the deaths of Kasumi, Travis and Rebecca and that much time remained until the fifteenth anniversary of her birth.

The slimy bastard was a revolting addition to humanity and Gwen was for once glad of her matron's stern eye. Gwen, playing the naive and innocent had mentioned her wish to be pure for her wedding night and thus the advances of Egbert Arghill were only in his eyes.

Gwen considered stabbing the maid in the stomach. That way she may at least survive.

One afternoon a week, she was to spend time getting acquainted with her husband to be. Bathing after said meeting was now a habit. The wastrel had a stench that was unbearable and his leer made her feel sullied and ridden in filth.

Time continued in its steady pace. Gwen took to looking from her window towards the vale where her father fell.

Then, one week before the nuptials, a knock on her chamber doors, broke Gwen from her contemplation of the darkening forest. The matron opened the door, her vast bulk, preventing any unwanted intruders.

She stepped back and returned to her seat as Father Jacobi entered.

The balding priest, his round, happy features carrying his years, smiled at the girl he had christened and given mass to countless times.

Gwen rose from her seat and rushed to the old priest enveloping him in a huge.

Matron frowned.

Gwen beckoned the priest to a seat and he placed himself gently down.

"Greetings child, it has been far too long since I have seen your beautiful face."

"Thank you father," the girl replied, blushing. For a man of the cloth, Jacobi was a sweet talker.

"And too long since I have seen your wrinkled walnut-like visage" she continued.

Jacobi burst into a bellowing laugh, the face of matron split in shock.

"Child I am surprised that you remember!"

"I could not forget father, I was three years of age and had not seen you for a time since you had been on a pilgrimage." Once, before the life she knew had been destroyed, her mother had taken her to see Father Jacobi. The old priest has juts that morning returned from a pilgrimage to Rome and the hard travel had left his sunburnt and squinting. A three year old will speak the truth no matter the circumstance.

"Yes I was away for too long at Canterbury, I missed you growing from babe to infant."

Gwen smiled "Would you like some tea father?"

"Yes, my child, I do believe I would"

"Matron, if you would."

Gwen resisted the urge to chuckle. Months ago, when Kasumi was still alive, she had destroyed the bell pull, eliminating the mechanism that allowed it to call the servants. While matron would leave Gwen alone to fetch it herself, when in company she would watch her like a hawk.

Matron pulled the bell.

Five minutes passed and the servants had not arrived. Matron looked ready to fume and Gwen was enjoying her displeasure. Her and father Jacobi were talking of the past, her childhood and his travels.

Matron looked from the pair to the door. She may have been a gossip and a nuisance but she was hospitable to a fault. She walked to the door and again glanced at the pair. Gwen looked at her and hammered the final nail. "Matron, do please find where the servants are, our guest has travelled a ways to see us and he is not as young as he once was."

This clinched it, matron swinging her ample weight and opening the door. It closed behind here and her steps could be heard descending the stairs.

Gwen continued to speak to Jacobi, then signalled he continue without her. She stood and went to the door. Opening it a crack she peeked out. No guards were present, and matron wasn't either.

Closing the door, she turned to Jacobi, a grin on his face.

"My child, you have become very sneaky."

"I do it to survive father," she said. "What of Sutton?" There was no time to waste.

"Travis and Rebecca are alive my dear, they escaped the village before the footmen arrived. They are located in the forest. They miss you."

Tears sprung up in Gwen's eyes, which she quickly wiped away.

"I miss them too father." She coughed, footsteps echoing in the stairwell, "I take it you are the officiating priest on the day.

"Yes." The disgust in his voice was evident.

The door creaked open and the seated pair continued in their discussion as if the turn of phrase had not occurred.

"Tea, father?" asked Gwen.

"Yes, please"

The sun crept through the thick curtains, and that started the day she wished she could have avoided. The day crept past, a dervish of colour and emotions, dark emotions and grey colours, hollow and twisted.

Like a drone, she stood, sat and posed as she was bathed, fitted for her dress and had her hair done.

Steps like lead, the bridal veil like a mist over her face, obscuring the grim reality her mind wanted to forget, she stepped forward slowly, a young priest on her arm, officiating in place of her father, Travis or whoever would have been the one to give her away.

Standing stock still as the vows were spoken, like a death sentence, an executioner's axe falling onto the block, the killing stroke the end of her life.

The cheers, faint, a backdrop in her mind superimposed by the screams of rage and indignation that echoed in her head.

Thankfully alone. The maids and dressers had left matron outside the door as she cleaned herself up. Stock still, crisp white undergarments rustling, as she swayed with a breeze none could feel but her.

Images dancing through her brain, Brutus stumbling into the dooryard, cradling her fathers head in her lap, his lessons in swordplay, his blue eyes, his smile. Slow steps and the window was before her, raising her head, she looked towards the early afternoon swathe of colour that painted the site of her father's final breath. Resolve strengthened and formed into a detachment.

A cool, blue flame of detachment.

She turned to her beaten chest and it's hidden treasure.

Dancing, dancing, feasting. And drinking. The ale ran in rivers, the toadies of Egbert and Arghill drank to them and their family, including this new addition.

Keep drinking husband dear.

Dancing, passed from visiting noble to visiting noble, their breath a mixture of half chewed food and stale beer, like a trophy passed from lord to lord.

Keep eating husband dear.

The fires banked, the players and tumblers playing and tumbling. The raucous laughter of the drunken and over sated guests.

Keep laughing husband dear.

And now, the guests fallen into stupor, the players having played, the dancers having danced. The bodies of the unwashed and uncouth cluttering the floor to lie amid the garbage and the household dogs.

Die, die my darling

Escorted to the bridal chamber by her matron, Gwen fought the urge to tear the woman's eyes from her bloated head. The doors loomed before her, like a monolith, an altar on which her virtue, self-pride and her individuality would be sacrificed to appease a fat, stinking god.

Matron closed the door behind her, a calm before the storm. Gwen shuddered. His eyes had been all over her the entirety of the day, visually raping her, or contemplating a psychical equivalent this evening. Arghill wished to break her.

She would show him she could not be broken so easily.

Laid out on the bed, Gwen pondered her coming actions. Foolhardy yes, yet death would be a welcome release from the hell her life had become, a hell of loss, insanity and treachery.

And the curtain in this drama rolls aside for the final act as the bullish laugh of her husband echoes from the far end of the corridor. Gwen reached to her ankle, her matrimonial gift to her husband secure.

The booming sound of the doors, snapped her arms to her sides as she sat up, propped by many pillows, frilled and lace trimmed. Wasted effort.

The piggish brute stood before her, his greasy curly brown hair, stuck to his head by sweat, his beady eyes gleaming with a misplaced passion.

"Wife, you seem to still be fully attired."

"Indeed husband," she replied, keeping the scorn and disgust hidden, "I wished to wait for your arrival to give thee a gift, long overdue."

With this Gwen stood and faced her husband, mere feet separating them.

"Indeed it is overdue, yet as you requested, you would be wed before such a gift be given," Egbert managed to speak, fumbling with the strings of his breeches as he talked, the task of trying to do more than one activity obviously taxing his brain.

"Quite husband," she said reaching behind her back, undoing the clasps of her dress.

A trickle of drool escaped Egbert's lips as he finally managed to undo the strings.

Her bodice now lose, Egbert made to step forward, believing his earlier fantasies about to bear fruit.

Gwen placed her hand to stop him. Reluctantly he did as she bent to lift the dress over her head.

Her heart rate had accelerated exponentially since he had entered the room; her banked fires of rage, springing forth like a summer's brushfire.

The look in his eyes and the drool on his chin made her want to laugh, as she bent to grasp the hem of her skirts.

