Mother let him writhe in resentment for he knew not how
long. He was helpless in the scope of her grasp, with no more notion
of how free himself from this place -- in his own mind? -- in a place
aside from the physical world of Mother's
He clawed at them -- so close to freedom and stymied by yet one more being that wished to bend him to its will. He bent to no man's will or creature's or world's. He cried that anthem out to the eather at large and nothing responded. The silence left him feeling petulant and childish.
"Ask for something else!" He demanded. "Gods damn you, ask for something else, you bitch."
There is nothing else of you that I need. There, the
pulsing beat of Mother's response inside his head. So
reasonable. So patient. He frothed in his rage and Mother
He drifted, wondering how long Mother would keep him here. Till he agreed? Till she tired of him -- did the whole of the earth tire of anything? -- and would she then cast him out. And if she did, would she ever respond again? What if there were no other way? What if he lost this chance and no other came around. Would he play out the rest of his life powerless, having to flee Angelo's grasp -- looking to others for succor?
Oh, God, god, god. He'd rather die. He clutched at his hair in misery, squeezing his eyes shut and seeing the exact same thing he had when they had been open.
He is there.
Schneider moved his head at that commentary. Stubbornness vying
with curiosity in the battle of whether to respond to her observation
or not. Curiosity won out. Mother
Your enemy. And that was all she chose to say, even though he demanded she speak more. Oh, clever, clever Mother, to bait him so. He strangled on his fury, fingers clutching at the gray bands at his wrists. Rage tears streamed down his cheeks, into his mouth and they tasted like blood.
"All right!" He cried at her. "I agree."
Firstborn.
"I remember the deal." A hundred things crossed his mind. Ways to renege, paths of betrayal to a bargain made with something not quite corporeal.
The vow will be honored. The thought pounded in his head like a fist. The path has been chosen. Follow it.
Darkness engulfed him and shock that raced through his veins like molten fire. Something deep in his mind's eyes sparked and crackled. His body arched, his fingers grasping at nothing. Sensation filled him like wine in a ready cup. He cried out --
-- and came up gasping from the center of the pool, flinging water as he whirled looking for any sign of the doorway he had been thrust through. Wet hair streamed about his face and shoulders. His clothing clung to his body, a cold, clammy weight. He was in water up to his chest and his boots sunk into a mucky bottom. There was no light, no doorway, no sense of power so great as to fuel the life energy of all the world.
He pushed hair out of his face, and sodden strands of the stuff clung to his fingers. He shook his hand to rid it and stared at the unblemished skin of his wrist. No metal band adorned it. No scars from his own frantic attempts at removal of the wards. He turned his hand, not daring to breath in fear his vision might clear and the bands would still be there, mocking him. He brought his other hand up and it too was naked of restraint. He laughed. A low, amazed sound that did not even sound like his own. He clenched his fists and laughed louder.
Ba Co Raven. He cried out, and burst out of the water into the air, hovering with his arms strewn wide, water streaming off him back into the pool while he gloried in the sensation of magic streaming though his body, his soul. He did not even need to utter the words of a spell to dry himself. To rid himself of the ragged, travel worn clothing he had been forced to don and create attire more worthy of this most satisfactory occasion. He stayed with black, that being an intrinsic part of his mood at the moment, but most glorious black. Leather and shimmering silver of a most fashionable cut. A sweeping black cloak with silver inlaid dragons sprawled across its surface. Matching dragons on the backs of his gloves and silver and gem encrusted inlays in the black metal of his armored shoulder pads.
A movement at the side of the pool caught his eye. Yoko stretched and yawned, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her fists. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment the rapture of freedom sat like a leaden weight at the pit of his stomach. He landed on the little sandy strip of beach and stared, no words coming to mind to greet her with after what he had promised of the both of them to gain his freedom. She would never understand. Never. It was not in her to make such a sacrifice. She would hate him with all of her soul for making it for her. And he, for all the power he had gained back, could not summon the courage to tell her of it. Better she never knew. Better he avoided paying the price of the bargain in a way that Mother could not contest.
"Rushie?" She said sleepily. "You're all bright."
