[Author's Note - Fell the Tempest]
[Clarifying]: This story is taking place in the Dresdenverse, and not the Nasuverse, and as such rules of the Nasuverse are secondary. This applies to the nature of magic but also the history of the world and the characters that inhabit it. In short: some details from Unlimited Blade Works, such as the origin of the Holy Grail War, have been altered so that they mesh more fluidly into the Dresdenverse, and interact more with the history of the world. As the story progresses, this will become more apparent.
[Focus of the Story]: I'm attempting to write this story in the style of Jim Butcher, which shows events through Dresden's eyes. Additionally, the focus of the story is not on magical theory, but on solving the mystery of the disappearing children - as well as showing the affects that the promise of a wish granted, as well as the introduction of Saber, will have on Harry and his companions.
[Questions]: If you have any questions about how a particular type of magic works, a particular weapon, servant stats or origins, feel free to ask away in the reviews. If it doesn't give away any future plot points, I might do a little [Talks] session to sate your curiosity.
[Re: Servant Strength]: Yes, Harry has received the beating of his life. The worst enemy a wizard can face is a lack of preparation, and not only was Harry unprepared, he went up against an unknown servant. In the Nasuverse, Servants have the power to slay gods; as representatives of the Holy Grail, an omnipotent magical construct capable of granting any wish, it is no surprise they have this strength.
[Thank You]: A special thanks to Jouaint, Tsubasamoon, Sociopathic-Antichrist and Chaostomb for the awesome reviews! They've made me think a lot about potential directions to take the story, and helped me better articulate the focus I want my writing to take.
Steel rang.
I couldn't move.
A voice cried out in anger.
I didn't have it in me.
Blades clashed, and the world was torn asunder.
My legs refused to obey me. The twitched, shook, and fell far short of actually moving. There was a heat in my joints – like the tendons had swelled and torn from the bone. My pain was probably caused by the crash. Or from being tossed through Murphy's foyer. Or from the explosions. Or from throwing up a shield and getting beaten senseless.
And my body, my soul, was made of -
I wasn't really sure, and was too tired to care.
It was dark. Too dark. The lights – they'd been blown out. Little shards of glass littered the concrete floor. They surrounded me like, glistening in the dim light little stars. I knew I'd have to clean up the mess later, but I was actually glad – I didn't have the energy to stand up and hit the light switch, and with the headache I was nursing, the last thing I wanted was to be in a bright room.
I should have passed out. That much was clear, even to me. Sleep called to me. I felt my eyelids drooping shut, but forced them open. I wasn't sure how I was still alert. The physical pain alone threatened to pull me into mindless oblivion, and the intensity of the magic I'd thrown out should have torn my soul apart, but something had welded the pieces together. Something was keeping me from falling into the abyss. Something-
"Come on," Murphy said. I could barely see her. I heard a scuffling sound, a grunt, and then a dull thump. She hadn't been directly hit by the spearman, but I imagined that without an enchanted duster or a Mantle for protection, getting smacked by a football-sized chunk of C4 and having several hundred pounds' worth of debris fall on your bum knee probably hurt. A lot.
Chances are, she wasn't in a much better state than I was. Why she wanted to move in the first place, I had no idea.
She wiped the sweat from her brow, broke the circle, and began crawling towards my bookshelf, determination in her eyes. I followed her gaze – and saw it, secured in one of those concealed safety holsters secured beneath one of the shelves.
A pistol. She was going for pistol.
I knelt there, mindless, watching. I should have felt something. Maybe fear – fear that since she'd left the circle, she could be killed by the demon. Maybe I should have felt frustration – because she was risking her neck for a pistol of all things, a pistol that wouldn't hurt whatever was outside of the lab, being held at bay by our mysterious new ally. Maybe I should have felt pride – because, in spite of the overwhelming odds, in spite of her own injury, she still kept fighting.
Murphy – stars and stones, even coated in blood and grime, she was so beautiful - glanced back at me, and her blue eyes flickered with concern.
"Harry," she said, confusion in her voice.
"Murph," I sighed. I felt strangely calm. Hell's bells, I was tired. I had something I wanted to say, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember -
The world around me swayed.
I leaned to the side and dry-heaved. I gripped my chest, struggling for air for a moment, as my body shook, trying to get rid of something I didn't have.
Murphy said something else – her voice was oddly tense - but I couldn't make it out. I sat there, somewhere between asleep and awake, staring into empty space. My eyes slipped shut for half a second.
And when I opened them, my head was on Murphy's lap. I wasn't sure when Murphy had gotten back in the circle, or when I'd started lying down, but I wasn't going to complain. Calloused fingers combed through my hair, brushed away the blood and grime. Blue eyes, absorbed in their tender work, didn't flinch.
