Manumit

Ian watched his master in the rearview mirror. Kenneth Irons was nervous and frustrated.

"I can not believe you let the boy be so seriously injured," Irons said furiously. "Did I not instruct you to keep him alive at all cost?"

"Even at the cost of Sara Pezzini's life?"

"Of course," Irons said sharply. "You should know by now that my orders are not a matter for interpretation, but rather a directive to follow to the letter."

"I'm sorry."

"Your inept," Irons spat. "Rare has been the command which you have obeyed correctly and rarer still the obligation which you have fulfilled completely since my return."

Ian had no way to reply to that. He stayed silent.

"You are to follow the ambulance carrying Mr. Bowman to the hospital and from there you are to . . ."

Ian never received further instructions. Irons' voice seemed to catch in his throat and his eyes lost focus.

"Master," Ian called, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. "Mister Irons? . . . Father?"

There was no answer, but then, as Ian contemplated it, he didn't really expect one. The Witchblade, for whatever reason, had summoned him. And a summons by the true blade could not be refused.

* * *

It was cold. This fact struck her as odd. She had been in the realm of the Witchblade before, in some senses she never left it, but this was the first time the plane of darkness and light, smoke and shadows had ever chilled her. She wrapped the white silken cloak that covered her armor more tightly around her, more out of habit than practicality, and examined the landscape. She hadn't expected to be here alone. That was very troubling.

But there was nothing to do but wait and have faith that her plan would work. So the true wielder squared her shoulders and did just that. Her wait was not along one. Soon from the darkness, the smoke curling around him, Kenneth Irons emerged. He had a haughty smile on his face and a cold, deadly look in his eyes.

"Sara, what a pleasure."

The True Wielder smiled at him, knowingly. "You have to know, you were not brought here for your pleasure."

"But I shall take it, regardless," he said confidently.

"Where is my guiding angel?"

"As I understand it, Gabriel Bowman is dyeing in an ambulance of a wound you gave him yourself, Sara."

"This is a world of truth," the True wielder said. "Of essence. Here you cannot lie, you cannot deceive, and you cannot conceal."

"If that is the case why did you ask the question?"

"Because I wanted to hear your answer," Sara said simply. "My Angel is behind you."

Irons turned, surprised to find that the crumbled, beaten and bloodied form of Gabriel Bowman was indeed behind him. But as the True Wielder walked past the confused, corrupt man, she saw something different. She didn't just see Gabriel Bowman, she saw Michel Parks a bookish English librarian who wrote so many letters to Elizabeth Bronte that her German lover became jealous. She saw Father Raphelle, a young French priest who followed Joan on all her crusades, hearing her confessions and imparting spiritual advice and comfort. She saw the Bard Iul, who sang in king Conchobar's court every night to please the queen Cathain. She saw Mal'ak, a Babylonian scribe who had a tendency to wander through the forests and was the only man to know the resting place of the Goddess Sehren. And she saw others. A young Greek philosopher, an uninspired Ligonare, a continually distracted monk, an ambitious printer, a mysterious hermit, a kind shawman. He had been and was all these things, just as Sara Pezzini had been and was every wielder of the blade, Gabriel Bowman had been and was every wielder's guide.

"You came?" His voice was cracked and strained from pain. He was crumpled on the ground because he didn't have the strength to stand, heavy shackles with chains attached to weight lost in the fog pulled his wrists and ankles down and an iron collar kept the boy from lifting his head and looking her in the eyes

"Of course I came, Angel," the True wielder said gently and affectionately as she knelt down so she could look him in the eyes. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises but his soft brown bloodshot eyes were clear, hopeful and thankful. He was trying to smile at her, but it seemed as if his face had forgotten how, it was lopsided and somewhat pathetic. She put her soft hands on his rough, bloody cheek in an effort to comfort him but as soon as their skin touched she was overwhelmed with his grief, his fear, his pain. She pulled her hand away quickly; in the plane of essence and truth his emotions were strong enough to burn. Drawing her hand up to her mouth she tried not to sob, still, tears started cascading down her cheeks.

"Are you ok?" the Angel asked softly, edging himself forward a little. With great effort he reached out with his right hand, bruised and battered though it was, it did not bear a scar of two intertwining circles, the mark of the Witchblade.

His gesture was clear. He wanted to comfort her. He'd suffered so deeply and greatly that his very essence was a portrait of pain, but sill he wanted to comfort her. She laughed at the absurdity of it. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I am not ok. Someone has stolen my best friend, put him in shackles, tortured him, and the whole time I was blind to it. I'm most defiantly not ok." She took a deep breath of the cold air and reached out to him. Her eyes locked on his as she put her hands on his shoulders and let the burning intensity of his emotions wash over her. With strength and tenderness she lifted the boy off the ground and onto his feet. "Stand strong," she told him softly. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," he said, smiling. He was getting better at it, this time both the corners of his mouth were pointed in a generally upward direction. "You're here."

