Chapter 4: No Surrender

Norman's eyes were closed and he was listening.

Virgil had ceased muttering to himself some time ago and was now scribbling rapidly, pencil dragging across paper with a distinctive scratch Norman could pick out of every other writing sound in the world after thousands of years together. Norman also knew, from long history, that when Virgil went silent while calculating, it meant he was onto something, following the trail of some esoteric piece of knowledge as a wolf would track a rabbit in the woods.

Norman didn't know whether or not he wanted this particular rabbit to be caught, so he opted not to focus on it.

In front of him, the steady breathing of the Mighty One was a rhythmic comfort in the otherwise quiet room. The boy had pillowed his head on his arms at the desk less than an hour before, yawning and muttering about math homework, and even Virgil had not interrupted Max's slide into sleep. Between the swap of time zones and the boy's stress, Norman didn't even need to open his eyes to know he and Virgil were very much in agreement about letting their charge rest.

Their charge.

Because Mighty Max had given Norman an order.

Don't stop fighting for me.

The Mighty One didn't usually give such clear commands to his Guardian, though it was his right. He tended to make suggestions or call out courses of action, but rarely did he actually tell Norman what to do. Max trusted Norman, had trusted him from the very first day, and they worked as a sort of partnership based on that trust, on respect.

But when he did give an order, unless it endangered the Mighty One's own self, Norman would break mountains to pebbles to follow it.

And the Mighty One could not have given a better one.

From the first appearance of Bran, Norman had been on edge. Just as with his instant, instinctive dislike of Maximilian, the pretender to the Cap-Bearer title, Norman had taken one look at Bran and known that Bran was wrong. Now, at least, he knew why.

Another Guardian.

A better Guardian, whispered the dark doubts in the recesses of Norman's own mind. A Guardian who will be quicker to know when the Mighty One needs him.

But Norman quashed that inner voice ruthlessly. True or not, Mighty Max had ordered Norman to keep fighting. And that meant not only keeping up his antagonism against the pretender to Guardianship, but in fighting down the doubts in himself.

Though Norman felt pretty sure Max hadn't actually intended for him to keep feuding with Bran as much as he intended to do. But there was no other alternative. Norman couldn't abide the man's presence. He wanted him away from the Mighty One. He wanted him gone.

Accordingly, Norman tuned his senses outward, listening to the quiet forest beyond the walls of the small building. He had tracked Bran stomping away, putting enough distance between them that even Norman couldn't hear him any longer. It was at once a relief to have that margin, but also it unsettled the Viking.

At least when Bran was in range, Norman could keep an eye on him.

Don't stop fighting for me.

Norman wondered if the Mighty One had considered the double meaning inherent in the words. He had meant it in the sense that he wished Norman not to yield to Bran and give up Guardianship easily. But Norman could also read it the other way – 'don't stop being a Guardian and battling on my behalf.' Which Norman would never do, never.

For as long as there was breath in his body, he would defend the Mighty One. Even if he was forced to relinquish Guardianship. Even if Mighty Max himself asked Norman to step down. Norman would simply go find battles and finish them in the name of the Mighty One. He would beat down the evil that dared rear its head, just to ensure that the Cap-Bearer would not have to face it himself.

Either way, Norman found he was uneasy with Bran in the distance. While he believed in the fervor Bran had shown towards the Mighty One, he did not trust him. There was too much that remained unknown, too much unrevealed. Bran might have been called by destiny, but that did not make him worthy or safe in the presence of the Mighty One.

And something deep in Norman's gut was waiting for Bran to betray them, just as Maximilian had. Perhaps even as unwittingly, but the feeling was the same.

So he continued to listen and wait, poised at any instant to defend his boy to the death.

When the attack came, he was ready.

-==OOO==-

Max woke to Norman's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Mighty One!"

Max needed several seconds to remind himself of where he was, of why he was asleep on a math book and why Virgil looked like he'd been in the middle of a paper explosion on a narrow cot in an unfamiliar room.

But he roused at Norman's call easily, and it took him even longer to remember that perhaps he should be wary of his Guardian.

And just as quickly, he dismissed it.

I might need to be careful about my Guardian, but I never have to worry about Norman, he thought.

"What is it?" he asked, getting up and moving out from behind the desk where he had more room.

"Someone is coming," Norman said. "Lots of someones."

Max turned. "Virg?"