Lifting and pulling these skirts over her head, she was greeted with the incredulous gaze of her husband, his breeches now around his ankles.

His wife stood before him in riding breeches and shirt, leather vest covering her chest, a chest he had been about to grasp.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice breaking and jumping several octaves.

Gwen's hand was lightening swift as she again reached to her ankle, changing into a defensive crouch and spinning the dirk in her wrist to plunge the blade deep into his crotch.

Disbelief stretched Egbert's face, his mind trying to process the motion of the dirk from the ankle sheathe to his manhood.

Withdrawing the blade, he slumped forward as his wife stood, her eyes burning with contempt and hatred, as she drew her arm back and sliced across his throat, silencing the forth coming scream.

He fell back; his head crashing limply on the flags as his wife stood over him. His vision dimming, the edges of sight clouding, his wife spits in his eye.

"Retribution, husband." The full disgust in her heart and mind escaping like vapour.

And with the drunken forms slumped throughout the keep, Gwen made her way through the corridors. Her objective within sight, shadows concealing her like a blanket.

She stood before the doors, her resolve faltering, yet being pulled in by her will.

She knocked.

"Enter," a voice barked from within.

Slowly, she pushed the door open and slowly, entered.

Arghill sat at the large ornate oak desk, the candelabra casting a speckled light.

He muttered something to himself, then directed his voice yet not his attention to the girl.

"Take off your clothes and wait on the bed."

She stepped towards him, yet he obviously assumed she had been moving towards the bed.

Again, she took a step, his obliviousness to his plight almost suicidal.

Again and again and again.

He stopped his writing and straightened on the stool.

"I said the bedchamber bitch, are you addle-brained!"

"No, my lord," she said.

Arghill froze. He had not heard this cool tone of voice for a year. It had been in a dooryard.

Arghill glanced towards his sword, lying on a couch across the room. Too far. Calling guards would be a waste of time; they were in drunken comas by now. He scoffed.

The pinprick touched him on the triangular bone in the base of his neck.

Gwen spoke.

"Well old man, it looks like you have overplayed your hand, believing victory in your grasp before I was broken. You are wrong."

"Indeed I believe I have been premature."

"You will listen to me. You have killed, raped, stolen and destroyed, and for that, you will be judged."

Gwen stopped as the old man's shoulders rocked with silent laughter.

"By you, whelp? The bitch child of an impotent pauper lord?"

"No, bastard, by God." His shoulders hadn't relaxed; he was getting ready to do something, "I am merely the one to send you to his court."

And with that the old man ducked his head, the dirk grazing his neck, he spun in a crouch and pushed himself towards her in a tackle.

Gwen was prepared, jumping back when he jumped and positioning the blade to the side and swinging it before her.

Arghill caught the blade across the bridge of his nose. He clattered to the floor in a dishevelled heap, blood obscuring his vision.

"And you really shouldn't dally, my lord, your son awaits."

"Bitch!" Arghill screamed, failing his limbs attempting to bat the child through this red haze that maligned his sight.

A boot toe caught Arghill in the face, dislocating his jaw. A sharp pain, deep and twisting engulfed his stomach like a white ball of agony.

"That is for my father, butcher."

The soft tapping of boot heels moving away was lost in a static of pain as Arghill tried unsuccessfully to stanch the blood flow from his eyes and gut, mewling for help through his shattered face.

The forest eves were now blocking the sky, her walk having turned into a sprint when she was clear of the castle full of drunkenness and whoring.

The blonde girl, her beautiful hair, matted with sweat, twigs and blood, fell to her knees, deep soul coughing sobs, shaking her body. Collapsing to all fours, her stomach clenched, forcing raw acid from her mouth.

The girl fell to the side, rolling onto her back, her tear stained face looking through the canopy of leaves to the sky, the stars bright and pure, clearer than she could remember them being for the longest time.

The moon awoke her, its silvery light shining onto her face. She must have slept. While damp with dew and sweat, she felt vital, like a boil had been lanced, poison expunged.

She sat up slowly; waves of nausea crashing against the back of her throat like breakers. Standing, she turned and stumbled, slowly, yet purposely into the forest.

The hooded figure watched all this quietly. His desire to reach out and comfort the child could wait. She still needed time.

He turned, his hooded cloak billowing with a wind unfelt by the still night.

The swimming hole was in a clearing, the near full moonlight shining into the deep still waters, rippled occasionally by a hunting fish.

The stillness parted and the lithe figure knifed into the water in a deceptively quiet dive. The filth of her actions and her recently escaped situation were blunted by the crisp spring water against her skin. Shirt and breeches lay on the stone by the small embankment that had been there since before the elders could remember. The leather vest lay in the rushes to the side, eels licking the blood with their serpentine tongues.

Hair thoroughly rinsed and combed harshly with fingers, the personage emerged from the pool, her underclothes sticking to her skin. The figure pulled the tight fitting breeches over her legs, a task which required effort she was unaware she could muster.

Clothed, damp and beginning to feel the night chill, the girl began to run, towards somewhere safe, somewhere her heart was drawn too.

The homestead was in ruins; brambles choking whatever life still remained here in its shattered walls. The stories that she had heard from Jacobi in bits over the past week as he tutored her in the marriage rites and from Kasumi months ago, were just mute testimony to this blaring standard to Arghill's greed.

What was unexpected, however, were the three figures, obscured by shadow.

The lead figure, a hooded man, was watching her with eyes deep in the hood. Gwen felt fear, yet she felt drawn to this figure.

Rather than run as this lead figure took a step towards her, she stood her ground, just within the dooryard. The two remaining figures seemed to be closer together yet had not moved from the entryway to the kitchen. Her kitchen.

The lead figure raised its hands, palms upward, a gesture of peace and no intended harm. Gwen remained still. The figure moved its hands from this position and pushed it hood back.

Gwen choked back a cry and ran at the figure, falling to her knees and embracing the figure around the waist, mumbling about forgiveness.

Father Jacobi smiled down at the child and placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched yet did not pull away as his once seemingly frail hands pulled her to a standing position before him.

"Hush child," he said, "you have no need to ask for forgiveness. Does the Bible not say 'an eye for an eye?' Dry your eyes, time is short and we have much to do."

The old priest continued to hold the child with one arm, yet the arm beckoned the shadowed figures.

Running, these figures fell upon the child, the priest steeping back and smiling on the reunited trio.

"My wee girl," the large female cooed.

"Rebecca?" the girl asked incredulous and fell into the woman's embrace, the arms of Travis holding them both.

Jacobi looked at the heavens and turned to his brothers.

"The time has come," he stated, "the girl has the will and the heart to do what must be done. She is as was foretold. She can defeat the beasts."

Mumbling replied, his brothers deliberating the ramifications of this decision and its import.

Gwen slept.

Rebecca watched over her, like she did when the child was in swaddling cloth. Travis stood by the door; his face hidden in the hood he now wore habitually.

"I am glad she passed out, if what Jacobi says is true, she would have been unable to comprehend in the state she was."

"That is right, but I feel this talk of beasts, devils and monsters is like a fairy tale come to life."

"But if we do not believe, imagine the darkness that could befall us all. I don't like placing the child in danger any more than you, yet if what Jacobi says is true..."

Rebecca interjected, "Jacobi, Jacobi, I will not give this child of my heart, if not my loins to a bunch of Druids and their prophecies."

Travis closed the gap between them and hugged his wife.

"I know your heart wife, like I know my own. Yet she is a woman now, her deeds alone speak as much, her mind for much longer. She will have to decide her own fate."

