Redemption of Souls
Prologue
By Jeremy
There was nothing more casual than a soldier's camp before a great battle. When one knew that death may very well await one when the moment of battle came, one tended to do anything but be gloomy. As such, the greater the battle, the greater the games and jest and laughs. And in this camp the laughs and games were especially jolly and loud, as the battle set for the morrow would be especially bloody.
After all, they were facing the new army of Midland now.
To the people of Chuda, it really was nothing new to face the Kingdom which had so long stood - and still did - against their Empire's expansionism. The two great powers, the greatest of the known world, had sparred for many generations, thousands being lost on both sides, usually to gain nothing. A bloody war of equal powers. Well, ALMOST equal, for the Chudan had once taken the great northern forteress, Doldorey Castle, and had from there won victory upon victory against their ennemies, and it seemed that their dream - that of taking of the Castle-City of Wyndham and ending this war victoriously - had been within their reach.
But then came Griffith. Griffith, the Hawks and the Hundred-Men Slayer.
When these people had joined on Midland's side, everything turned upside-down. Griffith, then known as the White Hawk, had led his army again and again against strategic Chudan bases, his attacks always quick, bloody and successful. His rise within the Midland military had been the death knell for the Empire. Where they usually won, the Empire started to lose ground. First several outposts had fallen, the most important one to the Hawks. Then there was the Midland victory at Fort Brax, and then the Midland army retaking lost territory, finalizing things with the climatic and daring retaking of Doldorey, which had once again equalized things.
The Empire had been in the middle of internal stryfe then. It sued for peace. The drms of war finally lay silent. And then Griffith had come back, taking over the Midland Throne, and then hordes of powerful warriors had started to expand the realm in all directions. Including Chuda. And Chuda, for the last thirtenn years, had been losing ground. That angered people.
That especially angered the man simply known as Deknar. A very good warrior of the Chudan Northern Militia, he had watched his home and all he held dear be destroyed by the Midland Army in the last decade and from it, he had grown angrier and bitter, until the only way he found now to release the bitterness was to make fun of the frightened newbies and the loners that hired themselves out as mercenaries. He was headed towards one of them right now, followed by his three lapdogs, men of whom he barely remembered the names and whom he tolerated only because they held his swordskills up on a pedestal.
The man he was headed towards had been one he who had caught his eye the moment he'd walked in camp. Cloaked, the only thing that could be analysed was his tall, strong frame and his face. Young, with a scar under his chin and one at his neck, dark eyes which seemed grave and pondering and red hair tied in a braid behind his back. And a blue lock. The most fascinating thing was that. in front of the mass of red, a lone pale blue lock dangled, contrasting sharply with the rest. All in all, there was something, definitely something, about that young, grave-looking mercenary.
The perfect bait for a little pushing around. Deknar knew these types of kids - they thought they were tough, because they'd seen one or two fights and scratched themselves while training, but push them around and they start crying like babies.
He found the young man hunched over, silently reading a worn, small, leather-bound book with attention. So the kid could read, eh? Probably came from a religious order, cuz he certainly didn't look noble. He was seemingly oblivious to the four coming his way, not moving or saying anything.
It was only when Deknar's shade came over him, that he made any movement. Her squinted as the lack of light made his text hard to read, then slightly turned his head in their direction, his whole expression that of one who just didn't seem to be phased by having four snickering fellows looking down at him. His face stony, he opened his mouth.
"Would you please remove yourselves a bit so that I may have some light." without waiting for a reply, he turned back towards the book. "Thank you."
For a moment, following this calm, almost gentle chiding from a kid who was probably little more than half his age, the man named Deknar - proud, tall, smug Deknar, who always had the effect he wanted when he meant to impress - was left speechless. Then he set his jaw, more than a little irritated. That...that BRAT had just dismissed him like he'd been some minor annoyance, a fly to be shooed away. Him! Of of the best fighters of the Northern Militia!
"Don't you know who this guy is, man?" said one of his followers before he could speak "That's Deknar, the best fighter in this region!"
That sentence had impressed many a young recruit when they heard it, and it had usually been a real pleasure seeing them babble incoherently or apologize frantically. It was one of the fun things about being a famous warrior - one impressed rookies. But he didn't impresse that one. In fact, all the young man with the blue patch of air did was to turn his head a little more towards them then before, look at them with serious deep green eyes, then shrug as if all of this conversation was pointless.
"Nice to meet you. Now could you please let me read this?" he asked
And as far as Deknar was concerned, that was IT. No little punk was going to treat him like he barely existed. Growling, he brought his right foot up and kicked the book out of the young man's hands. The youth seemed to freeze for a fraction of a moment, and in that fraction the oldder warrior felt satisfaction. 'There', he thought, 'now that brat will know he should respect me!'
His satisfaction brutally evaporated in the very next fraction of a second.
Faster than anyone could react to it, the man's strong hand gripped Deknar's foot with unshakable strength, and with surprising vigor pushed it upward. The warrior was unbalanced, and before anyone could react, he had fallen in the dusty soil, his expression one of surprise. He looked stunned at the now standing newbie, who seemed unconcerned with what he had just done.
"Perhaps we should leave it at that. Braggards like you don't impress me. Accept it and lets both be content." with this, he turned to pick up his book.