Virgil was writing, his feathered hand flying across paper so quickly the pencil lead smeared in his wake. "You must let me continue, Mighty One," he said without even looking up. "I am close to the answer you seek."

Max sighed. "I guess that means we're staying put."

Norman growled. "This place couldn't hold up against a swarm of ants."

"You're right. That means we gotta shore it up, somehow, or keep the fight out of it," Max said. He headed for the door. "Come on. Maybe whoever's out there is friendly. Or lost. Or otherwise not some kind of brain-sucking alien camels."

"That is very unlikely," Virgil put in from behind. "If they were alien, they would not be considered camels."

Max waggled his eyebrows at Norman. "Whatever you say, Virg. Just stay put. We'll handle things."

Max was out the door when Virgil looked up. "Norman."

Norman paused and looked back. The Lemurian's expression was grave.

"Take care of him. No matter what."

Norman nodded and followed the Mighty One into the late morning sunlight.

Max was already scrambling up on top of the roof of the low building, keeping himself close to the shingles. He peered out into the forest for a few moments before sliding back to the ground.

"The only thing I see moving is green. So either we've got little green men or guys wearing a lot of camouflage."

Norman growled. "Bran."

Max shrugged. "Or maybe a rival group, not the one he left. If they followed us here, they could also be after the feather."

Norman was deeply unconvinced, but he simply drew his sword.

Max darted back into the room, shouting something colorful at Virgil that Norman didn't catch, but he knew the tone of voice that meant the boy was spouting a particularly awful pun. He did hear Virgil call out, with great consternation, "Plumes indeed!" as Max returned, the Firebird feather in hand.

Norman raised an eyebrow at it. "You're not giving it back to them."

"No." Max shook his head, tucking it away in a pocket. "But if we can't just lead them away, we might be able to pull the carrot and stick routine with this."

Norman grinned. "Can I be the stick?"

Max laughed. "Always, big guy!" Then he set off towards the woods. "Let's go make some friends and hopefully they'll be friendly. 'Kay?"

Norman didn't hesitate, but he did ask, "What about Virgil?"

Max gulped and, for a moment, his face took on an expression that was far too old and experienced for his years. "I think we need to make whoever this is deal with us as far away from Virgil as possible, just in case. Virg's good at getting out of trouble, or at least yelling loudly enough that we'll know when he's in trouble. But I really want to buy him some more time if we can."

"Works for me."

They dropped into silence after that, Norman sliding through the forest like a shadow and Max gamely keeping up, albeit somewhat less stealthily. He avoided all the obvious pitfalls of stepping on dry branches or crashing into bushes, but leaves rustled as he went by and he couldn't help but leave some evidence of his passing.

Norman has got to teach me how to do this better, he thought.

Norman, as if sensing Max's feelings, smirked.

Then Norman held up a hand and Max held still, listening with all his might. His own senses were blaring a warning, one he knew all too well.

Norman reached out a hand and Max took it unquestioningly. The Guardian swung Max onto his back and started to sprint forward, just as silently as before. Max was equally impressed that Norman could carry him without making a sound and irritated that he had to be carried in the first place.

But he was glad for it when Norman abruptly turned to slam an elbow into a soldier he didn't even know was there lurking under a bush.

As if that one action signaled a start to the fight, soldiers began pouring out of the forest like moths at night, surrounding them. Max slid from Norman's shoulder to free up his Guardian to fight – and to help out as well.

"If you wanted to come picnicking with us, you should have just asked!" Max shouted as he pulled back a tree branch and let it slam into the two nearest opponents. Neither was apparently expecting that move and both dropped – one with leaves in his teeth.

"Get him!" someone shouted.

Max lost himself in the fight for what felt like hours but was truly only a matter of minutes. He tended to do better in open areas, and the dense undergrowth was a problem for him more than anyone else because he couldn't just step over hedges like Norman could. On the other hand, the trees gave Max lots to work with. He swung from branches to land kicks to faces and tripped people with roots and generally dodged and weaved and led soldiers into Norman's flashing fists and feet.

"Now I know how a pinball feels!" he yelled as he bounced between two soldiers.

A second wave of them had just arrived and was swamping them when suddenly Max heard a gunshot from behind him. He spun and started to run. "Virgil!"

Norman, piled under five soldiers, called after him. "Mighty One! Wait!"

He rose up to throw all five off himself, only for ten more to join the fray. Norman could hear someone giving his position over the radios all the soldiers wore, and he heard more people crashing through the undergrowth in his direction.