Sara smiled back at him, touched his cheek again, and then turned to face Irons. "This ends now." She said, her voice was as sharp and solid as the blade she'd just drawn from her scabbard.

"Sara," Irons said with a malicious smile. "You know the blade can not hurt me."

"Is that what you want, Kenneth?" the True Wielder asked. "To be untouchable, unsusceptible, beyond the grasp of pain or death?"

"Immortality is the dream of every man. I am just the first to realize it."

"You've realized nothing," Sara said. "You have not cheated death, just avoided her. Death is not a mistress who gives up the pursuit. She will find you."

"But she will not be administered by your hands," Irons spat. His hands were clenched in fists and his face was red, he was furious because she had just told him the truth.

"Perhaps not," The True wielder said with a sly smile, as if she knew exactly how and when death would find the man before her. "But you will leave this place, and you will never come back."

"You can not banish me," Irons said, holding his head up proud of every little victory he managed. "I may not be a wielder, but I have worn the Witchblade none the less. This realm is open to me."

The True Wielder's smile did not fade. "How did imprisoning my Angel help you in you bid for immortality?"

"Gabriel Bowman was a convenient pawn," Irons said casually. "I intended to use him to kill you so that the Witchblade would be free to find another wielder."

"One who you could control."

Irons nodded, "Unfortunately things did not go in my favor, this time."

"You intend to use him again?"

"I find that having an alter ego is very . . . liberating."

"This is your last chance. Leave him be, and you can go."

"This war between us has become a very personal affair, Sara," Irons said. The cold air almost crackled with intensity. "I relish every victory and will not give away my gains."

"Then I will have to take them from you," the True Wielder said simply.

Irons laughed, "You know the Witchblade can not harm me, Sara."

"I know," The True Wielder said, turning so that Irons was on her left and her Angel on her right. "You crave Immortality because you are afraid to die. What you do not know, Kenneth, is that to be eternal you must embrace death. I've lived and died a thousand times, as has my Angel."

"Gabriel Bowman is just a boy," Irons said, furiously. "He will not live forever."

"My Angel," the True Wielder said, raising her blade. "Is Loyalty." With a smooth movement she arched the grate sword and there was a loud clang that echoed throughout the empty plane. A shower of sparks flowed from the point where the Wielder's weapon had touched the boy's bonds and, to Iron's horror he saw Gabriel lift his right hand, free of it's shackles, which fell to the ground with a dull thud.

"My Angel," The True wielder continued, "Is Trustworthiness," a clang, sparks, and she freed his left hand. "My Angel is Comfort," clang, sparks, his right foot was free. "My Angel is Courage," clang, sparks, his left foot was free.

The only bond left was the iron collar around the boy's neck. The True Wielder paused for a moment and turned to Irons. "My Angel," she said passionately, "is Friendship," she said, raising her blade and bringing it down in a sweeping motion, as if she were going to cut off his head. A clang, louder than the last, rang through the space, echoing off walls that weren't there. It was so loud that Irons clasped his hands over his ears and the sparks that flew from the collision were so bright that the man had to close his eyes. When the echo died down and Kenneth dared to see and hear again, he saw Gabriel Bowman still bearing the signs of his ill treatment but free and standing besides Sara Pezzini, her blade still drawn. "Friendship is eternal, you Kenneth Irons, are not. You will die a horrible lonely death. All the years of your petty life, all your wealth and power, will mean nothing. But Friendship can't be killed, nor can it be possessed. After you die and are long forgotten, he will be reborn a thousand more times."

"You may have freed him," Irons said, spitefully, "But you know I can trap him again. If he really is eternal, then he's all the more worthy a prize."

The Angel looked, for a short moment, frightened, despite the presence of the True Wielder by his side. Irons smiled maliciously. "He knows it's true. As long as I can come into this realm we are all connected. You may have a weapon Sara, but he does not. My will is greater than his, he will fall to me."

"Angel," the True Wielder said simply as she garbed her sword by the blade and extended the hilt to him. "Take the sword."

"I, ah," the Angel stuttered, staring at the hilt. "I can't."

"You need to save yourself," the True Wielder, said with a voice so strong and commanding that the boy's eyes were drawn from the hilt of the sword up to her face. "I cannot to this for you. Please, Angel, take the sword."

