Chapter Two - Escape
The weakness of the dark is this; the smallest candle can hold back the shadows
The Huntsman sat warming his hands around a fire in the cold mountain air. The intensity of the heat and the flickering, leaping flames mirrored what he was feeling inside. Those around him, his five lieutenants, were quiet, sensing that silence was an unspoken order.
Abruptly the Huntsman spoke.
"He's here somewhere."
The men shifted, uneasy. For some reason, thought one, a man named Pierce, one man who can evade sixty men, yet still be close to us, really bothers me. But he didn't say anything. The Huntsman continued.
"He's close. He has to be. He couldn't move fast with the State Alchemist, not with him bleeding." Pierce shifted again, glancing at the men around him. Charet was calm and collected, picking his nails. Pierce wrinkled his nose in distaste. Smokey and Jiang were conversing quietly – Pierce saw a flash of cards and realised they were gambling. Finally, across the fire, White was sharpening a knife. All the men attempted indifference, but each was curious. You can hide your body language, but the eyes give you away…Pierce smiled as he remembered the woman who taught him that. Good times.
Suddenly the Huntsman was standing. Pierce blinked, looked through the spiralling embers at White. White shook his head. He hadn't seen the Huntsman move either.
"Smokey. We need a distraction."
Smokey looked at him in askance. He smiled.
"A burst of gunfire. Shouts. Something big enough that everyone rushes towards it, leaving the camp unguarded."
This time, it wasn't just Smokey who looked confused.
If anything, it seemed to enhance the Huntsman's smile.
"We won't tell the men, because it needs to be authentic." He shrugged. "Also, because if we do, our quarry would be onto us. No," here his voice dropped to a whisper, "what we are gonna do is give him an opening. We make a distraction, and he has no choice but to take it. His package is bleeding, and every hour brings him closer to death. So, he takes the chance. He kills the sentry near him. Hopefully he makes a noise, and then one of you," his voice deepened, and every man knew it was an order, "who will be hiding just outside the perimeter, having "taken a piss", jumps him. If, however, he's good," at this the Huntsman's voice dipped in approval, "he won't make a noise. Then the men we dispatch, after giving him enough time to kill our man and get away, check every sentry, we get a fix on his location, and his days are numbered."
The Huntsman looked at each man. Each had a different reaction – Charet looked enthused, White and Smokey looked indifferent, Jiang more interested in the cards in his hand, and Pierce. Pierce was watching the others.
The Huntsman smiled.
Pierce looked up, noticing the scrutiny. The Huntsman couldn't be sure, but for a second, he thought he saw fear – or was it dislike…?
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Jiang waited.
The hand on his watch – synchronised back at the campfire, showed him that Smokey was late. The expected burst of gunfire that was intended to either flush out their quarry and end their side trip within the next couple of hours, or just get him back in front of the fireplace and planning something a little less drastic, hadn't happened. And it was already half an hour late.
He shivered, burrowing deeper into the mass of leaf litter he was lying on. Stomach growling, he tightened his grip on his rifle whilst flexing his toes inside his boots to keep blood flow to his extremities up. All around him, the sounds of nightlife was conspicuously absent, and he had to settle for listening to the dull buzz of silence. Come ON, Smokey…
His clock face read two and a half hours late when something started to happen. A commotion to his right drew his attention, and he crept slowly towards the scene, angling himself to cut off any escape route. The silence amongst the dark trees was almost absolute, disturbed only by the faint sounds from the camp and sentries.
When he reached what he guessed was a hundred metres from the disruption, he realised he'd heard no sounds of fighting. Confused, he started to move faster, only to have a dark shape fly out of the trees and slam into him, bearing him to the ground, knife sliding between his ribs to puncture his heart.
Pain, pain like he'd never experienced before ripped through his chest, tearing the sight out of his eyes a split second after he recognised his attacker.
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The Huntsman stared down at the cold body of Smokey, blood still encrusting the line across his throat. Idly he kicked the body with his toe, noticing the expression on the dead man's face. Surprise. He had no idea what hit him. His lip curled.
Just outside his field of view, Pierce arrived at the circle of onlookers, joining White. Shit. This will really piss of the Huntsman. A few seconds later, a cry came out from the cold a score of metres away. Within a minute, Pierce was looking at the body of another lieutenant, this one warm, blood still pumping feebly from a jagged gash across, through, his heart. He stared at it for a second, his mind clouded with anger. Where to now?