And Max was rushing off alone.

Norman's heart went chill with fear.

"Mighty One!"

-==OOO==-

Max skidded to a halt at the tree line near the building where Virgil was.

A still form was sprawled across the ground just outside the door, unmoving.

Max approached slowly, keeping his head down and his eyes scanning for trouble. But he was only halfway to the building when he realized that the soldier who was down had a hole through the throat – and wasn't breathing.

Max drew back with a gasp.

"There!"

He whirled at the sound as two more men charged out of the undergrowth in his direction.

Max took a few steps back, bringing his hands into a defensive posture he had learned from Norman. His heart pounding in his chest seemed so loud he could barely hear anything past it.

And then two more shots rang out with a deafening roar.

Both soldiers fell. One landed and did not rise, nor grunt, and Max didn't have to look too closely at his ruined face to know he was dead.

The other, however, clasped a hand to his thigh, breathing hard and whimpering in pain even as he collapsed into the dirt.

"Mighty One."

Max spun to see Bran approaching from around the side of the small building, pistol in his hands. He stepped around Max and moved to stand over the injured soldier.

"You should not have come here," Bran said.

Then he fired at point-blank range into the soldier's heart.

Max fought down his gag reflex, setting a shaky foot behind him and bracing to run.

"Mighty One." Bran casually put his gun into its holster and held up both hands as he faced the boy. "You need not fear. You are safe now."

Images from Toyama rose in Max's mind and he had to bite the inside of his cheek not to be lost in them. He sucked in two quick breaths, grounding himself in the present.

"You...you killed them!"

Bran edged a step forward. "They were a threat to your safety. I had no choice but to eliminate them or they would have hurt you."

Max shook his head without looking away from Bran. "That's not...we don't…"

"You must come with me now while the rest are distracted," Bran said, pitching his voice low and coaxing. "If they can reach you here, they will continue to follow you. We must relocate somewhere safer."

Bran stretched a hand towards him.

Max jumped as if burned and put two terrified leaps between himself and Bran. "Don't touch me!"

"Mighty One. This is not the first time you have seen death. You yourself have killed enemies before. I know this. I have seen the visions. The werewolf woman, the ice aliens. These were enemies intent upon destroying you, and you rightly executed them. I have done no differently."

Bran glanced at the bodies, then continued in his gentle, cajoling tone.

"However, those were all non-human and could have been nothing more than collateral damage. Perhaps that is what you have been telling yourself. But you must admit that what I have done here was in your best interest, and was no different from your own choices."

Something in the way Bran both absolved Max of guilt and reinforced it actually steadied him, and Max was able to calm himself enough to glare back.

"Don't you tell me I didn't know exactly what I was doing! Just because I didn't ram a sword through them or something doesn't mean I didn't make the decision that killed them. I didn't want to do it, but I had to. And I'd do it again."

Bran nodded. "So we have an understanding?"

Max's rising anger continued to help him focus.

"No!"

"But, Mighty One…"

"I only took them down when there was no other way!"

He remembered the Scottish woman who had tortured Cameron's werewolf pack in order to steal their essence, strength, and immortality. He remembered facing her with only Cameron and the injured wolves, since Norman and Virgil had been locked up in jail. He remembered the wolves, whose only crime had been their existence, fighting for their lives against her. He remembered trying to hold back the three who had been prisoners, drained and injured, but they had refused, opting instead to fight with Cameron even though it would almost certainly kill them.

Max hadn't wanted anybody to die, but it seemed certain if he didn't do something, those who had been victims would be the ones to fall.

If Norman and Virgil had been with him, Max was sure Virgil would have had some kind of idea, some quick antidote or some other way to end the fight without killing the woman. But they weren't. And when the choice came – Cameron and his pack or the person who had hunted them and tortured them – Max made it. And he would make it again.

He remembered the ice aliens in the Aleutians who had been trying to freeze the planet so they could take it over – which Max always thought was kind of stupid, considering they could have just set up camp in Antarctica with nobody the wiser, but stupidity was a virtue in bad guys and he wasn't going to knock it – who, if they warmed above a certain point, melted and exploded. He remembered how they had replaced first the human soldiers at the location, then Virgil and very nearly Norman. He remembered how the discovery of their vulnerability had been completely accidental, but once revealed, Max had used it as much as necessary, ultimately wiping out every alien on the ship.