Inside Deknar, the bitterness and the humiliation were fast merging, forming a dark pit within his soul, a well of hatred and spite towards this quiet and strange young man who had just tossed aside - litterally TOSSED ASIDE - a man who had worn a sword almost as long as the kid had been alive. Already the militia man was seeing people cast looks at him, some coloured with pity, others with disdain and a few - oh yes, those were the worst! - with a barely contained mirth. The well of darkness surged up when his humiliation was complete as his three companions cast looks of doubts at each other. He'd show them! He had to! He'd show that blasted kid who was the best warrior around here!!!
He surged to his feet violently, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. In a flash it was out its sheet, brutally swinging, faster than most could, with precision, intending to whack the youth backward into the dirt himself, and thus show that no bookworm wood make a fool of Deknar of Chuda. Gasps from other soldiers were uttered, and half-warnings uttered, but far too late to do any good.
However, what Deknar and the other soldiers heard wasn't the ooofing sound of a person, followed by the thud of a body hitting the dirt, but a sharp sound of steel meeting steel. Everyone gasped again, but not for the same reason. For out of his cloak, faster than anyone had seen, the young man had drawn a sword, a longsword with a blade of fine make, but with an outdated hilt which came had been replaced twenty years ago at least. The youth held Deknar's blade with not effort at all, and pushed it back expertly, never loosing his calm facade.
"As I said," he stated with an hint of coldness "We should leave it at that. I don't want to have to hurt you, but if you press on I will consider myself attacked and act as I see fit."
Deknar was no longer listening by then, his ire pounding in his ears as he attacked the younger man with rage and strength. Another sword came out then - wearing a high-quality blade much like the first one but with a newer style of hilt. Amazingly the young man started to use these two swords to block his shots and gradually, with a flurry of steel denoting a skill which seemed almost inhuman, pin him down in one place.
For every shot he took was deflected, then returned ten fold. The only luck he had was that the man used the flat of his blade, or he'd have been dead before the battle commenced at all. Still he fought for what remained of his pride, until the man - not even winded, he found in dismay - tired of it all and disarmed him with one quick maneuver. He found himself at swordpoint before his old blade hit the ground. A tense, awed silence followed. The young man gave him a chilly look.
"Half of me wishes for me to kill you and revel in your blood, and that is part of why I am here - to pass this test and see how much of that part I am. But right now you will live, for my better side is in control." his eyes suddenly glared dangerously. "However, if you dare attack me again, I might not be as lenient and this goes to EVERY SINGLE one of you!"
And with that, he sheathed his swords in their sheets, showing a glimpse of an armor which was rather mismatched, picked up his book, hefted his travel bag and left with an steady step. No one dared to stop him, to speak to him. All stared at him.
Deknar was one of those. He should have felt humiliated at what had happened, should have been raging, but instead was white-faced and trembling, unable to control himself. Not because of the fact that he could have died. Not even because of the fact the man had passed a threat he was more than capable of carrying out. No.
The reason for the fear was that for a moment, the man's eyes had shown something so cruelly lustful, there locked away in their depht, something so cruel that he wondered if hoped he had imagined it all, because what was kept locked out away beyond simply couldn't really be human.
One thing was certain, Deknar the warrior would never try to fight this strange man. Ever. Because if he did, what was behind those eyes might show itself.
And he really didn't want to experience that.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Aww, come on Erika!" whined Pack for at least the thirtieth time, flying circles around the raven-haired young warrior. "Its cold here! Way too cold to search some dumb ruins!"
Erika, while not completely disagreeing with what the little fairy was saying, had heard the comment quite enought for one day and reacted accordingly. Reaching out, she tapped the fairy as he passed, sending him flying away a good ten feet with a startled and indignant yelp. As the room was vast he didn't hit anything and righted itself, coming back with a vengance, his tiny face screwed up in irritation.
"Hey! That was mean! Why did ya do that for?!?" he asked in enervation.
"I did that because you're being a pain, Pack! You've been a pain ever since we've entered the place. No, ever since we left the smithy! Can't you concentrate on the task at hand? We're near the High Priest's chamber." she answered sharply.
He humphed, crossing his slim arms on his equally slim chest. He wasn't convinced, she could tell, and she really couldn't blame him. But who could have believed that one thousand years could make something as great as the Midland Empire's Castle into such nameless ruins of bygone time. It was hard to believe that the legendary warrior, Gaizerick, had once walked the then magnificient halls, well on his way to become the Emperor of the entire Known World. And cheated in this very place, by one he trusted, the priest whose real name became lost in the shadows of history, the man whom, if the ancient texts and myths spoke any truth, might have becaome the First of God Hand, the godlike being known as Void.
She really wasn't all that sure that she believed the existence of these beings...or rather, she wouldn't if it wasn't for the fact that Gatts had met them - hell, he'd KNOWN the newest one as something of a friend - that Pack had seen them and that Sorin...yes, they existed. But it was hard to believe five godlings ruled the darkness, watching mankind and deciding its fate subtly, cruelly. It was hard to imagine these things had once been humans, people with thoughts and dreams of humans. Hard to believe she was about to enter the centuries-old study of the human their oldest member had once been.
It was dangerous, she knew. But necessary, if her and Sorin's plan - they hadn't dared talked to Rickert, let alone Gatts about it, because they knew they would have reacted rather badly to the idea. They had told Pack because the fairy, for all his posturing, understood them, and their need to make things better. Their need the change things.
