The Emperor's Hand

An X-Men Evolution Fanfic by Quill N. Inque

I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 6: The Black Legion

Kurzan resisted the natural urge to clap a furry hand to the oozing wound in his lower abdomen, to double over in an attempt to alleviate the pain that emanated from the hole where Veeku the Swift's arrow had found its mark. Kurzan's grey cloak, dirtied and ragged, furled gently about his ankles in the soft wind that gently mussed the dark, navy blue mop on his head, and the golden eyes that burned with an almost unsettling light were narrowed in determination even as they began to cloud over with a foggy glaze.

Even with the Angel of Death at his very heels, even as its rusty, whistling scythe descended to snatch his short life away, Kurzan Vortigern was never one to cower in fear.

Anger poured off Kurzan's body like heat from the furnaces of howling Hell, and he vowed to make these masked men, these traitors, pay in blood for daring to endanger Katrina's life. Not a trace of fright or hesitation did Kurzan feel as the foe charged him en masse, and his usual face of stone was replaced with a miniscule grin as he prepared for what seemed to be his final stand. Twelve to Kurzan's one, the enemy took the fight to the weakened assassin.

The odds were extraordinarily unfair.

Unfair for Kurzan's opponents, that is.

The fight was joined with almost anticlimactic silence, and Kurzan twisted to one side to avoid being eviscerated, stabbing his foe with a quick, lethal strike to the kidney as his momentum carried him by. The slain enemy promptly collapsed, and Kurzan brought his swords up in an X-shape over his head just in time to block a downward thrust. With eye-blurring speed, the assassin darted inside his opponent's guard to follow up with a devastating elbow jab to the face, and the blow broke the man's nose so thoroughly that shards of bone splinters stabbed into his brain with instant lethality. The unfortunate attacker collapsed as a long gout of crimson spouted from his ruined nostrils, and Kurzan took that moment to salvage his slain enemy's fallen armament. His prehensile, spaded tail lashed out like some kind of venomous serpent, coiling around the spear's wooden shaft and holding it aloft before hurling the weapon with frightening precision. The projectile took yet another onrushing enemy straight through the neck, and the stunned attacker could only mutter a wet, muted gurgle before toppling into the blood-stained grass. Gasping wetly, his damaged lungs starving for air, Kurzan abruptly ducked low to the ground and knocked a fourth enemy's legs right out from under him with a sweeping, semicircular kick. The masked assailant cried out in surprise as he fell, but his astonishment was cut off abruptly as the gore-slickened blades of Kurzan broke his fall, impaling him through the back and out the chest. The loyal assassin freed his weapons with a quick, jerking wrench, and he turned to see a glittering, leaf-shaped blade plunging toward his heart-

-But Kurzan was not one to let himself become perturbed. With all the lethal grace of a jungle cat, he launched himself into the air with a swift somersault, twisting his body around and around so as to make his twin swords rotate like the arms of some great windmill, his body momentarily lost against the darkness of the night sky in the process. Like a tornado of scything steel Kurzan made landfall among the amassed enemy with devastating effect, cleaving a man's face open and slashing the throat of another before severing a third's hand and stabbing him with his own weapon even as the amputated wrist still clutched its bloody, varnished haft.

Seven down, five to go.

The sudden stress on Kurzan's injured body made his vision momentarily turn red with agony, and he stiffened for just a moment as his wounded chest heaved.

Razor-sharp steel suddenly embedded itself in Kurzan's bicep, and he grunted in anguish before yanking the pole-arm out of his flesh and plunging a blackened blade through the man's jaw so hard that the sword's tip emerged from the black felt of his hood. Snarling like a wounded beast and just as dangerous, Kurzan landed a punishing, flat-palmed strike in the solar-plexus of his next opponent, and the villain doubled over before Kurzan carved a deep slash across the length of his chest. The keening whine of Kurzan's dual swords sprayed the air with a crimson mist as he carved up men as a butcher cuts beef, and he turned with unholy, almost unnatural grace as he carved open the carotid artery with a practiced blow. Katrina watched the carnage with morbid fascination as she beheld Kurzan Vortigern in all his blood-drenched glory, his swords and armor stained with the blood of the fallen as he cut men down to the rhythm of the dance of death. Bodies lay strewn beneath roses whose scarlet color was deepened with crimson gore.

A wordless cry of horror escaped the lips of the last attacker who yet remained standing, and his weapon fell from nervous fingers as he turned and attempted to flee to safety.