Max reasoned later that he could have viewed the deaths of the aliens the same way he did Norman crunching the monsters at Skull Mountain – that they didn't count because they weren't human. But that logic had failed. These aliens weren't human, but that didn't mean they weren't people of some sort. They were a different species, order, genus, everything, but they were alive, sentient beings, and he had overseen their destruction.

If Max could have taken the time to figure out the exact amount of heat which would remove the aliens' disguises without killing them, he would have. If he could have disabled them, sent them home, stranded them on an iceberg, he would have. But the world had been in danger, Virgil and Norman had been in danger, and Max made the choice he had to make to ensure everyone's safety.

Norman told him later that the aliens were basically just big bugs with bad attitudes and Max shouldn't consider them as anything more than that. But then, Norman also drew a very strong distinction between taking down an opponent in self-defense and actively hunting someone down to put a knife in their back. The former, Max had done many times. The latter he hoped he never would.

After Toyama, though, Max had reassessed all his battles and all the foes he had defeated. He wasn't sure if he was grateful that the number of people he had actively killed was relatively small against the number he had saved or spared, or if he was appalled that the number was above zero at all.

But it was. Max had killed in the office of the Mighty One. He had taken lives. Deliberately. And he would do it again.

But that didn't mean it had been right. Just because it had been the only way to save the world didn't mean it had been the right way.

And what Bran had done was far worse.

Max had killed. Bran had murdered. He had executed them.

Max pointed towards where Norman was audibly fighting a large group in the trees nearby. "Right now, Normie's not killing those people. He's hurting them and he's knocking them out, but they'll all walk away from today in the end. That's what we do, unless we don't have a choice. That's what we do for as long as we can."

Bran shook his head.

"I respect your intention, Mighty One, but you leave enemies behind you. One day, one of them will rise up and strike at you. And then what will become of the world, without you to protect it? Your kindness will result in your own death. A soldier must do whatever is necessary to ensure victory."

Max drew himself up.

"You're wrong. And I'm not a soldier. I'm a hero."

"You are a soldier, even if you refuse to accept it.." Bran scowled. "Perhaps this is another reason I have been sent to be your Guardian. It is time for you to be better protected, and for you to be better educated as well."

Max's fury snapped tight in his chest.

"Keep saying stuff like that and you're going to make my decision really easy!" he shot back. "Nobody who kills a helpless opponent gets to be my Guardian!"

"Your precious Norman has done the same!" Bran yelled. "Did he not drop that stick-impaled Spike to his death for revenge?"

"Spike was up, talking, still dangerous, and could have cracked a mountain with his jaw alone." Max clenched his hands. "Norman could have chopped him in half, but all he did was give him a hand off the cliff. And even that might not've been enough!"

Then Max paused. Blinked. "Wait. How did you know about that?"

"I told you, I have seen many of your battles from before my calling as your Guardian. I received a vision."

Max shook his head, instincts guiding him. "I don't buy it. Spike was Norman's problem, not mine. I barely even tangled with the guy. I spent half that day running around breaking into the British Museum to steal Normie's axe. So either you've seen a lot more than you're letting on, or something else is going on here."

Whatever Bran might have said was interrupted by four more armed men charging towards them. Bran shoved Max behind him, though he did not draw his pistol this time. Instead, he squared himself for close combat.

"In deference to you, I will only disable these men," Bran said, "but if they get past me, I will do whatever is required to keep you safe."

"Nuh-uh. I'm drawing a line right here. If they cross it, I'll take care of them. No more killing. Got it?"

Bran could only grunt in response as the first soldier reached him and they began exchanging blows.

Of the remaining three, two moved to pile on against Bran. The fourth pointed at Max and shouted, "The boy!" in a language Max didn't recognize, yet he understood it all the same. Max reflexively reached behind himself, but he could still feel the feather tucked in his back pocket, securely hidden under his shirt. He didn't have time to wonder how they knew where the feather was before he had to dodge a grab.

"How many paramilitary groups are out here, anyway?" he asked in English as he ducked under the man's arm. He had to jump carefully to avoid tripping on one of the bodies crumpled nearby, but he bought himself some breathing room to maneuver. "Did you guys put it online or something? Is this some kind of mercenary convention?"

The soldier blinked, apparently surprised at being addressed. "There are no others."

Max rolled his eyes even as he kept moving, positioning himself a little to the side of where Bran was somewhat buried under the pile of the other three.

"You're the second group we've tangled with in two days."