Still, it was very chilling, being here. Shivering, she stopped and grasped the hilt of her sword. A magnificient blade of the very finest make, it had been Godo's work, the gift he had prepared for his tomboyish, over-energetic grand-daughter for her eighteenth years. Sadly, he had never lived to see it, but gave her the blade as a parting gift. And the blade had been soaked with tears before being soaked with blood. The sword fit her like a third arm, and every time she grasped it, she had the impression her grandfather was there, giving her strength.
And it worked that time as well, as the wave of cold and fear passed, and she raised her torch higher, continuing her walk in silence.
Silence on her part, at least. Pack had another way of dealing with fear. While Gatts and she took to silence and Sorin took to humming ribald songs, Pack talked. Continuously. About anything that got his attention.
"Look at that pillar, must have cost a fortune to carve that thing." he was babbling. "Should show Gatts that arch, I'm sure he'd be impressed! Oh, Is that a painting, yeah a painting. Look! Look, Erika! A painting which survived looting and a millenia of time."
She grunted a vague assent, still intent on finding the priest's study. Just a little farther, no? Pack, however, was on the loose now that he'd find something to comment about, looking at what the painting represented. She paid no immediate attention to what he said, only listening with half an ear as she peered around.
"Oh, man, I can understand why they didn't take it! Bleh! Its so violent, its gross. I know Gaizerick was the best of the best of his time, but hadn't he done enough fighting not to want to SEE it in paintings?!? Geez! Look at that. Dead people everywhere. Just like the place Sorin is will soon...be..." his voice trailed off as his brain made contact with his tongue, but it was too late. She'd heard, and was overwhelmed by a new wave of cold, a different one this time.
Sorin...he'd gone fighting in that battle, to, as he said "test the limits of his control, to see the horror of his bloodlust, and to wait for...something." Sorin, the red-haired, blue locked, grave young man who'd come one day, silent and sullen, into Godo's smithy with Gatts. The Dark Warrior had explained the child was like him a lot, in many ways. Hurt. Hurt and damned. But NOT willing to leave it at that. He had been a sullen child, silent even to Rickert or Erika for many weeks, eyeing them with suspiscion. But he had been a child, her own age, and before they knew it, and to their surpris, they had been friends.
And, later, more than friends...
Pack was fairly ramming himself into the wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you go and say that? Don't you have any brain at all?!? I'm sorry, Erika, I wasn't think, AS USUAL. My brother always said I had a sandbag in the place of my -"
She raised a hand with a sigh. "Its okay, Pack. No harm done. I admit I'm worried. VERY worried, but I'd be worried even if he was just walking to take water for breakfast. I know that Gatts has trained him hard and that next to our sullen Dark Swordsman, he's probably the best fighter around now."
Could he be any less, with the type of training Gatts had put him through. Through the years, everytime he wasn't out fighting corrupt ruffians or demons, he had trained the boy ruthlessly. Although she was certain Gatts didn't want to kill his silent 'apprentice', his only reference as a trainer had been a man who hated him from the start, so that sometimes, only Rickert or Godo's intervention had saved the boy.
But Sorin had never seemed to mind the treatment, and after a few years, the dark warrior - who year by year grew increasingly frightening - and the cursed youth had develloped an almost-warm relationship, based on feelings they shared, about things none could truly understand. Sorin had once tried to explain it, but he'd given up, saying that one had to live it, and he'd never wish that to anyone.
But the training bore fruit. By the age of sixteen, Sorin could easily defeat about anyone outside of Gatts. She had been trained by Rickert herself, and wasn't too bad herself, especially since Sorin and Gatts hads both given her tips. But she knew she'd never be anywhere near these two, who found so much solace in blades.
She then stopped her reverie as she found herself facing a crumbling doorway, upon which was ingraved 'FATARAS ELDA UERON MORITA', 'Faith is Eternal Life'. The motto of the ancient priests. That was it! The High Priest's study! She entered inside, finding a place which could hold her torch, then inspecting the place.
It had seen better days, and only a few pieces of rotten wood still showed the blaces where books had once stood. It was crumbling, forgotten, like this entire place - a place of impossible dreams and lust.
"Ewww! Moldy!" Pack exclaimed, holding his nose.
Yes. From rot. But as she'd hoped, there were many, very many scrolls still intact, as they had been treated with special oil to prevent the passage of time to harm them too much. Grinning, she took the bag she'd prepared for the occasion, and grinned at Pack.
"Come on, help me fill this up with any readable piece you can find." she said sweetly.
Pack snorted, his wings fluttering rapidly as he hovered near her. "I get no respect from you at all! Sometimes I wonder what you're looking for here." but he went to seek a lying scroll as he said this.
Erika looked at her little friend for moment, before turning to her own scrounging. "Hope, Pack. I'm looking for hope." she whispered.
* * * * * * * * * *
Shield clashed. Hooves thundered and horses neighed as they hit or trampled a foe. Sword fell upon sword and upon flesh. Cries of agony mingled with the endless roars of fury, the vows, the oaths and the prayers, as the valley was soaked with the blood of men yet another time, not by far the last.
The empire had sent a great army this time to halt the Midland invasion there before they lost any more territory. Well-armed and armored, with full contigents of knights and as many hardened mercenaries that the imperial coffers could by, the Chudan army met their Midland enemy and held their ground.