He looked away from her, clenching his jaw. The pool sat like a silent, black trap no more than a few feet away. Damn Mother to hell. He spoke a word, an archaic, demonic key that brought power to his fingertips. He slashed an arm violently down at the pool. It was like a giant invisible hammer had crashed down upon it. Water exploded outwards, the earth that formed the cradle for it split and crumbled and all that was left of it was a devastated muddy pit, where a small trickle of water struggled to leak back into.
Yoko squealed and flinched back, staring at the ravaged pool, then back to him with wide, astonished eyes.
"Your power?" She cried, struggling to her feet. "You got it back. How?" She ran to him, grabbing for one of his wrists, pulling it up to examine it, then staring bright eyed, up at him. She stepped forward to throw her arms about him and he caught her arms, stopping her, stepping back from her as if he feared she might contaminate him. She would, with her infectious smile, her soft, sweet body, her very presence.
"You led me here. Don't you remember?" he asked, when she looked at him with uncertain, wary eyes. She shook her head.
"No. I can't recall. I remember riding and riding and --- things get blurry after that. We found Mother. I told you she existed. You have no faith. She freed you."
"Yes."
"Why'd you do that?" she waved a hand at the destruction he had wrought. He glanced that way, shadowing his eyes with lowered lashes. Wishing there were something more concrete he might take his wraith out upon.
"Are you okay?" She was catching on to his mood.
"Of course. I've got my power back."
"What -- what was Mother like?"
"Like nothing. Don't worry about it."
She opened her mouth, hurt at that sharp retort and he steeled
himself against the look. Some hurts were easier to take than others.
Something rumbled faintly from far away. They both looked eastward.
There was power in the air. A great amount of power had just been
discharged. He could feel it now, where before he had been too
preoccupied to notice. Spells, and a great many of them, were being
cast not to far away. Mother
Had Angelo been this close on his heels? And the other castings. He thought he caught the flavor of Arshes Nei. She had come looking for him then. Good girl.
"What is it?" Yoko asked softly.
"Sounds like a little war going on. I think I'll join in."
He caught her about the waist and took to the air, bursting through the treetops like an avenging angle out of the mists. It was fast going, as the raven flew, as opposed to wending one's way up treacherous hard to find mountain passes. He shielded them from the wind for Yoko's sake, though he would have preferred to feel its bite against his face and its fingers in his hair. She clung to him, burying her face against his shoulder and all he could think when he looked at her was Firstborn Firstborn Firstborn. So he stopped looking at her. Tried to imagine she wasn't a solid weight at all in his arms. Then his attention was gratefully drawn elsewhere, for when he passed the tree lined top of the last mountain before the western range tuned into hilly plainland, a war was spread out before his eyes. A thousand men dotted the valley between hill and mountain. And from his vantage of high, he could see a line of more troops approaching from the east. A flare of explosion erupted from the eastern line. He felt the surge of a Tesla spell. One knew then where Arshes Nei was in all this.
He plummeted to the high slope of the mountain, where the pine trees stopped and a rocky grade began.
"Stay." He told Yoko. Letting her down. His own feet never touched ground. She stared up at him when he left her, but he refused to look back. Firstborn. Firstborn. Firstborn.
He sailed over the fringes of the battle, and cried out; Zako-Damero!
Energy ripped out of his hands and tore a path through men and horses. There were cries from below. Men looked up, tiny, white faces. He came down among them, cape flaring about his body, hair floating like a living thing as the energy crackled around him. He called up another strike of power and slashed his arm carelessly in a semi-circle about him and cleared a path for himself. He cared nothing for these men. They were insects, pawns in a greater game. Angelo would not be among them. Angelo would be secreted somewhere that he might spin his web of destruction without giving up his true nature.
A great fist of fire fell out of the sky upon him. He looked up at it and let it fall, put a hand up a the last moment and created a buffer that diverted the flame, channeling it out into the field and the men there. Screams began. Schneider ignored them, concentrating on the path that spell had come from. It evaporated as quickly as it had come and he cursed. Tricky, tricky, Angelo to hide so well from him. Wait for another attack. Let it come and trace its origin while it was in the midst of being delivered. He would find the Prophet.
A knight on a warhorse charged at him. He tilted his head and waited, staring into the eyes behind the visor. The lance faltered, the man suddenly had another goal that seemed more significant and veered his horse roughly away. He cut a swath through the field and any that dared his path died. Power gathered, aimed at him. Not a spell he recognized. He didn't care. The spell wasn't important, it was the direction it came from.