Within the first few hours of awakening, she had been told she was chosen. Chosen to become one with some sort of magical artefact and fight monsters she had stopped believing in when she was ten.

Her wide-eyed look at Jacobi unsettled him. If she didn't respect him as much as she did, or had, as may be the case, she would had left the hut and never returned.

He decided to take this staying as a good omen, even if it wasn't such.

She stared at him some more.

He had to admit, she looked rested and recovered, although a haunted look fluttered behind her eyes like a bird in a cage.

He tried again.

"These creatures wish to subvert humanity to their dark wills. Their master is a creature of fire, evil incarnate."

She had asked him originally if he meant Satan. He had laughed; saying the creature had been called that, yet she was referring to a biblical interpretation which was far from the truth.

He had explained how she would be able to take arms against them and she had asked why an army had not been formed. That he couldn't answer, without opening holes in his argument.

It was then that Jacobi did the one deed he would wish to retract and correct if given the chance. He placed the box before her.

Her rational mind would not believe, and all who faced off against one of the beasts was killed in short order. He had witnessed them once, as he and his brothers fled from a ravening pack that fell upon their camp outside Canterbury.

He sighed; the girl glanced from him to the box before her. Jacobi shrugged off his cloak, the white linen shirt below a stark contrast to the dark cloak. Pulling the shirt over his head, he heard the girl gasp.

Gwen stared in horror at the old man's chest. The left side of his body was wrinkled with scar tissue. By no means fresh, it was still a bright red, almost like it would not heal.

"The blood of the beast's is like acid."

"It's blood?" she stated.

"We were camped outside Canterbury," he nodded at her unspoken question, "and we were attacked by a pack of three beasts. Half our number fell before we were alerted and ran. The wounds we inflicted with our swords were but a bramble scratch. These beasts bit the head from my screaming comrades and drank their blood."

Gwen blanched.

"I would not ask you if I did not believe you were the one we are seeking. You have the will and the heart. You can achieve and succeed in this where others fall like wheat to but one of their number."

She could still not believe this, in minutes her belief structure had crumbled and she had be prompted to question the foundations her life rested on. But the old man. The pain in his voice, the hope.

Gwen leant forward, pain written on her face. "I don't know," she muttered, her hands coming to rest on the box.

Jacobi leapt forward, screaming "Wait, do not touch the box!"

It was too late.

As Gwen removed here hands from the box, it burst, grey tentacles like vines reached towards her, throwing Jacobi back as he was struck by the back of the shattered box.

The tentacles grabbed Gwen by the shoulders and she screamed as they seemed to burrow under her skin and her senses, predominately pain, reared with sensory overload and shattered whatever grip she had left on a progressing fragile reality.

Part Three - The Way

Jacobi screamed at her, his face contorted with shock, "Wait, do not touch the box!"

Slowly, like she was moving through treacle, Gwen pulled her hands away. The simple motion seemed to produce a likewise reaction in the box itself, its silvery sides, thin stone shattered and cracked, flakes of the rock moving like leaves on a breeze. Snaking and worming their way through the heavy air came thick tentacles, sinuous and ranging in size, pinky blood in colour and dripping with a grey fluid like scum water. From the corner of her eye she saw Father Jacobi fly backwards, his body curled around a piece of the stone that had struck him in the solar plexus.

And then they were upon her, twisting, and curling, their suckers and ridges of gristle biting and burrowing, very inch of her skin afire with the mad groping of the creature. Intense pain, singing a dirge through her as the monstrosity punctured her skin, crawling down her veins like a living poison.

Images, voices, thoughts and deeds flowed into her from the very air and her senses reeled from the enhanced quality the world had burst forth it. Then the darkness claimed her.

Jacobi coughed, his body reluctantly awakening. His breath was forced; the blow to his chest had damaged him, pressing his ribs in. The old man sat up slowly and looked around his chambers. He could hear shouts from outside the thin walls of the makeshift encampment, canvas and old buildings reconstructed.

The girl lay across from him, curled in a ball, her clothes, previously new and fresh, ripped and dirty.

Jacobi struggled to stand as the tent flap opened and the large hooded form of Travis filled his gaze. The man, anger boiling looked from the girl to Jacobi and lunged at the man, his massive fist connecting with the priest's cheek.

Satisfied that Jacobi would not be going anywhere until he returned, Travis slowly scooped up the girl and backed out of the tent.

Slowly Travis walked across the clearing, the mid afternoon sun beating down and the inhabitants of the ramshackle village off deep in the woods, gathering and hunting, struggling to survive in the lands of a harsh master.

But that master was now dead and the child that had killed him lay in Travis' arms, a child he had helped to raise, a child he told stories to by the forge as she ate apples and snuck drinks from his tankards when she thought he wasn't looking.

He moved towards one of the fully repaired buildings, the building Gwen had been brought to after her escape and where she had slept for several days, until this morning and Jacobi had filled her head with his fairy tales.

Travis passed a pair of monks, chopping and stacking the wood that would be used for the fires throughout the encampment.

"Jacobi has fallen ill, and needs attending." Said simply and with a ringing authority the two men ran to the priest's chambers.

Travis scoffed, and continued to the hut, girl whimpering in his arms as unknown dreams haunted her mind.

Massive spheres, burning on one end, flying through the sky like ammunition from a catapult, fire, fire and flames all over, lightening in the sky and screams, and a flash.

A plain silver coin, unadorned upon a coil of rope, darkness surrounding it, vision impaired by a shroud.

Ape beasts like the ones in the travelling carnivals but larger than a man, teeth like wolves and ears like bats ripping apart huddled screaming masses with abandon, limbs strewn over and the ground drenched red.

The coin again, the rope spinning. It was encased in a metal sheathe, flaps of dull silver holding the rope within

Another beast, like the land cows the missionaries spoke of, the grey beasts with horns, again they were upright and larger than a man, this time, charging, charging at a village, the bodies tossed high into the air from its horn, the spilt blood blackening as it dried on its hide.

The coin and rope, the metal holder's melting and the end of the coil threshing about, like under the effect of a seizure.

More of the beasts, massive hordes, abominations, manlike mockeries of all of god's creatures, and the sea of demons parting. Parting to reveal a being that seemed like nature personified a being that resembled a living flame and a possessed bolt of lightening. The beasts all screamed and bowed before the maelstrom.

The cuffs binding the rope have dissolved, melted into a slurry of water and metal, the rope spinning like a cartwheel, faster and faster, a blur.

The blackened land and the dead earth, left in the wake of an army of perversions, lead by an anomaly, a freak occurrence. The spheres again, or were they ellipses, seeming to watch.

And the coin and coil again, the rope slowly stopping its spin, the coin flickering, like vision is failing and then the realisation dawns, the rope is the tentacle and the coin is the mind.

Gwen's own screams woke her.

Late afternoon, her sleep shattered some hours ago, Gwen had remained curled in the bed. She felt sullied, her mind raped by images she could not describe, images that haunted her every time she blinked, the momentary dark bringing them all back.

The door opened and Jacobi entered. This had been the hardest day of his life, even the burying of his friends when he received his wound, years ago, learning of the beasts; he could gladly live over, be it to save this child.

He had explained to Travis and Rebecca what had occurred, his body betraying him as he found each breath hard and his mouth struggled to open. Rebecca had been upset but understanding, Travis had looked on in scorn, his anger no cooler for the time spent away.

And now he would be forced to reveal to the girl that which he had wanted to before the accident, that the legends had come from an eastern tablet, carried from the deeps of Mesopotamia and translated in Jerusalem and then brought to France. The tablets were originally in Sanskrit, a near dead language and known by few. The legend they spoke of was ancient, about a being, a man blessed who had destroyed the beasts and disappeared but his symbol, an third eye, a silver orb with another circle within near its edge had lived on.