"Any leads on the man?"
Huntsman looked up to see Pierce addressing a man with markings of a sergeant.
"Ah, no sir."
Pierce practically snarled, his hand twitching towards the man's throat.
"Find some!"
Huntsman smiled, and then returned to the campfire to await the reports of the scouts.
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Kilometres away, a young Amestrian lieutenant sat sterilising a needle in a pot of water boiling over a fire. Cautiously, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth, he threaded it, before applying it to the horribly-white skin of a young, bloodstained blonde. Quickly, because he didn't want the teenager to awaken before he finished, he sewed up the jagged exit wound, wiping away blood and cutting out dead or infected tissue as he did so. He paused every thirty seconds to switch knives, leaving them in the boiling water to sterilise and heat up.
The dark thread contrasted sharply with the waxen, sickly looking paleness of the youth's skin. Stryder's hands moved with surety and skill as he threaded the heated needle through pale skin, his mind detached from motions long since trained into his muscles.
Inside, he was far from steady.
Who IS this kid?
From his height, Stryder would place him around the age of fifteen. But the muscular build pointed towards a stockiness that could mean the height was just genetics. But that would still put him only at seventeen – and no seventeen year old would have those scars…surely…he could place knife wounds, bullet holes, and most commonly, the scars of punctures and slashes. Was he abused? But what assailant would use a firearm on a kid? Or…is he a mercenary? But then why would they try to kill him?
And then there was the automail. Stryder knew several men – grown men – who had automail. Each complained of aches and pains associated with the use of automail, and he knew that the attachment of automail was incredibly painful. What doctor would recommend a kid of seventeen have automail attached? And mercenaries of the kind I killed rarely spend enough on one person to have one pieces of automail attached.
Not mercenary, then.
A final tug on the thread, then a series of quick knots to ensure it didn't pull through, and he was done. Turning to place the needle and last knife into the pot of boiling water, he realised the fire had gone out. Cursing under his breath, he searched for his matches. He was on his knees looking through his webbing for them when a clap and flash of blue light flared out through the clearing. A second later, from a crouched ready stance a few metres further away then he had been before, knife held point first, ready for throwing, and pistol sighted, he gazed across a merrily burning fire, over a bubbling pot of water, into the golden eyes of the blonde youth, carelessly sharpening a blade extending out of his automail right arm.
For a second they stared at each other, Stryder observing the pain barely held behind a cool veneer, the blonde studying the lieutenant with a cool gaze, his eyes flicking down to the Amestrian emblem and chevrons on his chest. Then, carefully, the blonde pressed his fingers to his metal arm, and the blade shrank back into the metal. Stryder paused for a second, noting the sudden hardness in the kid's eyes. He hates being defenceless…the thought shocked Stryder. Almost as much as the blonde's next statement.
"Lieutenant, I could always order you to put down those weapons."
The laughing lilt to the words was backed up by a grin spreading over the blondes face. Stryder stared, struggling to compose himself. Cautious now, he ventured a quiet "Sir?"
Ed laughed.
"I gotta tell you, ell tee, its damn good to see a man with friendly markings." He paused, then rifled through the lieutenants webbing before extracting a small package, ripping it with his teeth and throwing it in the pot of boiling water. Idly he stirred it into the water with an automail finger, sitting forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He continued, looking up at Stryder now and then.
"Bet you got no idea who I am, eh? I know I'd be pretty confused if I were you. Out on a patrol, you stumble across a bunch of leather-clad men who start firing on you in earnest, a empty suit of armour that's till moving, and a small blonde teenager who then destroys the suit of armour with just his hands." A grin accompanied the weary sounding voice, and Stryder noted the kid was hiding behind his golden bangs, his golden eyes hooded.
He thought for a second, seating himself on a moss covered rock and automatically mimicking the teenager's pose.
A teenaged alchemist who knows the structure of the military…I know of only one in the last ten years…in fact, only one ever. And he's been missing for almost two years. Quickly he sifted through his memories. An image of a small blonde kid, automail arm and leg, wearing a red coat emblazoned with an unfamiliar black design and a silver pocket watch, accompanied by a large suit of armour with no one inside brought up a name. He spoke it aloud, with a sense of awe and disbelief.
"You're the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elrich."
Ed looked up, sharply.
"Huh. Wouldn't have thought you old enough to know anything about me. How old are you?"
The lieutenant smiled, and in the smile, Ed saw a man older beyond his years. Someone like him.