Barely.
Fifteen years before, the Midland Army had been tough, but not quite as much as the Chudan one. Led by the the legendary Lord Boscogne and his Immortal Knights, it had had the upper hand for many years. An upper hand which had ended with the Hawks. And now, the new King - many said it was Griffith, and many thought it was something else altogether - had fielded an army so ferocious and well-trained it held the Imperial forces, which were superior in number, mired in combat.
For Sorin, however, his mind wasn't on the politics of the Continent or the strength of this or that army. His mind was heavily on killing as many enemies as he could. And try to keep his dark half from enjoying it.
Quick as lightning, his sword ripped through one soldier's torso, while the other was blocking a pikeman's thrust. The lance went astray and before the soldier could recover, he had cleaved his head from his shoulders with one swipe. With out waiting he charged into the enemy ranks, severing limbs, splitting skulls, feeding the soil gallons upon gallons of flowing blood. His breath came fast as the thrill of battle was upon him, the dark, cruel side of himself stirring. He tried to keep it from emerging, for this was why he was here. To confront his demons. His own blood.
He screamed as a knight of Midland charged him nicking him on the arm with his lance. Not noticing his own blood or the pain, the young man let go of one sword, grabbed the armored rider, and with a raging growl and a heave, unhorsed him. Before the man could say or do anything his throat was pierced by a blade as he lay there, and without waiting to see the man agonize he took his other blood-drenched blade and went back raging into the battle.
Snarling faces came to confront him, only to immediately fall away, agonized. The salty smell of blood filled his nose, and he tasted it, until he felt like bursting, like laughing, like crying. He did not feel himself in the thrill which had taken hold of him.
"""It is sweet, is it not, my son?"""
He paused as the voice entered his mind, filled him even more than the blood and the fighting. A woman's voice, caring and yet alive with cruel lust. Ageless yet young. Beautiful yet ugly. And carrying with it a dark pleasure that resonated with his own blood. Although he knew he had not heard the voice, yet he had. He knew not the person, yet knew it. His mother. His mother was speaking to him.
"""Yes, you are right, my child! I have watched you much over the years, and you have pleased me. You are strong now. Powerful. Enough that if you would call upon the birthright I left you, nothing in Man's world would resist you!""" The voice giggled then, joyously.
He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to banish the voice. "This is not what I seek! I don't want to become like you! Not like any of you! I am proud of my human blood, it is the part of me which I cherish. From your blood I only ever felt pain and suffering!" As he talked, he continued fighting, his instinct dispatching the few opponents who still dared come his way. He heard laughter in his mind, sarcastic laughter, grating on his nerve.
"""Heeheeheeh! You know that's not true, boy! You feel it! You feel me and you feel us, everytime you kill, everytime your sword thrusts into another's heart, you are like us. Come with us! Let go of that girl and that doomed man! Stand beside us, and you will stand above Gatts the Dark Swordsman!"""
Yes! He could be better! Enough of living in Gatts' shadow. No! What was he thinking. Gatts cared more about him than he showed. He had saved him from dying on the street. He didn't want to remove the man! Gatts was his mentor and his friend!
"""Really, my boy?""" the voice seemed amused """I think he is using you! Yes, you are only a tool to get back at us, a weapon to aim at Femto and the rest of us! You are nothing to him. To any of them!"""
"Lies!" he growled, and yet part of himself quaked at the thought. "They care for me! Like father did! Like sister did! And Erika loves me, as I love her!"
"""Does she? Or is she making a fool of you behind your back? Even now, she might be with another, fully human lover."
"Enough."
"""Join us, my son. And all will be revealed. Let go of these petty bonds and assume your destiny."
Part of his self rejoiced at the suggestion, a dark part he had felt inside of him ever since he could feel, the demonic blood of one on the greatest monster which ever existed, mingled with the blood of a man she had toyed with but never broken. A man who had raised him, along with his daughter. He could see their faces, their love, their legacy, the armor answords he wore, the things they had stood for. And then, from the depth of his mind, an image of Erika arose, one of her laughing, laughing at him and with him. His love for her he then felt, and the spell was broken.
He laughed. Along, shrill laugh which bordered on hysteria. "SLANN!!! Mother and demon! You make a brilliant case! But I know what Godhand is, I know what Griffith gave away to become Femto! Joining you means no longer being who I am, to stop loving Erika, Pack, Rickert, Gatts! I won't do that! Unlike you, I will never become a demon!"
For long moments there seemed to be nothing, and he thought that it was all over, that God Hand had left him alone for now. But then, as if drifting on the wind, the femal voice came one last time, cruel and yet loving, harsh and yet softer than silk.
"""Never say never my son. Because you may go back on your vows. As we all did."""
And then it was over. Sorin felt the darkness fall back, back down to the dark corners of his spirit, and found himself soaked in blood, standing amonst the dead bodies of men, the battle having left him. And he sat amongst the dead, brooding, the desire to fight gone. He knew this could not go on. Caska had never come out of her trauma, Gatts was becoming more dangerous by the day. And as for he himself...how long, with she watching, would he resist the call of Slann? The call of God Hand? How long before he hurt Erika if this kept up? Not long at this rate.
Unlesss something was done.
And if there was a real God, one of mercy and compassion, then Erika and he would do that something.