But there was no place within the Empire's vast dominion to hide those who had earned the undying, burning wrath of the Hand of the Emperor. There was no mercy, no pity to be found in Kurzan's hardened gaze that evening.

It was but the work of a practiced moment for Kurzan to aim down the edge of the sword in his right hand. The assassin held the pitch-colored blade parallel to the ground in a steady grip, and with a mighty throw he sent the razor-edged brunt of his fury singing through the night at such a speed that the metal cleaved the air as it hissed along its way.

WHIZZZZZZZSHKLUK!

The assailant toppled over into the grass, slain instantly as the blackened sword took him from in between the shoulder blades.

Kurzan did not have the energy to retrieve it.

Thunk.

The remaining sword that was still clutched in a double-handed grip thudded point-first into the blood-soaked earth as swirling, fallen petals danced in the softly whispering wind, and Kurzan sank slowly to his knees as his mottled grey cloak pooled around him like liquid silver. The golden eyes that shone from within the black void of his hood met Katrina's brown ones for just a brief instant, and a harsh, rattled breath escaped Kurzan's lips as he slumped forward.

Fear and grief contorted Katrina's beautiful face into a mask of anguish, and her heart lurched at the sight of how this young man had seemingly gone to his doom without a second thought.

It can't be, she thought, her eyes blurring with tears. Kurzan…dead? NO!

Determination replaced helplessness as the sun's rays send thunderclouds fleeing, and Katrina vowed, then and there, that her protector-no, her friend-would not meet his doom this day.

The princess promptly placed two fingers in her mouth, a shrill whistle summoned a squadron of elite soldiers of the Praetorian Guard to her side within a matter of seconds.

"What is your bidding, milady?" one of the soldiersasked, glancing, stunned, at the prone form of Kurzan.

"Get him inside," Katrina ordered him, her normally sweet nature overtaken by urgency. "And send for Sargeras the Healer!"

"At once, milady," the trooper replied, gesturing for his comrades to help him bear the wounded assassin indoors. Stolidly obedient, the men of the Guard hoisted Kurzan aloft by his arms and legs before rushing him into the palace.

Some distance away, Veeku the Swift cursed softly and violently under his breath…

The Royal Infirmary, shortly thereafter…

The elderly Sageras rose in alarm as Katrina and her servants bore the bloodied, ravaged form of Kurzan Vortigern into the palace sickbay. The old man's face went white, seemingly from shock at the gruesome nature of the assassin's wounds, and his wrinkled eyes narrowed in thought while scurried about for the metal tools and herbal extracts that were the tools of his trade.

"Might my lady permit me to ask what happened?" Sargeras inquired.

"He took an attacker's arrow that was meant for me," Katrina replied, pointing to the wet hole in Kurzan's chest. "And then he suffered even greater hurts fighting off a dozen more."

"That boy will dig his own grave one day, mark my words," Sargeras replied, his tone worried as he addressed the milling soldiers. "Don't just stand there, you fools! I need a stitching needle and thread, now! You, there!" he barked, addressing a soldier who stiffened in surprise as the old one barked out orders with the surprising air of one used to giving them. "Fetch me hot water and clean linen for bandages, and get a vial smelling salts down from the shelf on your way out! You, you, and you! Get me a hot iron from the fireplace, and hold him down in case he starts struggling! If the arrowhead is still embedded in his flesh, it needs to be extracted immediately before the wound can be cauterized! Move!"

Startled by the old healer's vehemence, the stalwart, battle-hardened Praetorians jumped like frogs to go about Sargeras's bidding, and Katrina watched with morbid fascination as he snatched a tiny glass of strong-smelling, crushed plants from one of his new lackeys and gently waved it under Kurzan's nose. The assassin promptly let out a sigh and sagged, every part of his body going limp as the mixture knocked him out like a light.

"The herbs act as anesthesia," Sargeras explained, answering Katrina's unspoken question as he looked almost contemplatively at the evil-looking pair of ridiculously oversized tweezers he clutched in his bony fingers. "After all, we don't want him to feel this, do we?"

The healer gave the curved pliers an experimental squeeze, and Katrina had to look away as Sargeras plunged the metal apparatus into the epicenter of the ragged hole that Veeku's shaft had torn in Kurzan's flesh. Fresh blood welled up from within Kurzan's beaten body, and it was so bad that every couple of moments Sargeras had to take a minute to mop up the gore before continuing his ministrations. The old man worked with the speed and precision of one well-versed in his chosen craft, and though she could not bear to see what was happening to Kurzan, Katrina could clearly hear the old one muttering to himself as he worked.