"Hey, kid – you know when you went into Liore?"
Ed started at that, his finger almost knocking over the pot of soup. He had to dive to save it. Stryder chuckled, his pose one of studied nonchalance.
"Yeah, I know all about that. Even more than Mustang." Again he laughed at the look on Ed's face. "What I never get is why that other alchemist was there."
"Who the fuck are you?" Ed was on his feet, hands twitching closer. Tables have turned now, huh, kid?
The lieutenant held up his empty hands, an easy smile on his lips despite his irritation at himself. Why did I let his arrogance get under my skin? This isn't a pissing contest.
"I was one of Hughes men, but then he got killed," he noted the flash of pain that swept across Ed's features, cursing himself for his insensitivity, "but now I work for Captain Havoc." This time Ed almost laughed out loud. He thumped himself on his chest. "Just call me Stryder – everyone else does. Work straight outta Central, but you'll never catch me at the office."
A second later a thin blade was shaving hair from his throat, and Ed was looking straight into his eyes from above him. Stryder's hand was on his pistol, the barrel pointing straight into the alchemist's chest. The teen's voice was cold and brittle.
"You better not be lying…cos I've had about enough of that in the last five years."
Stryder kept eye contact for a minute, then sighed. This kid's on the edge. If he were a soldier I'd have him carted off for a rest…
"Don't try that again," he said coolly. "You might tear the stitching."
Ed grimaced. Stryder misinterpreted.
"It was the best I could do. You really need a hospital. The wound is clean, the round passed right through. But I didn't have the time needed to stop and clean it straight away…in fact," he grimaced, "its been three days since you got shot. Do you remember anything?"
Ed sat heavily, eyes suddenly tired. He spoke dully.
"I remember seeing you kill those two men who were threatening me. I remember you throwing me against a tree before vanishing. Then there was a scuffle…he was going to shoot you in the back, and I…I couldn't let that happen. I killed him." The pain in that statement cut Stryder to the core. I felt the blade grate his ribs, then I saw you move, and a burning fire ripped through me. Then nothing, till you stitched me up."
Stryder winced. "You were awake through that?" Havoc's gonna kill me.
Ed grinned, knowing what was going through the young mans head. "For a bit, yeah." Then he sobered. "You said I was out for three day? What happened?"
The lieutenant shifted on his rock, dipping his hand into his webbing a producing a cup from nowhere. The flickering firelight danced across his face as he leant forward to dip the cup into the boiling soup, and Ed realised with a start he was only young, twenty something.
"When you got shot, I had to move fast. I quickly bandaged you up," Ed started at that, glancing towards the fire, where several long, white bandages were smouldering quietly. From where he sat he could see the dark stains running along their lengths, "and threw you over my shoulder. We made it bout a kilometre before any serious pursuit started. The whole reason I was there was to track a man known as the "huntsman" and his company. Havoc thought they were one of the most dangerous – most renown alchemist killers. It's said he can track an alchemist anywhere. Anyway, Havoc wanted him dead, so he could start sending alchemists out on patrols and maybe get them back alive, which isn't happening much anymore." Ed noted the sadness in the man's face.
He pulled himself together, continuing in a more animated voice, staring deep into the fire, reciting his – their – story almost like a report.
"The first visible signs I had of pursuit was when I stopped for a break." His lips curved up into a smile, and Ed saw a vitality and energy about the man that made him happy to be around him. "You're bloody heavy for a teenager of seventeen." His smile receded and he was back to his report. "Two men, 'cos the huntsman likes to operate in pairs, came out of the forest behind me and spotted me. I killed them, though one managed to get some shots of his own off. I had to get going again, so I slung you over my shoulder again. Sorry."
Ed appraised the man as his story continued. Stryder, a lieutenant in the Amestrian Military, was a lean young man of around twenty, twenty one. His cloak and combat fatigues were all well worn and customised – his shirt had a variety of extra pockets sewn on with varying degrees of skill, his epaulette was buttoned onto his chest on the right side of his breast pocket instead of being on his shoulders, and dog tags had rubber silencers around them. His shirt hung open to his sternum, revealing a khaki undershirt that stretched and rippled across his chest muscles as he moved. He wore gloves, with the right hand's trigger finger cut off, and grip patterning the palm and tip of each finger. His webbing was a dark khaki as well, and sported several non-regulation items, like climbing aids, several throwing knives, and climbing rope attached to what looked like a small grapnel gun. His boots were non-regulation, but top of the line waterproof hiking boots from the best civilian designer. His windup watch was covered by a cloth wristband, and his pistol was held in a low-slung duellers holster strapped to his upper thigh. All of his equipment was top-of-the-range, well used and worn, but despite that, it was all clean and well-cared for. Bloodstains marred his right shoulder and upper chest, and flecks of blood coated the edges of dozens of small rips and tears in his clothing. His belt was ragged from pushing through too much thick undergrowth, his small backpack sweat-stained and losing its original starched look.