Prologue
By Jeremy
There was nothing more casual than a soldier's camp before a great battle. When one knew that death may very well await one when the moment of battle came, one tended to do anything but be gloomy. As such, the greater the battle, the greater the games and jest and laughs. And in this camp the laughs and games were especially jolly and loud, as the battle set for the morrow would be especially bloody.
After all, they were facing the new army of Midland now.
To the people of Chuda, it really was nothing new to face the Kingdom which had so long stood - and still did - against their Empire's expansionism. The two great powers, the greatest of the known world, had sparred for many generations, thousands being lost on both sides, usually to gain nothing. A bloody war of equal powers. Well, ALMOST equal, for the Chudan had once taken the great northern forteress, Doldorey Castle, and had from there won victory upon victory against their ennemies, and it seemed that their dream - that of taking of the Castle-City of Wyndham and ending this war victoriously - had been within their reach.
But then came Griffith. Griffith, the Hawks and the Hundred-Men Slayer.
When these people had joined on Midland's side, everything turned upside-down. Griffith, then known as the White Hawk, had led his army again and again against strategic Chudan bases, his attacks always quick, bloody and successful. His rise within the Midland military had been the death knell for the Empire. Where they usually won, the Empire started to lose ground. First several outposts had fallen, the most important one to the Hawks. Then there was the Midland victory at Fort Brax, and then the Midland army retaking lost territory, finalizing things with the climatic and daring retaking of Doldorey, which had once again equalized things.
The Empire had been in the middle of internal stryfe then. It sued for peace. The drms of war finally lay silent. And then Griffith had come back, taking over the Midland Throne, and then hordes of powerful warriors had started to expand the realm in all directions. Including Chuda. And Chuda, for the last thirtenn years, had been losing ground. That angered people.
That especially angered the man simply known as Deknar. A very good warrior of the Chudan Northern Militia, he had watched his home and all he held dear be destroyed by the Midland Army in the last decade and from it, he had grown angrier and bitter, until the only way he found now to release the bitterness was to make fun of the frightened newbies and the loners that hired themselves out as mercenaries. He was headed towards one of them right now, followed by his three lapdogs, men of whom he barely remembered the names and whom he tolerated only because they held his swordskills up on a pedestal.
The man he was headed towards had been one he who had caught his eye the moment he'd walked in camp. Cloaked, the only thing that could be analysed was his tall, strong frame and his face. Young, with a scar under his chin and one at his neck, dark eyes which seemed grave and pondering and red hair tied in a braid behind his back. And a blue lock. The most fascinating thing was that. in front of the mass of red, a lone pale blue lock dangled, contrasting sharply with the rest. All in all, there was something, definitely something, about that young, grave-looking mercenary.
The perfect bait for a little pushing around. Deknar knew these types of kids - they thought they were tough, because they'd seen one or two fights and scratched themselves while training, but push them around and they start crying like babies.
He found the young man hunched over, silently reading a worn, small, leather-bound book with attention. So the kid could read, eh? Probably came from a religious order, cuz he certainly didn't look noble. He was seemingly oblivious to the four coming his way, not moving or saying anything.
It was only when Deknar's shade came over him, that he made any movement. Her squinted as the lack of light made his text hard to read, then slightly turned his head in their direction, his whole expression that of one who just didn't seem to be phased by having four snickering fellows looking down at him. His face stony, he opened his mouth.
"Would you please remove yourselves a bit so that I may have some light." without waiting for a reply, he turned back towards the book. "Thank you."
For a moment, following this calm, almost gentle chiding from a kid who was probably little more than half his age, the man named Deknar - proud, tall, smug Deknar, who always had the effect he wanted when he meant to impress - was left speechless. Then he set his jaw, more than a little irritated. That...that BRAT had just dismissed him like he'd been some minor annoyance, a fly to be shooed away. Him! Of of the best fighters of the Northern Militia!
"Don't you know who this guy is, man?" said one of his followers before he could speak "That's Deknar, the best fighter in this region!"
That sentence had impressed many a young recruit when they heard it, and it had usually been a real pleasure seeing them babble incoherently or apologize frantically. It was one of the fun things about being a famous warrior - one impressed rookies. But he didn't impresse that one. In fact, all the young man with the blue patch of air did was to turn his head a little more towards them then before, look at them with serious deep green eyes, then shrug as if all of this conversation was pointless.
"Nice to meet you. Now could you please let me read this?" he asked
And as far as Deknar was concerned, that was IT. No little punk was going to treat him like he barely existed. Growling, he brought his right foot up and kicked the book out of the young man's hands. The youth seemed to freeze for a fraction of a moment, and in that fraction the oldder warrior felt satisfaction. 'There', he thought, 'now that brat will know he should respect me!'
His satisfaction brutally evaporated in the very next fraction of a second.
Faster than anyone could react to it, the man's strong hand gripped Deknar's foot with unshakable strength, and with surprising vigor pushed it upward. The warrior was unbalanced, and before anyone could react, he had fallen in the dusty soil, his expression one of surprise. He looked stunned at the now standing newbie, who seemed unconcerned with what he had just done.
"Perhaps we should leave it at that. Braggards like you don't impress me. Accept it and lets both be content." with this, he turned to pick up his book.