The boy looked at the sword again and then, very cautiously, he lifted it off of her open hands. He put both hands on the hilt, looking at the bade in wonder for a moment before turning to look at Irons. "Get out of my head," he said simply, before swinging the sword like a baseball bat and neatly lobbing off Irons head. But before the arch of his swing finished, Irons form disappeared, swirling into mist and dissipating into the fog that surrounded them.

The boy staggered back a step, stunned at what he'd just done. His right hand let go of the blade and it fell to his left side, resting on its point.

"Thanks," the True Wielder said, stepping close to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. "You're needed."

And as she looked at her friend tears started trickling out of his eyes. He kept trying to say something, but words seemed to get caught in his throat. "Come here, Angel," she said softly, stepping forward herself and wrapping her arms around him. "Shhhh, shhhh, it's ok. It's all gonna be ok."

* * *

Maddie was staring to worry Conchobar. She hadn't been a chatterbox before, but she'd certainly been willing to engage in conversation. But as they drove to St. John's hospital the girl did little more than mutter as a response to his attempts to draw her out. In essence, he was talking to himself, but if he let off the car was filled with an ominous silence that seemed, to the singer, to be a sure sign of grief and bad luck.

"Sara's with him," Conchobar said. "An' she's amazin.' She said she could save 'im and, well, I'm not so sure she can't."

"Umm," was Maddie's only response.

"An the paramedics, they said he wasn't hurt tha' bad. Just losin' blood, which I guess 's easy enough to replace."

"Imm."

"I, ah, I never liked givin' blood. I mean, I do it all the time but I just can' stand to see them stick that needle in my arm. I don't know, maybe that makes me a sissy. Ya think?"

"Mnnn."

"I see," Conchobar said. "You ever give blood?"

"Yaaah,"

"Tha's good, 'cause, you know, it helps people."

She didn't say anything.

Conchobar was about to ask her if she knew directions to St. Johns. He knew how to get there but he figured that she would have to actually say something if he asked for directions. Even if she didn't know the way she'd still have to tell him so, which would require two clearly articulated words at least. He was saved from that by a phone ringing.

"Hey!" he said, somewhat excited. "Could'ja get tha'?"

"Whee?" She muttered, looking around. It seemed like she was coming out of a dazze.

"On the dashboard," he said, taking his right hand off the wheel for a moment so he could point at it. "I's Sara's phone. Might be her partner's callin'."

Maddie nodded and unfolded the phone very carefully. "Hello?" she said softly, holding it to her ears with both hands, as if she were afraid she'd drop it.

"Pez, is that you?" a male voice Maddie couldn't place demanded.

"Are you calling for Sara?"

"Yeah," the man sounded very confused. "This the right number?"

"Sara's in the ambulance."

"Ambulance, what . . . Is she alright?"

Maddie paused, "I don't know."

"Who is this?"

"Maddie."

"Who?"

"Medea Cafaro."

"Hello," a different male voice said. Maybe the voice was more distinctive, or maybe the fog was rolling back from the girls brain, but this one sounded familiar, although she could not have placed it to save her life.

"Hello."

"Who is this?"

"Medea Cafaro."

"Why do you have Sara's phone?"

"It was on the dash board."

Conchobar, hearing only half the conversation, was slightly more confused than those participating in it. "Maddie," he said. "Ask them who they are."

"Who are you?"

"This is Danny Woo? Is that Conchobar with you?"

The girl ignored Danny's question. She turned to Conchobar. "He said he's Danny Woo."

"Right," the singer said. "Then, ah, tell 'im tha' Gabriel's hurt an' Sara an' we are goin' to St. John's hospital."

"Hello?" Maddie said again, as her attention returned to the phone.

"Hey!" Danny said. "I heard all that. St. John's, right?"

"Um, Saint John was beheaded."

"Right . . ." Danny said, a little uncertainly.
"Better give me the phone," Conchobar said, reaching over and pulling the instrument away from the girl. "'Ello?"

"Conchobar, is that you?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm just tryin' ta follow an ambulance ta St. John's an' . . ."

"No, it's ok," Danny insisted. "We'll meet you there, we have some news for Sara."

* * *

"Get off him!" Leonard said pushing Sara forcefully away from Gabriel's body. The detective gasped as she suddenly realized where she was and what was going on. In front of her the paramedic was prepping the paddles to restart Gabriel's heart, which had stopped according to a straight green line running across a screen to her right and an unwavering tone that filled the ambulance's small cab.