"Hey," I said, and I started move. A hand – Murphy's – pressed against my chest, gently forcing me back down. Not that I'd gained much altitude to begin with. Everything hurt. I couldn't tell if the Mantle was active or not – and for my sanity, I prayed that it was. I felt like I'd gone ten rounds with a stampeding rhino.
"Shh," she said, clasping my hand in hers and squeezing gently. "Relax. Your fight's over. You really came through for us."
My fingers twitched a little, and I shook my head – or I tried to, at least. She raised an eyebrow.
"No, I didn't." I said. "She did."
My head lolled to the side, and I looked out the open doorway.
I saw the knight, her back to me, sword raised against the demon. I would have barely been able to see her, if it weren't for the light her sword was putting off. Its golden glow wrapped around her, flickering off of her platemail dress like fire, as she whirled and struck out at the beast.
For a moment, I was consumed by an ages-old instinct that Murphy still gives me shit about to this day. I call it chivalry, although some don't take too kindly to it. When I see a woman in danger, I get mad, and I throw myself into the fray of whatever battle's going on to make sure she gets out alive. It's know it's probably a little sexist, so sue me, but... I, Harry Dresden, am a sucker for a damsel in distress.
And seeing her stacked up against that monster – she couldn't have been more than five-two, and he had to be at least eight feet tall – sent those instincts into overdrive. I was sure, utterly sure, that she was going to get squished, pasted on the concrete like chewed gum.
But after a few moments of that not happening, I began to re-evaluate my position.
The knight – whoever she was – was holding her own. No, more than that – she was driving the beast back.
Stars and stones.
It didn't take me very long to realize wasn't watching a fight... I was watching a beat down. It was too one-sided to be called anything else.
Though she didn't look particularly strong, the massive sword in the knight's hands flashed back and forth with a surety and control that spoke of a lifetime of training. Golden steel swiped through the air, and with each swing the air around her rippled. With each swing of her sword, gusts of wind shredded through Murphy's home, gounging into the ceiling and shearing away wallpaper behind the demon. Even when it blocked her strikes, they still managed to draw blood.
At first I thought it the raw force of her swings, until I felt magic humming in the air. She was strong, yes – but it felt like she was using her blade as a foci, and was channeling wind magic through its edge, extending the reach of her attacks and using it to boost her striking power. I'd seen Wardens use similar methods of attack, including Luccio, but not to this insane degree of precision or power.
Her blade arced through the air, letting out sonic booms as it connected solidly with the demon's spear. My duster billowed with each swing of her sword, and I was a good twenty feet behind her.
And the demon buckled beneath the blows, howling as its spear was batted aside. The knight let out a wordless battle cry and charged forward, blade surging in an arc that would have hamstrung the demon if it hadn't leapt aside at the last moment.
I wasn't sure what I was seeing, at first. It didn't make sense to me. Magical enhancement aside, the knight looked... well, frail. Almost like a kitten. She didn't exactly have a lot of weight to throw around. So how -
As if sensing my thoughts, Murphy spoke. "The hallway," she said, awe in her voice. "She's..."
I suddenly understood. In pitch darkness, in a totally unfamiliar place, she was presented with a crazy strong opponent. In response, she'd stepped forward, taken up arms, and, on the fly, come up with a plan to kill it.
And that plan was working.
The knight wasn't just skilled, she was damned smart. She was sticking to one side of the hallway, pinning the crazed spearman close to the wall, preventing him from passing into the open space behind her. Because of its smaller size, Amoracchius was more effective in close-quarters – doubly so in Murphy's cramped basement - and because of its wielder's short stature, she was able to make full use of the blade, putting the full weight of her body behind her strikes, forcing the demon back, step by step, down the hall.
The demon couldn't make full use of his weapon's greater range. His spear had reach, but since his side was to a wall and he had a staircase at his back, he couldn't bring it around to strike. His swings had no power, and as scary as it looked, as cursed as it felt, the spear in its hands had become a liability.
And, sure, part of the reason she was crushing the spearman was that her weapon was more suited to the battlefield. But even I could see that she fought on a level far outstripping anyone I'd ever seen, even Michael. She was good. Hell, she was more than good – she was amazing. People spent lifetimes working on their swordplay, and never got to half the level she was at.
The knight lashed out with a particularly fierce blow, and sent the demon staggering back, as it lost its footing on a pile of rubble. She took a step forward, ready to rend the demon's head from its shoulders, only for the demon to stab its spear into the ceiling, dropping a hail of plaster and wood down on the knight. A particularly huge chunk of concrete, probably part of the building's foundation, shot towards her head like a missile.
The debris didn't even come close to touching her.
She moved with the grace and precision of a ballet dancer, weaving around the falling rock with a grace and speed that made it look like she was in bullet-time. And when the demon followed up with a strike set to pierce her heart, her sword was already in a position to parry.