Where the artefact had been found was unknown, travelling missionaries finding it within the wreckage of a caravan bound from Norway to Spain. These monks had recognised the artefact, the large eye, and had returned with it to their monastery, in central France to study and catalogue the artefact. It remained there for nigh on two hundred years

Brother priests pulled the records of the artefact from the ashes of the monastery after the fact, as the land had been ravaged by hordes of bandits. These bandits spoke of a magical armour. The artefact was thrown aside as scrap, good for the metal only.

Another travelling monk came across the artefact when he stopped at a blacksmith for directions. He asked about it and the blacksmith said it couldn't be scoured or melted and the priest offered to take it with him, claiming it was a church relic. Fearful of the church's wrath, he gave over the artefact without question, and then the artefact made its way to Canterbury, with the hastily returning priest. It remained in Canterbury until the events that lead to his wound, and from them on was taken throughout the land, the monks with it, and its disguised guardians.

Gwen looked at the old man; fear written on her face, yet her eyes portrayed a belief, an understanding that had not been there earlier.

"And these bandits, they were these beasts that you encountered?" Her hand drifted to above her chest, the same position of his wound.

"Yes, child, the beasts were responsible for the attack on the monastery and most likely many other atrocities in the history of the artefact."

"Where is the artefact and what were the vines that struck me?"

"That is what I wish to speak with you about, in addition to the preceding history. The tablets, which I have studied in preparation for leading the stewardship of the artefact, state that there will be a chosen one, that they will become known to the artefact and the artefact will seek them out. When I blessed you open your birth, I was informed by the guards that the artefact began to glow with a silvery hue, a light that pierced its container and shone forth. Since then I have watched you and watched the woman you have become. I had hoped that you would be the chosen one."

"Hoped, you said I was the chosen one! Did you lie to me?" Her voice rose, she was understandable upset, put through pain Jacobi could barely fathom on a hunch, his hunch.

"The legend said that the one chosen would be engulfed and survive the fire of purification and receive visions, as had the being spoken of. They would be unwilling but the task would be taken up in time with full understanding and acceptance."

"That still does not answer my question."

"The legend goes on to say that the chosen one would be struck down by the artefact and its power would leave two marks, like that of a stolen soul but in a pair, said to be, by the legend, akin to gaining a second soul and its power. Once the power was gone the artefact would become as a ghost, returning when it was needed."

Gwen knew her church law and as such she reached behind herself, her hand tentatively reaching to the back of her neck.

Jacobi jumped as she pulled her hands away and bowed her head. Slowly he stood and walked to her, gently placing his right hand on her shoulder and pulling her collar away with the other. His breath was pulled in sharply.

"The legend speaks true"

"How so child?"

"I am unwilling."

The horses were frothed and running ragged, yet their riders mercilessly fogged them onward, the ten men determined and garbed for battle. The surcoats that displayed the royal insignia prominent.

Before them, the dark bulk of Arghill's fort blocked out the sky, its battlements and stonework at matte black as the sun sank behind them.

The riders pulled their horses short as they came into the courtyard, yet they remained seated.

The servants all milled about, unsure of proper etiquette in the current situation.

"At last," a voice rang across the courtyard, the speaker a large man, thick brown hair and beard, dressed in blue doublet and hose.

The lead rider turned to the man, taking in his form and bearing. "I am Captain Eurenorm; this is my Lieutenant, Gregoile. We were sent here after a missive reached Chancellor Fanel, a missive saying that the lord of this keep and his son were slain."

"Indeed good captain, please, join me for refreshment and let the servants tend to your men. I am the cousin to the elder Arghill, my name is Tanarg."

Eurenorm dismounted, followed swiftly by Gregoile and the remaining eight riders.

"Certainly sir," Eurenorm replied, "let us also discuss the unpleasant reason for our presence, mayhaps the walls have ears." He signalled to Gregoile who nodded and went over to the men as the slight athletic form of Eurenorm, his black hair plastered to his hair with sweat, his helmet under his arm, followed the bloated form of Tanarg.

Gregoile, a shifty looking man, blonde haired and rat faced turned to the eight rather non-descript men. "Mill around as offered and listen to any rumours as to the whereabouts of vagabonds and missionaries, Lord Fanel believes that what we seek may be near. Do not drink and be prepared to ride at a moments notice"

The eight men nodded and left in the direction of the stables and the kitchen. Gregoile looked around and followed in the direction his captain had gone a quiet mutter hanging in the air, its alternate meaning clear.

"I believe this man will follow his cousin to the grave, he does not look well."

Morning rose, the cockerel's sound announcing the dawn to the world and the inhabitant of the village. They rose, yawning and stretching, the day beginning with routine, water drawn from the well and bread being taken from the ovens, hot and fresh for the meaning meal.

Trestles were laden with fruits and the steaming breads, wheels of cheese and the crisp spring water.

Gwen was quiet, a shawl around her head, as she walked to the table. Rebecca walked with her and father Jacobi was off the end of the encampment, returning from the makeshift smithy. The two women sat near the empty head of the table that Jacobi would be seated at. The old priest had a smile on his face and slowly but surely made his way to then end of the table. Before seating he banged his tankard down on the table.

"I wish to give thanks on this day for the return of our beloved Gwenivere Sutton, daughter of our Lord Oswin Sutton, may he rest in peace. And as her father before her had requested, accept her as our mistress and give our service to her."

Gwen was speechless, her heart in her mouth as she realised that her father had indeed set in motion preparation for her other than his plea to a disinterested king.

The assembled villagers, many of whom Gwen recognised, among them Rand and Hamish, men her father had spoken highly off and valued as council, arose and as a whole bowed to her. Tears crept into the girl's eyes as Travis walked towards the throng. His face remained swathed, as was usual, yet his bearing stated his pride. In his arms was a pristine length of white cloth, straight and rigid as it concealed its occupant.

Travis walked towards her and Jacobi stepped aside, indicating that she be seated at the head of the table. Numb, she simply stood there as Travis came before her and smiled, the dim glint of light on his teeth reflected in his hood.

"We love ye girl," he said and she felt Rebecca's hand on her shoulder. Travis knelt down and pro-offered the bundle to her. Slowly, uncomfortable that the people she loved would bow before her; she folded the cloth open and gasped in shock.

"Indeed, your father requested that I exhume this and present it to you when you were free of Arghill's grasp. Tis his legacy to you." Jacobi's voice was solemn.

Gwen reached out slowly and placed her palm around the pommel of her father's sword. The heavy broadsword shone to perfection, smooth and like a razor. It was plain and unadorned save the large amethyst in the cross piece, yet it was the most beautiful treasure in the world.

Whatever brevity and peace was present was shattered as large meaty hands rang together in condescending clapping.

"Bravo," Eurenorm said, sarcasm dripping from his words, "it's almost a shame really."

Father Jacobi recovered quickly, moving to face Eurenorm, his face twisted in disgust. Fifteen metres separated the two men. Slowly, with the promise of violence, Eurenorm's men straightened up from their lounging against the walls and trees nearby, and stood behind their captain.

Travis, placed the sword on the table and shielded Gwen and Rebecca behind him as he, Rand and Hamish as well as several men and women from the village came up behind Jacobi, matching the motion of the intruders.

"Eurenorm, your twisted brand of justice and your equally twisted presence are not welcome at our table." Jacobi obviously knew the guardsman and certainly, it would seem, did not like him at all.

Eurenorm laughed, a cackle, irritating and superior. "You have no say in the matter druid; you are to be charged with murder, along with this band of outlaws. The Lady Arghill is requested to face trail at the hands of the Chancellor himself."