"I know it's got to be in here somewhere," Sargeras mumbled under his breath, digging around in the ravaged tissue for the barbed arrowhead that lay embedded therein. But then the old man's face turned grave, and he clucked his tongue disapprovingly as the extent of Kurzan's injuries became clear. "Uh, oh…this is not looking favorable at all…"

"What?" Katrina made no effort to conceal her horror.

"From what I can tell, the shot has fractured several of our young friend's ribs, one of which has nicked the apex of his heart," Sargeras spoke as if this were obvious. "It's a relatively small area that comprises the human heart's bluntly pointed lower end, but nevertheless it bleeds like stink if it's hit; you might as well shoot someone in the jugular vein or the femoral artery. To be honest, I'm surprised he has not yet died from blood loss alone. Even if I can extract the arrowhead, and even if his body doesn't give out from the trauma of the operation (which is unlikely, by the way), Kurzan's chances of survival, at best, are slim. I will do what I can for him, but I would advise you to prepare yourself for the worst, milady. I fear you would only be fooling yourself to trust to hope."

"There is always hope," Katrina murmured.

Sargeras seemed to notice her for the first time. "I can't work with you looking over my shoulder like this," he snapped. "I require peace and privacy if I am to treat him to the best of my abilities! Take your lackeys,"-here, he gestured toward the Praetorians-"and leave me to my work! I'll come find you when my task is done!"

"Of course," Katrina nodded, trying to keep her voice from shaking with the anxiety that had already begun to settle about her shoulders with an unnatural heaviness. "I…I will be in my chambers."

"Get some sleep," Sargeras advised her as she made to leave. "You're exhausted."

How can I rest when Kurzan's life hangs by a thread? Katrina wondered bewilderedly. How can I sleep when he could be gone before sunrise?

I will not be able to take my ease until I know that he still lives…

Much later…

At times, not knowing can be the greatest torment of all.

Anyone who has ever had a friend or family member in critical medical condition knows that the long wait for news either ill or fortunate can be almost unbearable. The passage of time seems to slow to a crawl: minutes begin to creep by at a snail's pace, hours seem to elongate into entire days, and every passing second only adds to the nauseating anxiety that roils in one's stomach like a frothing cauldron. Worry clutches one's heart in a cold, remorseless fist, and in the depths of such nervousness and heartache, it is not uncommon for one to unintentionally work himself into a panic when visions of the worst possible outcome begin to flash in his mind's eye like some grotesque parade. He who waits begins to fidget, to grow ever more restless, his hands clammy with cold sweat and his eyes darting from like billiard balls in their sockets, continually seeking yet never finding a diversion to distract his aching soul. Einstein's theory holds true, for time seems to be very relative indeed in such situations.

So it was with Katrina.

She did not know, nor did she really care, how many interminable hours had passed since Sargeras had brusquely ushered her out of his workroom. The princess's eyelids became leaden and heavy as the hour grew ever later, and it was only with Herculean effort that Katrina was able to remain awake long into the early hours of the morning. The sand-filled hourglass that lay close at hand had long since emptied its upper chamber, but she had long given up turning it. The princess could not help but think that the slowly draining sediment might be mirroring what little time Kurzan had left.

Katrina was almost unwilling to believe that he could die so easily. Surely Kurzan, a fighter of extraordinary ability, would not meet his end by a mere arrow! The idea seemed almost…sad, for lack of a better word.

The princess's head was just beginning to sag, and her eyes were just starting to close in spite of her will to stay awake when an equally haggard-looking Sargeras emerged from his workroom.

Katrina, instantly alert, snapped back to reality and fixed the healer with a wordless, inquiring gaze. But for all its lack of verbal and vocal expression, the question in the young woman's brown eyes could not have been made clearer.

Sargeras sighed, wiping his bloody hands on an even bloodier towel before mopping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "My lady…he lives."

"What?" Katrina whispered, almost unwilling to believe the news she'd so desperately hoped for.

"I can hardly make sense of it myself, milady," the old man admitted. "To be honest, I've seen men die from lesser wounds than those Kurzan has suffered this night. And yet, even with the cards stacked against him, so to speak, our young friend simply refuses to die! The odds of his surviving the procedure were absolutely…astronomical! By rights he should have breathed his last hours ago!"

"Then why hasn't he?"