From the south. It came, a shrieking fist of destructive power, and he was too preoccupied tracing its lineage to bother with shields. There, a silvery elusive scent that lead to a fading familiar aura. The spell hit like a comet bent on singular destruction. He knew pain and the shock of impact and finally put strength into the protection of his body. Regrowth, regrowth, regrowth, he had to focus everything into that goal as his body was battered and broken and thrown back a hundred feet into a cluster of horsemen. The residue spell ate at them, melting armor and flesh. It took more concentration than he might have thought to shake the effects of that spell. His bones ached from it despite a frantic series of healings. Impressive, nasty little spell. If it had caught him a little less powered up, it might have done more damage. As it was, his adrenaline level was at a frightening high, months of pent up power hammering to be released. It would be. At the last moment before it had hit, he had targeted where it had come from. A hill to the south was where the prophet watched. Let the Prophet watch his own death then, for Schneider was on the way to deliver it.
Of the many bodies that the Prophet had taken over the years, some had been vastly powerful, some only marginally so, some unique and taken to gain some skill or power he coveted. The slyph had been an odious, repulsive host, but Angelo had desired the one true skill that was a slyph's and a slyph's alone. They were one of those misbegotten half breed creatures that had come about after the destruction of the old world, partly human and partly something else entirely. They were things to be burned with prayers chanted about the pyre as their unwholesome flesh crisped and charred, sending its soulless body up in ashes, but for several weeks, Angelo had existed within the tainted shell, because of all the creatures great and small that lived within the world, only a slyph could open doorways to other places. Not a great deal of other places, they were not so powerful as that, but to one place, one safe haven; their burrow. Home. Being creatures timid of nature and prone to be hunted that escape route was all that had kept the species from going the route of extinction within the first century of the new world. By the third they were all gone. And only Angelo possessed the talent to open a doorway to his 'burrow'. His chosen sanctuary.
He didn't use it often. He had not the need to. But his plans were falling about him in disarray. The lords of havoc had appeared when they shouldn't have. The Ice Lord had taken up more of his energy than he would have thought possible and now -- now the greatest disaster of all had taken two of his strongest spells in stride and still stalked through the battlefield, as if the men on it were no more than ghosts, towards him.
Schneider should not have been free. Should have been powerless and yet very clearly he was not. Very clearly he was bursting to overflowing with magic. It shimmered about him in a fashion that made Angelo, in his presently weakened state, distinctly nervous. Sinakha moved to stand a few feet down the hill before him in a protective stance. As if Sinakha's sword and his dubious arcane powers would make a difference against Dark Schneider.
Larz's army was in disarray. Even with the approach of the infantry, what chance had they against Schneider and his minions? What chance indeed. He had to have time to think.
Kall-Su blocked a blow with the Ice Falchion. That blade did not usually see combat of this nature. It usually cleared the field before conflict ever got this close to its master. It was as gleeful at this violence as it was with any other. It thrummed in his hands. Another blow parried, the warrior that was intent on hacking him to bits, wildly beating at his defenses. From somewhere nearby he heard the hollow echo of power as Gara used the Murasume blade. From the corner of his eye, a line of men were cut down. His own attacker hesitated, looking that way and Kall slipped under his guard and sliced through the armor at his thighs with the Ice Falchion. Not a killing blow with any normal blade, but all it took with the Ice Falchion was the taste of flesh and it sat its icy grip upon a body. Not a pleasant experience, Kall-Su knew from first hand experience and one that no normal man could survive. The knight opened his mouth in shock even as the ice spread up his body, invading flesh and bone and organs. He was stiff as a rail before he toppled backwards into the mud.
There was a flare of explosion to the east. A Tesla spell. Arshes Nei's work. He was trying to summon the strength for a spell of his own when another strike hit the center of the field of battle. A high power energy blast that had seemed to come from above. Not Arshes. Not her flavor, though very close. He looked up, scanning the sky for the source. Then stopped dead, the sword tip drooping to the ground. He caught of glimpse black and silver, pale hair streaming about dark cloak, then a armored warhorse plowed into him from behind and he went down, steel shod hooves pummeling the earth around him. A spear tip came at his face. He cried out the first spell that came to mind and horse and rider literally exploded overtop him. Blood and flesh rained down upon him. He ignored it, scrambling to his feet, slipping in mud and blood and other grisly things. He scanned the sky but the apparition was gone. But the power still sang.