It was Jacobi's turn to laugh. "That necromancer has no more right to judge than you do."

"To speak so disrespectfully of one so favoured by the king is treason, druid."

"To poison the kings ear with malignant lies and dark sorcery is treason, bootlicker."

The two men then seemed ready to exchange insults for some time, but the tension was broken as Gregoile walked to the side of a building and pushed it. Half completed it fell easily, its broken timbers cracking.

Rand spoke up, "Knave, there may have been children in there!"

Gregoile snorted at him and walked to the building opposite the one he had levelled, this one of the right of Eurenorm. Again he pushed and this structure, although finished, heaved and buckled before collapsing in on itself. Rand, past all point of control ran for the lieutenant, his fists raised and red hair flying behind him.

The sharp retort of a bowstring sounded, and Rand's limp form fell to the ground, a cloth-yard shaft between his eyes.

Silence lasted for scant second more before the entire settlement tensed and began forward, rage and a thirst for revenge clearly written on their faces.

"Enough!" Gwen shouted, her voice hard and bitter, as she stepped around Travis and Jacobi, evading Rebecca's grasp and coming to stand before the village, effectively staring down Eurenorm.

"What do you want from us, sir, we have done no wrong. Now, begone and bother us no more!"

"This is rich druid, hiding behind little girls now? Afraid are we?" Eurenorm scoffed.

"Captain, I am the leader of these people and as such I demand that you show them and I the respect deserved as you are in our home!"

"Respect," spat Gregoile, "to an uppity bitch daughter of a whore! Never!"

Travis' earth shattering bellow sounded throughout the clearing, "Watch your tongue pig sticker."

Gregoile walked over to Eurenorm and spoke loud enough for the assembled sides to all hear "captain, I really believe that these scum have no bearing on the trial, in fact most look too fucking stupid to find there arses in the dark. What say I challenge their strongest and if they best me, we depart?"

Eurenorm grinned, his teeth showing in a feral snarl.

"Paramount idea, Gregoile. And who will accept the challenge? You druid, the blacksmith or maybe the lord's whelp?"

"Me." The voice belonged to Hamish. Hamish was a tall man and had been a hunter during his service at Sutton. The transport of the deer and pig carcasses on his shoulders had given him an impressive physique, one that could easily match that of Travis. His shoulder length brown hair was tied in a loose ponytail by a horsehide thong, his brown leather breeches and vest helping him to conceal with the undergrowth in which he stalked his prey.

Gregoile grinned and took his helmet off, unclipped his sword belt and pulled his surcoat over his head.

"This won't take long Captain," he said.

Hamish laughed, as he squared up with the smaller man. Compared, Hamish was the obvious winner, yet the weaselly man he was circling seemed overconfident. Hamish was somewhat unsure but when he saw the opening, his fist struck out and connected with the smaller man's temple.

Eurenorm smiled, his lips curling in predatory anticipation. It was a stroke of luck. Chancellor Fanel had been watching the movements of the druid priest Jacobi for some time. Several decades if Eurenorm was correct in his guess. Their master had been pleased that Arghill had been killed, partially because the man was an irritation and also due to the fact it gave him, in his capacity of Chancellor, a chance to investigate the area. An area he knew Jacobi to reside it. Chancellor Fanel had his reasons. Eurenorm suspected he was waiting for the druid to take a bad step and then would condemn him for his sorcerous ways.

For the most part, none believed the tales that Jacobi told, and in time he had ceased to tell them. And thus the shadowy world that Fanel oversaw remained undisturbed.

But time had run short. Fanel had grown restless and had his men and those barons and lords that lived from his coffers out searching for some magical item.

Eurenorm was happy to oblige. Fanel had used his gifts of maleficia and his skills with alchemy to make him unstoppable, a human engine of destruction. As he had with dozens of other men, creating his own force of one man armies. But Eurenorm stood above these, he was given privilege to lead and make decisions that others were not.

And if they tortured the villagers and they didn't know anything, it would be a simple matter to play with them. None cared for a village of malcontents and outlaws.

Fanel was a great man; he knew what he was doing.

Jacobi was concerned. Eurenorm's reputation was one of a callous murderer, lacking in morals and mercy. The fact he was here under the direction of Fanel was cause for alarm, if not panic.

Jacobi had been aware of Fanel's interest in him, the society with which he moved was aware of a great many things hidden and secret. Rumour circulated that Fanel could control the minds of men and could summon demons to do his bidding.

The druids had been guarding the artefact under the guise of travellers, missionaries and for Christian brothers for centuries on and off since its discovery. That fact that Fanel's lackeys would arrive upon its choosing of a host spoke ill.

From the corner of his eyes he watched as the older children usher the smaller ones tom the back and away into the woods. The tone of voice in Gregoile's voice spoke of treachery and the look of deceit had sparkled in his eyes.

Jacobi was afraid.

Hamish felt his fist connect with the smaller mans temple, his head snapping back, but righting itself quickly. Gregoile ducked and weaved to his right dodging another punch and snapped his foot out to connect with Hamish's kneecap. The larger man stumbled and thrust his arm out to re-establish his balance, the elbow connecting with Gregoile's chest as the smaller man attempted to slip behind him.

Both men broke off and faced each other again, Hamish slightly limping and Gregoile grinning wide, his eyes clear, not dazed as would be expected from such blows as he had received.

Hamish was caught unawares as the smaller man bent his knees and the roundhouse punch sailed over his head. The larger man caught a series of painfully fast rabbit punches in his midsection and bent over, moving backwards. Gregoile knee connected with his chin, flipping the man upright and over to land spread-eagled on the ground.

The smaller man stood over him, moving back away slowly, indicating the larger man should get up. Hamish slowly rose to his elbows and then stood, his face twisted in rage and anger that he had been shown up by a smaller man, as well as a whipping boy to a degenerate minister.

He charged towards the smaller man, who positioned himself and crouched as the larger man drew closer. Gregoile sprung up from this crouch and connected with the larger mans legs, sending the bigger man over his shoulder into a heap, landing face first.

Hamish slowly pushed himself up onto all fours, his hair loose and his leathers dirty, blood dripping from his nose and mouth.

Gregoile walked to the man, his foot connecting with his stomach. Hamish expelled a breath and collapsed again, struggling to right himself.

Gregoile's head was aimed at ground level; his face contorted as he fought the bloodlust that was slowly threatening to consume him. His eyes slowly changed from the unremarkable brown to a solid yellow with a slit iris, cold, emotionless reptilian eyes. Hamish was on hands and knees before Gregoile as the guardsman licked his lips. He could feel his skin itching, the fibres and muscles pulling in contradicting directions as his bones extended and grew to accommodate the beast now ravening within him. He felt his nails growing, slowly lengthening and slowly, with a deliberate and almost erotic pleasure he shaped his hand into a flat wedge, fingers straight, nails gleaming and drove his strike into the spine of the helpless man before him.

The villagers stood still, shock on all the faces of those present, fear in some and outright panic in several.

Travis gasped. He couldn't rip his eyes from the scene, the small guardsman, in a relaxed pose his head bowed and his wedged hand dangling limp, the thick lifeblood of his friend, Hamish, dripping from it to fall into the gaping cavity that had been the man's back.

"You bastard!" he screamed his muscles tensing, straining against the control; the big man had them under, adrenaline surging like a flash flood. Travis' jaw was clenched so hard his head hurt.

Slowly the smaller man turned his body towards him; the trail of blood following the arc he moved, his head still bowed. The man brought the bloody hand up to his down turned face and startled cries were heard as a tongue, impossibly long, curled out and licked a portion of blood from his hand.