And then a cold and horrid realization dumped into his stomach.

"Or...maybe you're not."

Stunned, Max turned away to pay more attention to Bran wrestling his three opponents. They were all shouting in a different language, too, not the one Bran had spoken when he held off his former unit alone. Then, Bran had addressed them in Armenian. This was the same language the man who had called Max "the boy" was using.

He could make out hear bits and pieces in the cacophony, and he held still to listen, even as the fourth soldier used his distraction to clamp big arms around him.

"...want our cut!"

"...killed Georg!"

"...we had a deal!"

And Bran's voice cutting through all of them. "The feather's yours when you take care of those keeping me from the boy and we get away!"

The soldier holding onto Max hoisted him up and started to run.

Max felt like his entire chest had frozen, like his heart and his stomach and his lungs had been replaced with ice. His shock was so great, he barely recognized that he was being carried off like a sack of potatoes until he lost sight of Bran untangling himself from the other three and swearing at them.

Bran set this up. He set us up. He called them here to take the feather.

He betrayed us to his old unit.

And he killed his own group. His own friends.

All to...to...to convince me.

Bran tricked us.

Because he wanted me.

Because he wants to be my Guardian.

"Let me go!" Max roared, lashing out with fists and feet. "Virgil! Norman!"

"Mighty One!" He could hear Bran again speaking English. "Do not fear! I will save you!"

Max gasped, then looked at the soldier carrying him.

"Put me down," he said quickly in the same language the man had spoken. "He'll kill you. Put me down and run before Bran comes after you."

The man shook his head and darted into the trees. "He won't. He is our comrade and we are assisting him."

"He killed your comrades!"

"No. It was the other one. The one with the sword."

Max let out a cry of inarticulate frustration. "It's not Norman you have to worry about! It's Bran!"

"Bran hired us to save you from the other. Hold still."

Max saw Bran emerge from around the corner of the building. And now that he was looking for it, he could see a glint of calculation in his face, a smirk of satisfaction.

Then Bran raised his gun.

"Get down!" Max yelled.

The echo of the gunshot was still ringing in Max's ears as he felt the body carrying him go limp and he rolled to the ground. Max came up running, aiming to circle back towards the sounds of the larger fight.

"Norman! Norman, help!" he yelled.

"Mighty One!" Norman called from too far away.

Max only barely registered the flash of a familiar hand and then he was yanked sideways into the brush. Max didn't fight the hand, instead falling almost gratefully into Virgil as the Lemurian pulled him into a concealed spot between several rocks and trees.

"Are you hurt?" Virgil asked him in an urgent whisper.

Max gulped and shook his head. "No. But...what's going on? Bran...his own people…"

"I know. I heard their fight from inside. Apparently Bran was not only ignorant of your recent gift of languages, but of the many hundreds of dialects I speak as well." Virgil ran his hands over Max's shoulders, looking for bruising. His eyes darted about anxiously.

"Virg. He-he killed them!"

"And at last I believe I know why," Virgil said. The Mighty One, he could see, was frightened and almost hyperventilating, and Virgil couldn't tell whether it was due to the deaths of the soldiers or the betrayal of one they had considered an ally. "I believe that the same force which binds Bran to you also makes him a very great danger to us all. That which is responsible for your link is polluting him, distorting the Bran that should be into the one that is."

"Why? What's doing it?"

Virgil swallowed. "It would take a being of great power and very deep knowledge of the ancient magics to influence anyone connected with your destiny, Mighty One. Even Skullmaster himself cannot manipulate the fate which binds us. I thought it should be impossible, but my calculations have revealed one situation which explains this."

Max stared at him, the cold in his chest getting even worse. "Who's got more power than Skullmaster?"

Virgil shushed him as heavy boots stomped past their position. Only when the person had gone by did he respond.

"It is not about power, Mighty One. Sheer strength or magic could not do this alone. It required a connection. A seed within Bran's soul that could be nurtured to this devastating effect. There is only one being who could reach into the heart of a man to so drastically change him and alter his path, and with enough power and malice to wish to do so."

Max frowned. "Spit it out, Virg!"

"It is Locknarr, the immortal spirit of violence. Only he could have forged the connection between you and Bran and used it to infect the potential Guardian with such darkness."

Max's eyes went wide.

And then the concealing branches above them disappeared, crushed to one side by an enormous arm. Max and Virgil looked up to find Bran regarding them both with harsh eyes.