Inside Deknar, the bitterness and the humiliation were fast merging, forming a dark pit within his soul, a well of hatred and spite towards this quiet and strange young man who had just tossed aside - litterally TOSSED ASIDE - a man who had worn a sword almost as long as the kid had been alive. Already the militia man was seeing people cast looks at him, some coloured with pity, others with disdain and a few - oh yes, those were the worst! - with a barely contained mirth. The well of darkness surged up when his humiliation was complete as his three companions cast looks of doubts at each other. He'd show them! He had to! He'd show that blasted kid who was the best warrior around here!!!
He surged to his feet violently, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. In a flash it was out its sheet, brutally swinging, faster than most could, with precision, intending to whack the youth backward into the dirt himself, and thus show that no bookworm wood make a fool of Deknar of Chuda. Gasps from other soldiers were uttered, and half-warnings uttered, but far too late to do any good.
However, what Deknar and the other soldiers heard wasn't the ooofing sound of a person, followed by the thud of a body hitting the dirt, but a sharp sound of steel meeting steel. Everyone gasped again, but not for the same reason. For out of his cloak, faster than anyone had seen, the young man had drawn a sword, a longsword with a blade of fine make, but with an outdated hilt which came had been replaced twenty years ago at least. The youth held Deknar's blade with not effort at all, and pushed it back expertly, never loosing his calm facade.
"As I said," he stated with an hint of coldness "We should leave it at that. I don't want to have to hurt you, but if you press on I will consider myself attacked and act as I see fit."
Deknar was no longer listening by then, his ire pounding in his ears as he attacked the younger man with rage and strength. Another sword came out then - wearing a high-quality blade much like the first one but with a newer style of hilt. Amazingly the young man started to use these two swords to block his shots and gradually, with a flurry of steel denoting a skill which seemed almost inhuman, pin him down in one place.
For every shot he took was deflected, then returned ten fold. The only luck he had was that the man used the flat of his blade, or he'd have been dead before the battle commenced at all. Still he fought for what remained of his pride, until the man - not even winded, he found in dismay - tired of it all and disarmed him with one quick maneuver. He found himself at swordpoint before his old blade hit the ground. A tense, awed silence followed. The young man gave him a chilly look.
"Half of me wishes for me to kill you and revel in your blood, and that is part of why I am here - to pass this test and see how much of that part I am. But right now you will live, for my better side is in control." his eyes suddenly glared dangerously. "However, if you dare attack me again, I might not be as lenient and this goes to EVERY SINGLE one of you!"
And with that, he sheathed his swords in their sheets, showing a glimpse of an armor which was rather mismatched, picked up his book, hefted his travel bag and left with an steady step. No one dared to stop him, to speak to him. All stared at him.
Deknar was one of those. He should have felt humiliated at what had happened, should have been raging, but instead was white-faced and trembling, unable to control himself. Not because of the fact that he could have died. Not even because of the fact the man had passed a threat he was more than capable of carrying out. No.
The reason for the fear was that for a moment, the man's eyes had shown something so cruelly lustful, there locked away in their depht, something so cruel that he wondered if hoped he had imagined it all, because what was kept locked out away beyond simply couldn't really be human.
One thing was certain, Deknar the warrior would never try to fight this strange man. Ever. Because if he did, what was behind those eyes might show itself.
And he really didn't want to experience that.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Aww, come on Erika!" whined Pack for at least the thirtieth time, flying circles around the raven-haired young warrior. "Its cold here! Way too cold to search some dumb ruins!"
Erika, while not completely disagreeing with what the little fairy was saying, had heard the comment quite enought for one day and reacted accordingly. Reaching out, she tapped the fairy as he passed, sending him flying away a good ten feet with a startled and indignant yelp. As the room was vast he didn't hit anything and righted itself, coming back with a vengance, his tiny face screwed up in irritation.
"Hey! That was mean! Why did ya do that for?!?" he asked in enervation.
"I did that because you're being a pain, Pack! You've been a pain ever since we've entered the place. No, ever since we left the smithy! Can't you concentrate on the task at hand? We're near the High Priest's chamber." she answered sharply.
He humphed, crossing his slim arms on his equally slim chest. He wasn't convinced, she could tell, and she really couldn't blame him. But who could have believed that one thousand years could make something as great as the Midland Empire's Castle into such nameless ruins of bygone time. It was hard to believe that the legendary warrior, Gaizerick, had once walked the then magnificient halls, well on his way to become the Emperor of the entire Known World. And cheated in this very place, by one he trusted, the priest whose real name became lost in the shadows of history, the man whom, if the ancient texts and myths spoke any truth, might have becaome the First of God Hand, the godlike being known as Void.
She really wasn't all that sure that she believed the existence of these beings...or rather, she wouldn't if it wasn't for the fact that Gatts had met them - hell, he'd KNOWN the newest one as something of a friend - that Pack had seen them and that Sorin...yes, they existed. But it was hard to believe five godlings ruled the darkness, watching mankind and deciding its fate subtly, cruelly. It was hard to imagine these things had once been humans, people with thoughts and dreams of humans. Hard to believe she was about to enter the centuries-old study of the human their oldest member had once been.
It was dangerous, she knew. But necessary, if her and Sorin's plan - they hadn't dared talked to Rickert, let alone Gatts about it, because they knew they would have reacted rather badly to the idea. They had told Pack because the fairy, for all his posturing, understood them, and their need to make things better. Their need the change things.