The villagers backed up, Travis and Jacobi herding them behind their outstretched arms, Gwen pacing backwards of her own accord just out of Travis's reach.

Slowly, leisurely, like a cat cleaning itself, the guardsman called Gregoile licked the last drops of blood from his hand and lifted his head.

Gasps and cries littered the air around the villagers followed by an oath by Jacobi.

The guardsman's eyes were like that of a lizard, portions of his flesh, alighting and flaking off in the haze of the now fully risen sun.

"Pardon?" his voice asked, distorted and sounding like it had travelled through water.

"You are one of the beasts!" Jacobi had stepped forwards and cast an accusing glance at Eurenorm. "You have not only condemned us all to death but also cast your own soul into the depths of hell!"

Eurenorm laughed, his body shaking as he walked towards Jacobi. He was now three metres away, beside the form of Gregoile; whose flesh was now a light green like leaves, tatters of flesh and skin hanging from him like cobwebs, his clothes seeming to strain against the metamorphosis.

He leaned forward to look the old druid in the eyes.

"My soul is in perfectly capable hands"

Jacobi recoiled as he saw that Eurenorm's eyes were a solid milky blue.

Eurenorm continued to laugh, his skin rippling, barbs breaking from beneath the surface.

Gregoile reached his arms to the sky and screamed. His clothing and flesh exploded, shredding themselves as his body bulged and his upper body distorted with disproportionate muscle clusters, his eyebrow ridges stretching back taking his ears with them and turning to horns, the skin stretching to facilitate hearing, as his nose curled up into a small horn. Gregoile rolled his disproportionate shoulder, the huge chest muscles leading into massive shoulder and a neck that seemed more like a thigh. The harsh leather of his boots split as the talons on his toes punctured the treated material, spurs from his heels destroying them utterly. The monster, Gregoile, licked his lips, or what had been his lips as his eyes slowly distended from above the horn to move down and beside it, his chin popped from his face, a bony spur seemingly a bone goatee.

Next to him, barbs continued to pop forth and shred the skin and clothes of Eurenorm. Chest, calves, forearms and shoulders aligned as massive ridges of cartilage and bone sent massive splits down his flesh. The Captain leant forward as a series of the horns pushed from his middle back right up to his forehead; a series of pops preceding each ejection of bone. Standing again upright his face elongated, a turtle like muzzle forming, as talons burst from toes, heels and fingers. Whatever flesh was left fell forward, rotting away in seconds as the creature flexed its body before them, armour plating like tortoise shell gleaming in strategic locations.

The process took less than a minute but would supply demons for a lifetime's worth of nightmares.

A little girl began to cry.

In the darkened tower, the figure sat, his shoulder length blonde hair, pushed back over his pointed, elfin like ears. A crystal sat in the centre of his forehead and glowed dimly in the shuttered study. The figure rolled a circlet in his fingers, his mind elsewhere.

He could see the village in his mind's eye, his psychic presence sitting in the mind of one of the guardsman, using the man's sight as he would his own. Both Eurenorm and Gregoile had transformed, their monstrous visages obscuring much of the guards field of vision, yet its over all effect could be heard in the man's ears, reflecting to his own. Panic and confusion.

Chancellor Fanel took all in quietly casting his glance around until he caught sight of Father Jacobi. The druid had been an irritation for some years now and finally he could be dealt with, minus the fear of exposing Fanel's true motives and objective. The priest was speaking hurriedly to a teenaged girl beside him. Fanel felt his senses reel as he probed outwards.

Damn the druid!

Jacobi and Travis herded the villagers' back, the table behind impeding movement. Jacobi moved to his side and grabbed Gwen by the shoulders.

"Do something girl! This is the time to act! Accept what you have become!"

Gwen could not believe what she had seen, men shedding their skins like the creatures in tales told to her when she was a child. Beasts assembled from others and gained unearthly life.

Noise shattered the silence as the eight remaining guardsman transmorphed. The process was similar but these beasts seemed of but two kinds, large hairy ape beast with bat ears and massive lumbering versions of the whoreson that had killed Hamish.

Gwen stuttered, forcing the words out, "They were in my dreams! Demons!"

And then with a horrifying speed that took seconds yet dragged an eternity, the beast at the rear began to destroy the village as Eurenorm and Gregoile leapt into the villagers.

The massive forms of the two creatures ripped through the startled villagers like a tornado, grabbing limbs and pulling them from their bodily anchors, blood fountaining to splatter on the dead dying and crying. Children fled, ushered by Rebecca when the form of Gregoile landed on her, his jump and weight causing her body the crumple as her life was squeezed from her body, his body leaping into the air once more as if he was not impeded. Gwen broke free from Jacobi's pleading and ran to the woman, almost a mother to her and screamed in anguish.

Eurenorm pulled the head from one man, his laughter, alien and harsh. His men were rounding up woman, children and the elderly; all that fled would die in minutes. He and Gregoile, who leapt about with abandon, were simply causing chaos. Of the fifty villagers, some fifteen lay in the town square, the morning meal crushed beneath their feet and drenched in their red blood. The ovens exploded as Gregoile landed amidst the iron and bent it like it were parchment.

Travis, his shouts and commands to flee, save the children, were silenced as his eyes fell upon the crumpled form of his wife and her charge, the girl cradling the broken woman in her arms.

"Rebecca!" Travis roared his sorrow, his hand reaching behind him clasped the handle of the sword; the weapon he had not five minutes earlier presented to Gwen. His free hand ripped the hood shroud from his face, his wounds displayed for all to see, the mark of his sacrifices, a mark to her loss. Bared was the grim wound, bright pink scarring, his cheeks a lattice of broken flesh, his nose a bulbous ruin. Screaming and raving, a red sheen to reality, Travis swung the heavy blade one handed, his rage increasing his strength as he charged at the lizard like beast that had destroyed his heart.

The beast heard him coming, and turned to face the disfigured blacksmith. The blade swung in a low arc, rage and madness carrying it through the upraised forearm of the monster and biting deep into the head it protected. Gregoile shrieked in pain and drove its wedged hand into the man's stomach, shredding intestines and organs as it then gripped its clawed fist around his spine.

Travis' eyes rolled back and he fell, his wound gaping, blood flowing freely as he paled in the morning light.

Above him stood the monster, its face a ruin, viscous black blood dribbling from the wound, brains seeping from around its eye, threatening to pop it from its socket. Slowly Gregoile reached down and picked up the blade. He spun it in his fist and drove the point into Travis's heart.

Gwen had heard Travis' cry and had turned to see him charging the monster. Tripping over bodies and avoiding the flames from the destroyed ovens she saw the beast sink the blade into his heart, halting its beat forever.

"NO!" she screamed, her cry seeming to carry a lifetime's worth of concentrated loss and pain in it as it echoed throughout the valley and stopped both monsters and villagers in the midst of their actions. Eurenorm turned from the cornered from of Jacobi and watched, his prey trapped by the monsters bulk as Gregoile looked at Gwen, intent, as he stood above the body of the blacksmith, revelling in the smell of the blood that pooled beneath him.

Gwen slowly walked to the body, kneeling beside it, her body limp and her hand clasping around the handle of the blade.

Gregoile began to chuckle but was stopped, shocked, as the girl turned to look at him, her green eyes empty, nothing behind them. He took a step back as gravity seemed to reverse around her, her body lifting from the ground and her hair fanning out behind her in river of gold in a non-existent wind. A speck, silver fire burst forth on her forehead and a globe of black and pink swirls exploded outwards, encasing her in a coruscating ball of energy.