Now that Sara had separated herself from the patient, Leonard was setting the paddles to the right amount of electricity. This was, after all, a very tricky situation. His heart needed to beat, but not too strongly, they needed as much blood in him as possible. In the few seconds it took him to figure out what he was doing, Sara slipped the Witchblade off the boy's wrist and back onto hers. Leonard turned shouted "Clear" and sent jolts of electricity through the boy's body. Just like on TV, Gabriel's body shook as the voltage surged through him. But unlike on TV, the only change wasn't the return of a squiggle in the green line on the monitor, and the reassuring repetitive beeps that signified a beating heart. This was far more dramatic.

Gabriel gasped, his eyes shot open, his hand's griped the edges of his stretcher and he managed to choke out "Sara!"

Leonard practically screamed.

"Hey, Angel," Sara said, leaning over his body again and petting his face. "Welcome back."

"Where are we?" Gabriel asked. His beautiful, soft brown eyes were filled with confusion and their edges twitched with pain.

"Detective, Mam, get off of him," Leonard said again, pushing Sara away. Sara complied, she was too overjoyed to fight him. Gabriel was alive, he was awake, but most importantly he was himself.

"Sara?" Gabriel asked, craning his head and endeavoring to push himself up to a sitting position.

Leonard wouldn't have it, he pushed the boy back down fiercely. "Don't move," he ordered. "You're too . . . badly . . ." His voice trailed off as he examined the boy and discovered no visible injuries. The gaping hole in his chest seemed to have vanished, all that was left were the stains on his blood-soaked cloths. "Are you hurt?"

"I kinda tingle all over," Gabriel said. "Pins and needles."

"That's probably a result of Leonard here jumpstarting your heart," Sara offered helpfully.

"Where am I?" the boy asked again.

"Leo," the female paramedic said, opening the window that separated the cab of the ambulance from the back. "What the hells goin' on back there."

"I, ah," Leo stuttered. "The kid's better."

"You got his heart started?" She asked.

"Yeah, but, uh . . . the wound, it's, um, it's gone."

"What do you mean the wound is gone?!"

"This kid, far as I can see, he's fine. Not hurt."

"Sara," Gabriel said, "What's going on?"

"Don't worry sweetie," Sara cooed. "Everything's gonna be just fine."

* * *

Irons gasped and sat up. His eyes were afire with hatred and his hands were clenched in fists.

"Where are they?" he demanded sharply.

"Where are who, master?" Ian asked tentatively. He'd never seen his father so upset. Irons was the bastion of cool, collected reason. He never flew into rages or petty bouts of any emotion. Emotion was weakness, he'd taught Ian that as a boy, and had lived the model, emotion free life. And yet here he was, overcome with furry, all-but foaming at the mouth.

"The Bitch and her little pup," Irons spit. "Sara Pezzini and Gabriel Bowman, who do you think?"

"Their ambulance has just arrived at the hospital, Master," Ian said cautiously. He wanted to defend Sara, assert that she was not, in any way, a bitch. But he never wanted to contradict his master, least of all when he was in such a foul humor.

"How far are we from them?"

"Close, Master. We are at St. John's hospital."
"Then why are we sitting here," Irons demanded, pushing himself upright and opening his door. Ian quickly opened his own door and jogged around the black sedan. Never, not once before, had Ian known his master to open his own car door. This boded ill.

"Let me help you," Ian said as he ran around the side of the car, but Irons did not acknowledge him. Instead the CEO of Vorschlag Industries ran across the very busy street, ignoring the cars causing a few very near accidents. Ian watched his heart in his throat, terrified that his Master's life would end suddenly and unceremoniously on that street.

Fate was with Kenneth Irons though, he reached the other side. Ian ran to keep up with his master, and by the time he reached the far side of the street Irons had already found the entrance to the ER and was watching as a group of paramedics wheeled Gabriel Bowman into the building with Sara Pezzini following closely.

"Ian," Irons said, his voice was once again calm and collected. "I presume you have a gun with you."

"Of course Master," Ian said, he didn't like where this question would lead. "I always carry a weapon for your protection."

"Give it to me."

"But, Sir . . ."

"Ian, you were not raised to question my orders, give me the gun."

"Yes sir," Ian said, reaching into the recesses of his dark overcoat and pulling out a heavy black pistol. Ian couldn't quite keep his hands from shaking as he offered it to Irons.

"Yes," the older man said slowly, drawling out the word out and savoring it. "This will suit my purpose."

He stuck the pistol in the waist of his pants and folded his perfectly tailored suit jacket over it. There was a slight bulge that seemed horribly obvious to Ian but which, he figured, no other person would think to notice.

"Now," Irons said, taking a deep breath and smoothing back his hair so that he looked completely composed and unquestionably respectable, "Let us see how fairs our young Mr. Bowman."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

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