The man was far tougher than his slender appearance. Ed noted the small bandolier of throwing knives, the semiautomatic rifle and pistol with their silencer attachments, and several palm-sized objects that could have been grenades.
Stryder continued.
"The Huntsman is good. I know these woods better than anyone in the military outside other light fighters, but he kept with me. I would have got you to a hospital faster, sir, but I kept getting corralled by his patrols."
Ed frowned. "You said that at one point, we were actually hiding inside their perimeter. How did that happen?"
Stryder flushed a little.
"I got tired, sir. You weren't exactly light, and I had to keep stopping to check your wounds. Last night, I just finished fixing your bandages when I heard them. They were quiet and stealthy, within a hundred metres of us, but their lack of speed allowed me to throw this cloak over us and burrow into the leaf matter in a dry streambed, just off their path." He snorted. "I had no idea that they'd make their fucking camp right on top of us."
Ed leant forward, intrigued.
"At one point during the night, I heard one of their men talk to a sentry, saying he was going out to take a piss. As he passed, I slit his throat. After that, it was easy to slip away from the sentry, now that I knew where he was, and get away."
Ed nodded, sipping at his soup. He knew that the lieutenant was hiding the true depth of their ordeals. But he let the lieutenant shrug off his attention, deciding to take it up with him once they returned to Central.
"So, sir-" Ed interrupted the lieutenant before he said three words.
"Look, lieutenant, call me Ed. Everyone does."
Stryder smiled. He really is like all the stories.
"Havoc calls you "Boss"."
Ed smiled.
"Well, that's Havoc for you." Ed yawned, stretched, then settled back into a slouching posture. "Truth be told, I could never figure out why Hawkeye didn't shoot him. Anyone else, and she wouldn't tolerate sloppiness. But Havoc? I mean, with his ever present cigarette. She never let the Colonel smoke, but Havoc gets away with it."
"You knew the Major as well? Guess I'm not surprised. They looked for you, you know." Ed looked away, his hands fidgeting around the mug of soup he held. Stryder smiled. There was real affection between those guys… "Mustang was real dedicated to his search, after he recovered."
"Recovered?! From what?"
The Amestrian's smile was bitter. "His fight with the Fuhrer."
Ed was insistent.
"What happened?!"
"No one knows, exactly. Classified, top secret, all the red tape – and I don't have the right scissors. I suspect you know more than me." Ed had the grace to look guilty. "All that's officially revealed is the Brigadier General – now a full three-star General, mind you, returned from the Fuhrer's estate with one Lieutenant, now Major, Hawkeye, and the Fuhrer's son, leaving the estate burning, and proceeded straight to the hospital, where the General received treatment for a combination of gunshot and sword wounds, plus minor second-degree burns. The Fuhrer's body was never found." Ed smiled at that. "Also, the…body…of one Colonel Archer was located on scene, with rounds from Lieutenant Hawkeye's service sidearm lodged inside him. Tsk, tsk. Wonder how that happened."
Ed's response was dry and laconic, though threaded with fatigue.
"Well. You guys have been busy since I've been away."
Stryder finished off the last of his soup and chucked it into the fire, almost burnt to embers now. "Where did you go?"
The distant in the alchemists reply caught the soldier by surprise, as if he was speaking it by rote.
"Away. I went away."
Stryder nodded, accepting the younger man's wish for privacy. "You need your rest. I don't want to have to carry you back to Central!"
Ed snorted, his aggressive manner curtailed by an incredibly strong urge to sleep. The lieutenant nodded to himself, satisfied that Ed was feeling the effects of the small sedative he slipped into his soup. "I'll take first watch. You sleep. Got it?"
Ed mumbled something that sounded like a negative, followed by a stream of unintelligible words that related a story bout how the lieutenant was tired and that he should go to sleep and let Ed take the watch, before he pitched face-first into the arms of the soldier.