Gregoile was blown backwards, skidding across the earth, leaving deep gouges before he crashed into another monster, an ape beast. Both ended up in a heap upon the dirt. Jacobi crowed in triumph and was backhanded by Eurenorm. Jacobi's skull cracked like an egg under the blow and he slumped against the wall, a trail of cerebral fluid staining the wood as he slid down to sit in the dust.

As the energy ball sucked dust into the air, swirling around its circumference, all vision obscured as the discharge raged.

Slowly, the wind changed into a tornado, fountaining into the air and depositing dust over everything.

The quiet figure in the tower cursed, and stood, fast, almost appearing not to have moved, be it that he was now upright, the circlet holding his hair over his ears, hiding them from view, the ornate symbol on the front framing the crystal, seemingly making it a part of the headpiece.

The figure growled, his dark robes swirling around him as he turned and made his way to the darkened doorway. Steps, as rapid as raindrops on slate and as fast, like a black wind, unfelt but nonetheless leaving a chill.

The isolated tower was his refuge, his adobe away from the court of the king. Nearby the court, yet far enough away for solitude and private activities. The crystal flickered, the telepathic powers of the wielder searching, reaching, isolating. Discovering.

Like a body consumed by the mitochondrial fire spontaneously igniting, the figure burst forth in brilliant flames, tatters of dark cloth rising in the wind of his transformation, the molten slag of his circlet running down his forehead like metallic blood.

The figure that was Chancellor Fanel leapt into the air; his passage seemingly that of a comet, rage and fire in a sentient vessel, on course for destruction.

As the dust settled and the beast monsters righted themselves, Gregoile and Eurenorm turned to where the girl and the dead man had been. The dead man was still there, his body cooling in the morning sun. The sword that had previously been embedded in the man's chest, however, was clasped in the hand of an unknown.

Standing where the girl had knelt was a creature unlike they had ever seen. It's bearing and poise screamed confidence and a hidden power. The body of the figure was covered in an armour, a pinky-grey in colour ranging to a black-pink. The armour was held together underneath by what looked like bare muscle tissue, sinew and fibres like the chain mail under a suit of plate. Each major muscle group and joint, thighs, calves, heels, shoulders and arms were clearly defined, the shell of the armour often ridding up in ridge to protect them. The feet were almost hoofed, the two toes large, and the heel extending down in ridges of the exoskeletal armour plate. On the right thigh and left shoulder, human flesh could be seen, the armour covering it in thin strands of a black viscous material, which seemed and twitch as she breathed in and out slowly, almost silently. Mounted below the pectoral muscles was a globe which albeit sunk into the flesh, it seemed to swirl with a life of its own with no harm to the host. From the forearms, spurs extended, sweeping backwards up in the direction of the shoulder, the light running across the edges like water. The chest was split in two, the breasts clearly visible. The head was a sight to behold, a single spur of the armour running back like a crest, akin to a gladiator's helm. A flat circular orb on either side, dull and tarnished. The forehead was adorned with another silver orb, this one like a third eye, an embossed ridge running near its outer terminus. The eyes glowed a baleful yellow, like a cat in torchlight, a thin diamond shaped blunted beaklike protrusion where the mouth should be, slit down the centre, dividing it in half. Black hair danced in the remaining eddies of the wind, gleaming like the strands that decorated the shoulder and thigh.

A burst of air escaped the beak, a stream of carbon dioxide in either direction, ominous sounding and with a grim finality. Then overall effect was like a waking nightmare, a living being unfettered by normal laws.

Gregoile sneered to the figure, and laughed "looks like the little girl has a new trick, other than screaming and wailing."

Eurenorm broke his gaze away from the sword, clasped lazily yet with a practiced ease, in the figures right hand, its hilt, blade and handle enhanced by the metamorphosis, guard spikes extended to protect the hand and others upwards along the blade to inhibit the enemy blade locking in melee combat. His eyes travelled up the length of the figure to rest on the third eye, the symbol he had been sent to find. The armour.

"No, you fool! She has the armour!"

And with that the figure leapt at Gregoile, the sword flashing, as she readied it.

Gwen floated in a thick soup of impulses. She could see what was happening, yet she couldn't affect it, nor did she want too, it didn't matter. In scant minutes her life had been destroyed. A silent mental scream, anguish and loneliness embodied ripped through her psyche.

To be comforted by an alien presence, a throb in the back of reality, humming its reassurances, that things would be alright, that they could make a home for themselves.

Even this, this not her yet in her, made her scream louder, terror overshadowing rational thought.

Coherence left with Travis' last breath.

Gregoile's face was split asunder in a leer of bloodlust as the figure charged towards him, before contact, leaping into the air. The blade on her left forearm extended as the figure spun in mid air, its head and feet at opposite angles to Gregoile's, sailing over the body having flipped and axled, her face set forward in the direction she had come from.

As the figure cleared the body of Gregoile the extended blade drove deep into Gregoile's armoured skull, his expression registering shock that he missed the attack and that he was dead. The body of the monstrosity went limp and his knees gave, the corpse crashing into the earth, blood and brains flying from the wound as inertia disrupting their balance.

The eight foot soldiers, their mass of furred and armoured flesh a seeming wall, were taken aback as they lieutenant crumpled into the dust, a single wound his downfall.

Eurenorm was taken aback, this was out of his experience and his screams for his master's council went unanswered. Failing any other course of action he did what any commander would do when faced with unknown odds and seeming destruction. He turned to his guards and screamed "Attack!"

The eight creatures looked at their master, the looks sliding over their demonic faces both that of a being weighing his options and deciding running was best but not being able to do so. They charged into the three bladed figure, hoping that numbers would prevail.

The pink-grey being threw the sword overhand, its blade spinning like a windmill before impaling at ape beast in the chest and sending it backwards into a tree, pinning it and splitting the oak into matchwood. The four horned beasts, charged, their bellowed cries ringing through the air. Ramming into the lone figure from all sides, the pink flesh tone of the warrior was lost under a mountain of green scales and bone.

Time seemed to stop, the three ape beasts circling the fray and Eurenorm watching from the sidelines, casting the occasional glance at the body at his feet.

As one, the four Gregole where thrown back, the swordswoman standing affected and tensed, her body taunt and ready. Her back, unprotected, she faced down two of the green creatures and two of the apes. Behind her, the two Gregole managed to right themselves, the Ramotith, hanging back.

As one, the four before her charged, preparing to force her back onto the two Gregole, their nose horns barred.

As claws and fangs came towards her, the figure reached to her chest and pulled her right breast away. Within lay a collection of motes, light more fiery than the stars, dancing in a radial pattern. By some unspoken command the motes joined in a beam of light and exploded forth, incinerating the beasts and a wide swath of forest.

The figure was pushed back, the force of the release propelling her back onto the horn of one of the rhinoceri. A silent scream and a gushing of air from the beak, as the green behemoth lifted the warrior up, impaled on its horn, to stand at its full height. The creature roared its glory, the sound of triumph quickly melting into a gurgle as both forearm blades dug into the sides of its head, severing the spinal cord from its aperture in the base of the skull.

Both figures collapsed back, the warrior still impaled on the horn as the Gregole dropped boneless into a heap.

The figure that was once Chancellor Fanel sped across the sky; all concern for subterfuge abandoned as the fears he had harboured secretly for millennia bubbled to the surface. The emergence of a Unit now was an unforeseen problem; one that would need be eliminated immediately. Time did not permit him leisure to send his minions to search for the Remover and judging by the screams and conflict emanating from the figure along the astral plane; it was newborn, recently birthed to the powers of the Guyver and struggling to process the overload.

The site of battle came up over the horizon, and Fanel smiled. With luck and his power he would be able to contain the threat and eradicate all traces of its existence in short order.