Still, it was very chilling, being here. Shivering, she stopped and grasped the hilt of her sword. A magnificient blade of the very finest make, it had been Godo's work, the gift he had prepared for his tomboyish, over-energetic grand-daughter for her eighteenth years. Sadly, he had never lived to see it, but gave her the blade as a parting gift. And the blade had been soaked with tears before being soaked with blood. The sword fit her like a third arm, and every time she grasped it, she had the impression her grandfather was there, giving her strength.
And it worked that time as well, as the wave of cold and fear passed, and she raised her torch higher, continuing her walk in silence.
Silence on her part, at least. Pack had another way of dealing with fear. While Gatts and she took to silence and Sorin took to humming ribald songs, Pack talked. Continuously. About anything that got his attention.
"Look at that pillar, must have cost a fortune to carve that thing." he was babbling. "Should show Gatts that arch, I'm sure he'd be impressed! Oh, Is that a painting, yeah a painting. Look! Look, Erika! A painting which survived looting and a millenia of time."
She grunted a vague assent, still intent on finding the priest's study. Just a little farther, no? Pack, however, was on the loose now that he'd find something to comment about, looking at what the painting represented. She paid no immediate attention to what he said, only listening with half an ear as she peered around.
"Oh, man, I can understand why they didn't take it! Bleh! Its so violent, its gross. I know Gaizerick was the best of the best of his time, but hadn't he done enough fighting not to want to SEE it in paintings?!? Geez! Look at that. Dead people everywhere. Just like the place Sorin is will soon...be..." his voice trailed off as his brain made contact with his tongue, but it was too late. She'd heard, and was overwhelmed by a new wave of cold, a different one this time.
Sorin...he'd gone fighting in that battle, to, as he said "test the limits of his control, to see the horror of his bloodlust, and to wait for...something." Sorin, the red-haired, blue locked, grave young man who'd come one day, silent and sullen, into Godo's smithy with Gatts. The Dark Warrior had explained the child was like him a lot, in many ways. Hurt. Hurt and damned. But NOT willing to leave it at that. He had been a sullen child, silent even to Rickert or Erika for many weeks, eyeing them with suspiscion. But he had been a child, her own age, and before they knew it, and to their surpris, they had been friends.
And, later, more than friends...
Pack was fairly ramming himself into the wall. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why did you go and say that? Don't you have any brain at all?!? I'm sorry, Erika, I wasn't think, AS USUAL. My brother always said I had a sandbag in the place of my -"
She raised a hand with a sigh. "Its okay, Pack. No harm done. I admit I'm worried. VERY worried, but I'd be worried even if he was just walking to take water for breakfast. I know that Gatts has trained him hard and that next to our sullen Dark Swordsman, he's probably the best fighter around now."
Could he be any less, with the type of training Gatts had put him through. Through the years, everytime he wasn't out fighting corrupt ruffians or demons, he had trained the boy ruthlessly. Although she was certain Gatts didn't want to kill his silent 'apprentice', his only reference as a trainer had been a man who hated him from the start, so that sometimes, only Rickert or Godo's intervention had saved the boy.
But Sorin had never seemed to mind the treatment, and after a few years, the dark warrior - who year by year grew increasingly frightening - and the cursed youth had develloped an almost-warm relationship, based on feelings they shared, about things none could truly understand. Sorin had once tried to explain it, but he'd given up, saying that one had to live it, and he'd never wish that to anyone.
But the training bore fruit. By the age of sixteen, Sorin could easily defeat about anyone outside of Gatts. She had been trained by Rickert herself, and wasn't too bad herself, especially since Sorin and Gatts hads both given her tips. But she knew she'd never be anywhere near these two, who found so much solace in blades.
She then stopped her reverie as she found herself facing a crumbling doorway, upon which was ingraved 'FATARAS ELDA UERON MORITA', 'Faith is Eternal Life'. The motto of the ancient priests. That was it! The High Priest's study! She entered inside, finding a place which could hold her torch, then inspecting the place.
It had seen better days, and only a few pieces of rotten wood still showed the blaces where books had once stood. It was crumbling, forgotten, like this entire place - a place of impossible dreams and lust.
"Ewww! Moldy!" Pack exclaimed, holding his nose.
Yes. From rot. But as she'd hoped, there were many, very many scrolls still intact, as they had been treated with special oil to prevent the passage of time to harm them too much. Grinning, she took the bag she'd prepared for the occasion, and grinned at Pack.
"Come on, help me fill this up with any readable piece you can find." she said sweetly.
Pack snorted, his wings fluttering rapidly as he hovered near her. "I get no respect from you at all! Sometimes I wonder what you're looking for here." but he went to seek a lying scroll as he said this.
Erika looked at her little friend for moment, before turning to her own scrounging. "Hope, Pack. I'm looking for hope." she whispered.
* * * * * * * * * *
Shield clashed. Hooves thundered and horses neighed as they hit or trampled a foe. Sword fell upon sword and upon flesh. Cries of agony mingled with the endless roars of fury, the vows, the oaths and the prayers, as the valley was soaked with the blood of men yet another time, not by far the last.
The empire had sent a great army this time to halt the Midland invasion there before they lost any more territory. Well-armed and armored, with full contigents of knights and as many hardened mercenaries that the imperial coffers could by, the Chudan army met their Midland enemy and held their ground.