It was like watching one of those Indiana Jones fight scenes from the first couple movies, back when the choreography was shit. When the demon moved to attack, it was like she knew what was coming and was already in position to defend against it.
Maybe Butters wasn't the only Jedi among the Knights of the Cross. At the very least, now he wasn't the only one with a glowing sword.
Speaking of which - if the scabbard in my backpack hummed with power, her sword throbbed with it. I felt its light wash over me, felt a warmth on my face and hands, like I was outside on a sunny day. Just looking at it made my head feel a little clearer, made my aching limbs feel a little more sure.
"Begone, mad dog!" The knight shouted, fire in her eyes and steel in her hands. Enraged, the demon lunged, thrusting its spear at her midsection. In a flash, almost faster than my eye could track, she batted the spear to the side, trapping it against the wall with her sword. It roared angrily – and she stepped inside of its guard, driving the pommel of her sword into its gut. Its angry cry became a choking gasp when the air was driven from its lungs.
And, pressured backwards by the relentless swordplay, blinded by pain and darkness, its grip slipping on the spear it held... the demon tripped.
It stumbled, falling back, gripping the cursed lance with one hand, desperately trying to pull it from the wall.
The knight let out a wordless cry, and angled her blade sharply. She twisted and lunged, so that the blade of Amoracchius was sent skittering along the length of the spear. Sparks flew.
I heard the sharp hiss of steel-on-steel, and then a pained cry. Her blade sank into the demon's wrist, biting deep into the tendons, severing them neatly. Blood sprayed out in a torrent, giving the wall a fresh coat of red paint. It roared, steam rising off of its chest in billowing clouds, its blood-red eyes wide with agony.
She'd done it. I couldn't believe it. She'd actually managed to hurt the damned thing, whatever it was.
Of course, the demon started healing almost immediately, but I noticed that it wasn't healing quite as quickly as it had before, when I'd struck it with my staff. And it looked... almost slower, by a hair. Maybe it was meeting its limit to heal itself – maybe it was weakened by Murphy's threshold. Either way, the window its injuries created provided more openings for the knight to strike. Her blade flashed again, and the demon cried out as it lost three fingers on its other hand.
The knight stepped in for the killing blow, her sword poised for the thing's heart. There was no way it could dodge, not in the confines of the hallway, and it couldn't block with mangled hands that could barely hold its weapon. My breath hitched in my chest as I watched her sword descend towards the demon.
And then, there was a flash of red light, and the monster disappeared, dispersing into a cloud of magic dust. The knight's sword bit through open air and impaled itself at the base of the stairs, sliding neatly into the concrete floor like it was made of butter.
The knight stood there, her sword impaled in the ground, and stared at the empty air. I couldn't see her face, not from where I was sitting, but her shoulders stiffened a little, and she bowed her head.
Silence fell.
I glanced up at Murphy, and found her eyes fixed on the knight.
Murphy looked... odd. Her lips were pursed, and her brow was furrowed. I wasn't quite sure what she was looking at, or what was running through her mind.
"Murph," I said, "you look like someone just... force-fed you your own cooking." It was a little difficult to talk, but I made every liter of air in my lungs count. I have a reputation of 'never shutting up' to live up to, after all.
Murphy blinked, and then glanced down at me. I didn't ask the question – she would think it sounded too much like chauvinistic concern – but she heard it anyway. Instead of answering, she passed her hand over my forehead, brushing matted hair away from my eyes. Her fingers came away red, slick with blood, but she didn't seem to care.
"What am I going to do with you?" Her lips, pale and ghostly in the dim light, twitched.
"...Tell me I'm pretty," I said, my words a little slurred. "I could... use a little pick-me-up."
"That's a tall order," she said, her steel-blue eyes settled on mine. "Maybe once you've cleaned up a little. You look terrible."
"How could you... say something like that? Don't you know... I've always wanted to be... a model?" I cracked a grin.
"...A model? You?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. She looked pointedly from my messy hair, to my bloodsoaked shirt, to the tattered duster I was wearing – and even down to my tennis shoes, which were stained with salt and worn through in several places.
Hey, it wasn't my fault that my clothes took a beating. It tends to happen in my line of work.
"Don't... talk like that. You'll upset my fans," I said.
"You have fans?" Her voice was as dry as a freaking desert.
"Murph," I groaned, shifting my hand slightly so that it rested on my chest, "I'm in enough pain as it is."
"Beatings will continue until morale improves," she drawled, running a hand along my jaw. In case I haven't mentioned it before, she's really good with her hands. It must come from all of her time spent cleaning guns, or... flipping around bad guys, maybe. Anyway, I leaned into her touch, just a fraction.
"Mmm," I replied. "You're a sadist."