"The desire to survive, when strong enough, can on rare occasion enable one to overcome such massive trauma," Sargeras shrugged. "It is my professional opinion that it was through the strength of his will to live and nothing else that pulled Kurzan back from the brink of the abyss tonight. But now I daresay he should be able to see the dawn as long as I keep him unconscious; if he wakes, he could break the stitches and reopen his wound. Oh, he'll be in great pain when he does wake up, make no mistake about that," the healer added, "but now that he's pulled through this critical stage, he should recover with enough bed rest and medication. I'll put him on a liquid diet, too; Kurzan won't be strong enough to eat solid food for a while yet. And no, you cannot see him just yet; the physical distress your presence could cause him might be enough to finish him off. Go to bed, milady. He'll be here when you awaken in the morn, mark my words."

Katrina almost sagged with relief. "Thank you, Sargeras," she said simply, her weary eyes already anticipating the soft embrace of her silken pillow.

Sargeras smiled at her. "Oh, it was nothing, my lady. Absolutely nothing…at all…"

Epilogue

An undisclosed location

The Council of Nine, the traitors who made up the leadership of the insidious organization that had contracted the services of the Six Fell Blades, stood in a silent, foreboding semicircle of wide-sleeved, black robes that denoted their ominous intent. Behind them, a solitary banner hung from the decrepit rafters of the abandoned structure that served as a temporary base of operations, and its black expanse was emblazoned with a mailed fist clutching a fiery sword.

Such was the symbol of the Black Legion, whose goal was nothing less than the hostile takeover of the entire Roman dominion.

Now the Council, those who made up the highest level of the Legion's command structure, conversed quietly at the disturbing news that had reached their ears.

"The Blades have failed us," one hissed. "The Hand is still alive, as is the princess!"

"And now the Emperor will begin sticking his nose where it does not belong," another added.

"We hired you and your companions for your fabled skills!" still a third directed a scathing comment toward the silhouette of a man whose his face was shadowed by the solitary ray of moonlight in which he stood. "We do not tolerate failure! You promised us that Veeku's arrow would find its mark, and yet the Hand is still among the living!"

"On the contrary, my friend," the shadow man, presumably the leader of the Fell Blades, replied with a smile in his voice. "Veeku completed his task to the letter. The Hand may have survived…but not for long."

"What are you getting at? Speak quickly!"

"The Emperor's dog is alive, but he is very weak," here, the leader of the Council of Nine interrupted his subordinate. "He lays critically injured, and is in no shape to fight. That leaves both the Hand and the princess vulnerable to a follow-up strike, if we move swiftly."

The Fell Blade's commander nodded. "And it just so happens that one of my compatriots is perfectly suited for tasks of a more…delicate nature. Tala the Sly will see to it that neither the Hand nor his charge will leave the palace with breath still in their bodies. She has never failed me before."

"She?" one of the Nine asked, incredulous. "A woman is hardly fitting for such a profession!"

"If Tala were here, she would kill you for saying that," the mysterious villain replied. "Do not be deceived, my friends, for she is far more lethal than any of you give her credit for…"

A/N: DUN DUN DUUUUUN! Well, THAT doesn't look good, does it? Who is the Fell Blade known as Tala the Sly? Will she succeed in her nefarious mission? And will Kurzan recover in time to save Katrina? Find out in coming chapters! And as always, PLEASE review! If you have ANY ideas or suggestions, LET ME KNOW!

I do have two announcements of a more personal nature, though, before I sign off. First, it pains me to tell you all that the next update probably won't be posted until next weekend; I've got TWO tests to study for this coming week, and thus my time will be severely limited. But never fear, my friends, for as we are all well aware, good things come to those who wait! ;) And secondly, I must say that I was stunned at a review I recently received for "El Diablo del Oeste," for it seems a user named "MadHatter0013" actually wrote a songcalled "Cowboy's Lullaby" that is loosely based upon that story, and he was even kind enough to provide me with a link to his channel so I could listen to it! Of course, I was extremely humbled and moved by this, and I am pleased to say that I found the song (a guitar solo) to be utterly delightful and enjoyable to listen to. ^^ Thus, I send this thankful shout-out to MadHatter, and I urge you all to listen to his wonderful music at your earliest possible convenience! Again, the song is called "Cowboy's Lullaby," and you can find it on Youtube, under the username "drummercatD1."

(Seriously, it's WICKED COOL. ^^)

Your humble servant,

-Quill N. Inque