Barely.
Fifteen years before, the Midland Army had been tough, but not quite as much as the Chudan one. Led by the the legendary Lord Boscogne and his Immortal Knights, it had had the upper hand for many years. An upper hand which had ended with the Hawks. And now, the new King - many said it was Griffith, and many thought it was something else altogether - had fielded an army so ferocious and well-trained it held the Imperial forces, which were superior in number, mired in combat.
For Sorin, however, his mind wasn't on the politics of the Continent or the strength of this or that army. His mind was heavily on killing as many enemies as he could. And try to keep his dark half from enjoying it.
Quick as lightning, his sword ripped through one soldier's torso, while the other was blocking a pikeman's thrust. The lance went astray and before the soldier could recover, he had cleaved his head from his shoulders with one swipe. With out waiting he charged into the enemy ranks, severing limbs, splitting skulls, feeding the soil gallons upon gallons of flowing blood. His breath came fast as the thrill of battle was upon him, the dark, cruel side of himself stirring. He tried to keep it from emerging, for this was why he was here. To confront his demons. His own blood.
He screamed as a knight of Midland charged him nicking him on the arm with his lance. Not noticing his own blood or the pain, the young man let go of one sword, grabbed the armored rider, and with a raging growl and a heave, unhorsed him. Before the man could say or do anything his throat was pierced by a blade as he lay there, and without waiting to see the man agonize he took his other blood-drenched blade and went back raging into the battle.
Snarling faces came to confront him, only to immediately fall away, agonized. The salty smell of blood filled his nose, and he tasted it, until he felt like bursting, like laughing, like crying. He did not feel himself in the thrill which had taken hold of him.
"""It is sweet, is it not, my son?"""
He paused as the voice entered his mind, filled him even more than the blood and the fighting. A woman's voice, caring and yet alive with cruel lust. Ageless yet young. Beautiful yet ugly. And carrying with it a dark pleasure that resonated with his own blood. Although he knew he had not heard the voice, yet he had. He knew not the person, yet knew it. His mother. His mother was speaking to him.
"""Yes, you are right, my child! I have watched you much over the years, and you have pleased me. You are strong now. Powerful. Enough that if you would call upon the birthright I left you, nothing in Man's world would resist you!""" The voice giggled then, joyously.
He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to banish the voice. "This is not what I seek! I don't want to become like you! Not like any of you! I am proud of my human blood, it is the part of me which I cherish. From your blood I only ever felt pain and suffering!" As he talked, he continued fighting, his instinct dispatching the few opponents who still dared come his way. He heard laughter in his mind, sarcastic laughter, grating on his nerve.
"""Heeheeheeh! You know that's not true, boy! You feel it! You feel me and you feel us, everytime you kill, everytime your sword thrusts into another's heart, you are like us. Come with us! Let go of that girl and that doomed man! Stand beside us, and you will stand above Gatts the Dark Swordsman!"""
Yes! He could be better! Enough of living in Gatts' shadow. No! What was he thinking. Gatts cared more about him than he showed. He had saved him from dying on the street. He didn't want to remove the man! Gatts was his mentor and his friend!
"""Really, my boy?""" the voice seemed amused """I think he is using you! Yes, you are only a tool to get back at us, a weapon to aim at Femto and the rest of us! You are nothing to him. To any of them!"""
"Lies!" he growled, and yet part of himself quaked at the thought. "They care for me! Like father did! Like sister did! And Erika loves me, as I love her!"
"""Does she? Or is she making a fool of you behind your back? Even now, she might be with another, fully human lover."
"Enough."
"""Join us, my son. And all will be revealed. Let go of these petty bonds and assume your destiny."
Part of his self rejoiced at the suggestion, a dark part he had felt inside of him ever since he could feel, the demonic blood of one on the greatest monster which ever existed, mingled with the blood of a man she had toyed with but never broken. A man who had raised him, along with his daughter. He could see their faces, their love, their legacy, the armor answords he wore, the things they had stood for. And then, from the depth of his mind, an image of Erika arose, one of her laughing, laughing at him and with him. His love for her he then felt, and the spell was broken.
He laughed. Along, shrill laugh which bordered on hysteria. "SLANN!!! Mother and demon! You make a brilliant case! But I know what Godhand is, I know what Griffith gave away to become Femto! Joining you means no longer being who I am, to stop loving Erika, Pack, Rickert, Gatts! I won't do that! Unlike you, I will never become a demon!"
For long moments there seemed to be nothing, and he thought that it was all over, that God Hand had left him alone for now. But then, as if drifting on the wind, the femal voice came one last time, cruel and yet loving, harsh and yet softer than silk.
"""Never say never my son. Because you may go back on your vows. As we all did."""
And then it was over. Sorin felt the darkness fall back, back down to the dark corners of his spirit, and found himself soaked in blood, standing amonst the dead bodies of men, the battle having left him. And he sat amongst the dead, brooding, the desire to fight gone. He knew this could not go on. Caska had never come out of her trauma, Gatts was becoming more dangerous by the day. And as for he himself...how long, with she watching, would he resist the call of Slann? The call of God Hand? How long before he hurt Erika if this kept up? Not long at this rate.
Unlesss something was done.
And if there was a real God, one of mercy and compassion, then Erika and he would do that something.