From her vantage, Yoko could see everything. The battle was a visage of horror, as any battle was. But this one was worse, for she recognized standards that fluttered on the field. She knew the combatants. And she knew the wizardly powers that cut through them. It was nightmare. Purest nightmare. And he left her here to observe it all, while he went down to deal his own brand of destruction.
She knew exactly where he was. There was a path of devastation around him. She saw when the first fire attack hit him and saw him repel it and watched dozens of men burn for the effort. She was looking for a way down the slope when the second spell came. She cried out in fear when it seemed to engulf him, but he seemed to come out of it unharmed. And then he was moving southward, cutting through the army as easily as he might wade through water. Something was south that he wanted and she thought she might know what it was. She began slipping and sliding down the rocky slope, crabwalking to the south as best she could.
Somehow she had to stop this carnage.
Schneider saw the silhouettes of two figures on the hill top. He narrowed his eyes and took to the air. Angelo stood waiting for him, leaning on his staff, face composed and peaceful. His guard captain, Sinakha stood before him, sword held at ready. Schneider sat foot on the ground and lifted a brow at the threat.
"Shall I kill him slow or fast?" he inquired, low purr of a voice.
"Not at all." Angelo replied. "I see the spawn of hell has managed to escape the bonds of righteousness."
"Oh, yes."
"Do I dare ask how?"
"The devil did it. I thought that was a given, as far as you were concerned."
"And where is my lovely fiancee?"
"Think about her when you die. Its all you'll ever see of her."
"I suppose she is -- tainted now. You do have a reputation."
Schneider snarled. He whipped out a hand. A pulse of energy knocked Sinakha off his feet and tumbled him back to land at the Prophet's staff. It should have cut him in half, but it had only dazed him, which meant he was either shielding himself or Angelo was doing it.
"Do you know what your downfall will be?" Angelo asked.
"Oh, please tell me."
"You're predictable. In your rages, in your vengeance's, in your reactions."
"Am I? Predict this." He closed his fists and gathered power about him. The grass, wet as it was smoldered around him. He chanted the words of a spell. Angelo's eyes widened.
"Oh, no. Not that." The Prophet said, just before he smirked, and a slice of light appeared behind his back, like a zipper opening on a very bright room. Angelo stepped back and Sinakha tumbled back with him and the zipper zipped closed and there was nothing of it or the prophet and his body guard left behind.
Schneider stared for a moment in astonished fury, the power crackling at his fingertips, the spell crying to be released. "Angelino." He cried. "Goddamned you, come back."
No one complied with his demand. A bit of rain began to fall. He screamed incoherently and whirled, extending his hands towards the battlefield. The energies of the forbidden spell, Holloween, sizzled forth. It barreled down the hill and cut a swath of destruction through the center of the army. He took a breath and summoned the power for another spell, wanting to see the whole of the field smoldering, lifeless bodies.
"No." Came a desperate cry as he verged on the release. Yoko stumbled up the hill, out of breath and staggering, holding her side as pain stitched it from her run. "Don't do it. Please, don't do it."
"Get out of the way." He snarled as she fell to her knees on the slope below him.
"Please, Rushie. Please. He lied to them too. Don't you understand? He lied to them too. They're honest men. Good men. They're my kinsmen and townsmen. I've friends down there."
"You have no town anymore, remember. You ran away from it. You think any of them will welcome you back?"
"I don't care." She cried up at him. "Just because they turn their backs on me or disagree with me doesn't mean I want them dead. He lied to them, too."
He aimed above her head. She climbed to her feet and stumbled towards him, caught his hands and pressed them to her breast, as though she wanted to take the burst of energy herself if it saved the lives of a thousand faceless men, most of whom she probably didn't even know. And she would too, give her life to save others. Too damned conscionable for her own good. What would she give up to save a child of her body.
Firstborn. He took a sudden step back from her, ripping his hands from her grip. He couldn't stand to face her. To see the look of pleading in her eyes and know how quickly it would turn to deepest hate. Why not kill the lot of her countrymen and have her hate him for that? At least she might be able to come to terms with his reasoning there. At least her rancor would be for a thing he did to someone else and not to her.
He brushed past her, not meeting her eyes. Took two steps then he went airborne. This would end. One way or another, this would end now.