Eurenorm and the two remaining guards looked on cautiously as the body of the Gregole disintegrated under the still warrior; the only motion its blades slowly retracting. Eurenorm paced a perimeter as his henchmen looked from the quickly decomposing bodies of their brethren to the seeming sanctuary of the forest.

Eurenorm turned and swept them both into his glance. "There will be no deserting," his voice nearly cracked, "we must ascertain whether the armour is dead and wait for instructions."

Eurenorm didn't move, yet his chill blue eyes spoke volumes. He expected his subordinates to risk themselves rather than place himself in harms way.

Ramotith took a step forward, Gregole holding back.

The body moved.

Ramotith backed up as the figure sat up slowly. The massive wound, once a gapping hole in the figures midriff seemed to be knitting itself together, the flesh moving like liquid to fill the depression.

The figure remained still; harsh; rasping breathes echoing across the clearing.

-Attack-

Both Ramotith and Gregole looked at Eurenorm, his gaze captivated by the feminine figure, his mouth unmoving in its slack jawed state.

-Attack-

Now a command, no hint of request in the tone, the two felt obliged, compelled to obey and fell upon the reclined figure of the warrior.

As they drew closer the figure moved its arms over its shoulders and fell backwards and over. It then bounced from a spider motion, to a fully ready battle pose. Previously immobile silver spheres running from the upper frontal to parietal lobes flickered, sliding along the skull, mimicking the weaving of the fast approaching monsters. All motion occurred in mere seconds, the figure then leaping straight into the air. The haired bulk of Ramotith, quicker than the lumbering mound that was Gregole, attempted to stop, pinwheeling his arms to gain purchase.

The two figures careened into one another, limbs flailing. Eurenorm screamed at them to get up, "Fools, you're embarrassing me."

The rich deep voice that came from behind Eurenorm spoke in a tone that inspired respect yet was filled with contempt and disgust.

"And you have failed me."

Eurenorm turned, an apology dying on his lips as he was enveloped in a cataclysmic fireball.

Gregole and Ramotith pulled themselves off the ground, the figure greeting them both in a flurry of punches and kicks. Clawed hands deflected the blows the armoured figure moving with a speed that seemingly matched thought. The figure launched a powerful sidekick with her right foot into the midsection of the Gregole, using a right hand grip on its horn as leverage. Completing the kick the figure used the horn to pivot itself, spinning back, the forearm blade on its left arm extending and slicing the large bat like ear from the ape, its left foot coming up to connect with its jaw sending the creature back. The figure, still gripping the Gregole's horn, slammed its head into the earth.

-Back away-

The two monsters pulled away, parting blows directed at their bodies cracking bone as the intensity increased. They now recognised the voice, the mental commands of their lord and master. He who had made them what they had became.

-Wake up-

The figure stopped, the two creatures pulling free and backing away, looks on confusion on their faces, the voice broking no interference.

The figure, blades disappearing into its arms gripped its head in its hands, it knees bending.

-Wake up child-

The feminine warrior looked up to see the being that spoke yet didn't. Before her striding slowly towards her as the two demonic beasts pulled away was an angelic being, righteous lightening and holy fire personified. The being stood some eight feet tall, trails of armour, not flame, brushed back from its forehead, shoulders, forearms, knees and heels, thin, yet sharp clusters of bio-organic chitin. Its forehead was adorned with a massive black crystal, set between two smaller ones, its chest muscles defined in similar, obsidian like definitions. All major joints she could see seemed to have a similar crystal, ranging from larger orbs on the calves, palms and forearms to smaller marble sized orbs on the fingers and toes. The being was, apart from the black, predominately yellow, almost like a celestial being.

-Stand-

The voice was rich, beautiful, with the added undertone that respect was required. Yet behind all that, a hard edge existed, a supremacy that spoke of undying arrogance and unlimited contempt.

Gwen slowly began to feel the world around her seeping in, the voice of an angel telling her to wake. It was clouded, fogged by another awareness, one that screamed a warning, telling her to run.

-Fight the temptation. I am what you want-

The parts of her, Gwen and armour, fought with one another as the creature advanced. She stumbled, her head falling into her hands.

The creature, Fanel, smiled. The new power had come through trauma, the child's mind weakened, the armour taking over, running on an instinct that embraced all beings; that of survival. By awakening the repressed child and bringing her to a muted awareness, the two could fight for control, between survival and submission. The opportunity he needed. While a newly awakened Unit was no match for him, he had no desire to dirty his hands with the whelp of a pauper lord.

The figure approached her, the equal parts of her mind screaming, and it became clear to her, to Gwen. The figure was no angel. The figure was destruction and death; the figure was from her dream. The figure was Archanfel.

The armoured half yelled in joy as it sought to calm and subdue the child, its instinct taking the initiative as the child would need time to come to terms slowly, her reality too fragile for total immersion. Time that was unavailable at present.

Shock flittered across Archanfel's face. With snake like reflexes he seized upon the opportunity without pause.

The hands, lithe and nimble yet deadly, claws tearing, clasped her shoulder, the other reaching towards the back of her neck and with a force that was like the earth giving birth to volcano, the fire of agony coursed through Gwen's body, her senses screaming at her to run, her mind recoiling at the events she wished to forget. The agony and the scrapping of bone on bone was cut short as the darkness of oblivion fell upon her like a tombstone, final and eternal.

The sword in the tree dematerialised, melting into ozone.

All sense of self was non existent, but something remained, a primeval consciousness, a need for survival, a need to be. She needed to be free. What is she? She was she. Yes that made sense. She could feel them, out there, wherever there was, without her. They moved around, she could feel there pull, hear them, conversing, talking to each other in words that meant nothing to her but would do and had done. She yearned to be with them; ached for it, a pain that sang through her veins. Yet this song, a song of loss and pain was not just with her in the darkness, it reached out. Beyond.

And in time, her call getting desperate, louder, and more insistent. What was this call she broadcast? Who were those she called too? She knew things and knew nothing; she was a paradox, an enigma, something that existed in nothing.

She wasn't even a consciousness so much as a pre-programmed desire.

And like a radar as they drew closer, she song changed, becoming a call of joy, triumph. Why did it change, what was she wanting, what was she calling.

No sense, no thought, no being, just need.

Then it all stopped.

And slowly, half forgotten sense returned, memories, fear, pain, things that caused her to define herself, what made her an individual, her personality awoke and then like a bad dream, she also. Her reality was new and strange, unfamiliar, frightening, and running from it, the dreamscape returned. And she struck out at what she saw as wrong, alien. Struck out at everything.

Authors Notes

There is an image out there of a female Guyver with sword and partial armour as I have described Gwen. This image was the inspiration for the Medieval Guyver described above. It doesn't take much for one to draw the conclusion that this unit is also the one retrieved by Sean at the end of Evolution. Speaking of images, there is actually an image of Sean's unit that I edited from a Unit One jpeg some years ago. It's pretty average really, bordering on bad but its shows his basic armour layout. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimers

Guyver was created and is copyrighted by Yoshiki Takaya and Biomorphs Inc. Brutus is based upon Faran from the Elenium and Tamuli Cycles by David Eddings. Father Jacobi is based upon Brother Cadfael played by Derek Jacobi from the BBC drama series Cadfael. 'Die Die My Darling' is by Metallica and from the album Garage Inc. and copyright (originally recorded by The Misfits). If any of this information is wrong, (Mercia in particular) my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading.

Part One - The Heart

Written (finished) 31st July 2000.

Part Two - The Will

Written between the 3rd September and 5th October 2000.

Part Three - The Way

Written between the 30th December 2000 and 4th January 2001.

By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)

Finished 4th July 2008