"You like it," she reminded me, before glancing away. "Let's talk about your modeling career later. We've got company."
"Company?" I furrowed my brow for a moment, then blinked. "Oh. Right. Renaissance Power Girl."
The knight had returned, and stood a few feet away. The sword in her hands put off a pleasant golden glow – a much-needed once, since the lights had been blown out and we would have been swimming in darkness otherwise.
She held her sword in front of her, cradled in her arms, as though she were going to hand it over. Her golden hair shadowed her eyes as she bowed her head. I glanced sideways at Murphy – and she appeared just as confused as I was.
I wasn't an expert on medieval custom, but that looked an awful lot like a position of fealty. She held that pose, her head bowed, utterly still. Her posture screamed "regal".
"Upon thy summons, I have come forth," she said. "I ask of you, are you my Master?"
Words have power. That's something fundamental, something every person knows. The right word at the right time can change lives, make or break friendships, save people or destroy them. Words are man's attempt at describing the way of things, material and immaterial – of giving context to the events of the everday, cataloging our experiences and sharing them with others. Words like love, loyalty, vengeance, and power, given context, inspire emotion – the basis of all magic, pure and powerful.
That's why wizards are so reliant on words when they cast spells – words take magic and give it form, give it shape, defining it. Words twist the fabric of reality, giving meaning to things, turning magic – the energy that flows throughout all life – into reality.
Her words hummed with power. I felt that power hovering in the air between us, invisible, its tendrils wrapping me in their embrace. The energy surged through me, flooding my limbs, setting my heart racing.
After a moment, she looked up, her expression faltering slightly. It seemed she was waiting for a response – and once I realized that, I gave her one.
I blinked owlishly at her.
"...Master? Summons?" I asked, brow furrowing. "Oh, you mean... in the circle. Yeah. Okay. But this whole... 'Master' thing... you sure are forward. But I don't... kiss faeries. Smoked the last one that tried."
I thought of the time Maeve, the former Winter Lady, had tried to seduce me in Undertown - and a silly grin worked its way onto my face. "Take that, snowflake."
The knight glanced at Murphy, and some exchange took place between them that I couldn't see.
"You are not well," the knight said after a moment, pursing her lips. "and we cannot stay here. Let us retire to somewhere more appropriate, rest, and speak of this matter in the morning. This is your home, yes? Have you a sitting room?"
Murphy shrugged. "Well, I had one. After all the plastic explosive I used, I'm not sure if it's still intact, but we can check." I felt her shift beneath me, only to tense, hissing in pain. The blond knight winced, her sea-green eyes filled with concern.
"Would you care for assistance?" The knight asked, stepping forward. She knelt beside us, and I took that moment to get a good look at the two of them, Murphy and the knight, side-by-side. The knight's features were a little more Germanic – her nose was just shy of being hawkish, and it was obvious that her platinum-blond locks were completely natural. Murphy's eyes were a little smaller, her hair was more dirty blond, and she had a pale Irish complexion, but... with a little hair dye and some make-up, they could have passed as cousins. It was kind of spooky.
"...Not really, but I'm not seeing another option," said Murphy. She patted me on the shoulder. "Take Harry first, though. I'm in pain, but I'm alright. He's... a little out of it."
"You're out of it," I replied, and I flipped her the bird. At least, I think I did. My finger may have twitched a little. Still, it's the thought that counts, right?
Murphy apparently didn't think so, because she rolled her eyes and huffed.
It seems not everyone appreciates my sense of humor.
"Agreed," said the knight, her voice serene. "As I require both arms to lift my Master, I will leave my sword in your care."
Murphy raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't put up much of a fight. I felt small arms wrapping around me, and then hefting me into the air with surprising ease. My head swam for a moment, and I felt like dry-heaving again, but letting loose on someone so pretty was something I'd never live down, so bit my tongue and fought back the nausea.
I dwarfed the woman who piggy-backed me up Murphy's stairs. Every time she climbed up a step, the tips of my toes bumped into the next. I felt like I was floating – and may have giggled like a schoolgirl at the thought. Thankfully, the knight didn't comment on it. Even if I couldn't express it at the time, my dignity was awfully grateful.
The seconds sort of blurred together. The knight had left her sword behind, so there wasn't any light in the stairwell, and the war drum beating between my ears threw off my perception of time.
Before we reached the top of the staircase, I had a coherent thought, for the first time in a while.
"Hey, you," I said. Silver tongued, that's me.
She turned her head slightly, but kept her eyes on the stairs. "Yes, Master?"
"You have a name?"
Her gaze flickered to mine for a moment, and then away.
"...Saber. Call me Saber." Her voice glided over my ears like silk, soothing my aching head, releasing the tension in my limbs - along with the fear, the anger, that had kept me conscious.
"That's nice," I murmured, my eyes slipping shut.