Interlude (Part Four)
Embers from the dying fire glinted in Tyron Sul's silver eyes. The sun had long ago disappeared below the gently curving horizon, and the moon was about a quarter of the way through its nightly arc. He remained sitting on an old piece of driftwood that had washed up on the sandy shore, staring into the flames, completely still.
Tyron's gaze fixed on one particular piece of wood, leaning near the center. Flecks of orange lapped over it, and he could see the glowing warmth within, eating the wood away from within.
As Tyron watched, the firewood began to sag, to bend. and then, unable to hold out any longer, the branch cracked in two, and the fire collapsed further in on itself. As it did so, dozens of sparks wafted into the air, miniature stars in the darkness. He watched one float up, higher and higher, until it winked out in the night sky.
Sighing, the warrior stood up, getting off of the piece of driftwood and stretching muscles that protested after hours of stillness. Without further ado, he lay down on the sand, finding comfort in the way it adapted to the shape of his body. the fire, behind him, burned out.
That night, the dreams came to him again.
* * *
Chenna Venamekrd stifled a yelp as a rock she had been using as a handhold broke. She flattened herself against the cliff, clinging to it with all of her strength, and closed her eyes tightly. A fall onto the rocks below, even from only ten or so feet up, would probably cause serious injuries.
Her heart thudded in her ears as she looked up at the top of the bluff. Maybe they had missed her. maybe they wouldn't find her. A chorus of angry yells from above on the Mi'ihen Highroad, however, dashed her hopes. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Chenna fervently wished she could understand the Yevonites' language better.
Biting her lip, she looked down at the cliff below her, silver-white in the moonlight. Chenna saw what appeared to be a crack in the rock, and gingerly slipped her foot inside. It held her weight, and she resumed her climb. Trying not to think about either the jagged rocks below her or the angry mob above, she made her way to the base of the cliff.
The land bridge she had seen from up on top of the bluff hadn't been just a trick of the light, thankfully. Without pausing to think about it, Chenna sprinted out onto the rocks.
She immediately regretted the decision. Chenna had gone no more than ten steps when her booted foot caught on a protruding shard. Her knees hit the ground first, and agonies shot up her spine as a stone knife sliced through her wetsuit and into her shin, cutting a shallow, yet painful gash.
Tears streamed from the corners of her green-swirled eyes, and the Al Bhed girl fought the urge to scream out loud at the pain. Chenna scrambled to her feet, and nearly collapsed again after putting weight on her injured leg. She managed to stay upright, though, and limped onwards, being much more careful than before.
A stiff breeze blew, whipping her blonde hair across her face, spraying her with seawater. Although every step was agony, Chenna forced her legs to move onward. The shouts were louder now, and she turned. There were about ten or so flames up on the cliff, casting flickering golden light over the stone wall.
For a moment, the girl paused. They wouldn't dare follow her down the cliff, would they? Especially not carrying torches like that. she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the flames sink below the cliffline, out of sight. They were leaving.
Then her heart caught in her throat as the first torch appeared down on the beach, off to the side from where she had climbed down. The second one followed, and then a third. Chenna turned and staggered onward. There must have been another, safer path down. She had been stupid, stupid, stupid! And now they were going to catch her.
The rocks below her suddenly gave way to smooth, cool, sand, and she fell forward, landing with a soft puff. It was so cool. the throbbing agony in her shin seemed to ebb, to vanish. she could just go to sleep, and everything would be okay. Darkness crept into the corners of her vision. then the body of the little Al Bhed boy, mutilated and hanging from a tree, came into her minds eye, and Chenna pushed herself to her knees. If the mob caught her, they wouldn't show her any mercy.
A wave of fury washed over her, seething hatred. These Yevonites hated her. She had committed no crime other than being born Al Bhed, yet they would murder her. They had murdered her father during the Al Bhed Crisis, hadn't they? And her mother shortly afterwards. even though she had been one of them. Lina Swiftin had been the daughter of a priest, yet had found love with an Al Bhed man. Her own people had shunned her, and had murdered her. Nothing mattered to those bloodthirsty pycdyntc. the little boy they had killed before going after Chenna had only been about seven or so. She was only twelve herself, and they were going to kill her too.
If the mob caught Chenna, they wouldn't show her any mercy. She was determined not to show them any either. Chenna reached down to her side and pulled out the slugthrower hanging from her belt. Her brother had given her this. she hadn't wanted it, but Nulgo had insisted. "To kill those vermin," he had said.
No mercy. That's what Nulgo and Ryda had said. No mercy.
Six of the torches were now crossing the land bridge; the other four were remaining behind. Chenna knew they were coming to kill her. They wouldn't spare her life.
Chenna checked the machina weapon, made sure it was functioning, then pulled the firing lever back. It locked into place with a snap, and the slugthrower seemed to jump in her hands.
There was no one on this island, she knew. No one to help her-and even if there were, why would they help an Al Bhed? She was alone.
No mercy. Chenna turned and limped into the thick forest in the middle of the island. She sat down on a rock behind a tree, and watched the onward march of the flames, and waited.
* * *
Griff Moano held his torch high, illuminating the rocky land bridge on which he was walking. A predatorial grin made its way onto his unshaven, sunburned face as he clearly saw drops of blood on the stone, traveling onto the sand in front of him, and into the forest. "I suppose we should thank the little bitch, huh?" he growled, tightening his grip on the crude stone club he was carrying. "She left us a little trail for us to follow. Damn considerate for one of those Yevon-forsaken heathens." Snickering, Griff looked around at his compatriots to gauge their reactions to his joke.
Most of them chuckled, with the exception of Luther. Luther Ansr was a skinny, sunken-cheeked man with jaundiced skin and an overhanging brow. He was known for being not only one of the most pious men in all of Spira, but he was reckoned as one of the fastest warriors as well (at least in this area, of course). Luther had no torch like the rest of them, but instead wielded a deadly-looking scimitar, which glistened with more than sea- spray. The poisoned blade of Luther Ansr was said to be the terror that crept up on those savages, those heathens, while they slept. The only thing that mattered to Luther was cleaning Spira of those who defiled it, those who used the forbidden machina. While Griff and his buddies saw this as fun- both having a good time and ridding Mi'ihen of some vermin-Luther believed it to be a sacred crusade. It was widely known that he had been a member of the Saviors, a secret organization during the Al Bhed Crisis. and rumors about the Saviors ranged from the obscene to the merely terrible.
The look of pure venom on Luther's cragged, sallow features would have sent shivers down a normal man's spine, but Moano was no craven Al Bhed. he was a brave, hardy, faithful Yevonite. "C'mon, guys, let's get that little bitch!" cried Dayrid, one of Griff's many drinking partners, smashing the butt of the stone spike he carried against the rocks. None of them noticed the small splashing sound it made as the waters slowly rose with the tide.
Laughing, Griff swaggered off the land bridge, following the trail of dried blood. "Hey, you stupid little bitch!" he called out. "You can't hide from us forever! We're gonna find you, and you know what we're gonna do then?" Griff looked back at his buddies and guffawed before turning back. "We're gonna tie you-"
He didn't get to finish the threat. A sharp crack echoed through the air, accompanying a flash of light from inside the forest, and blood splashed into the air. Griff screamed as he fell backwards, clutching his shoulder while moaning in agony.
"She's using a machina weapon." whispered Dayrid, running over to his fallen friend and trying to help stop the bloodflow. "The little." He ducked reflexively as another shot rang out, kicking up a puff of sand a few feet to the left of him.
In the starlight, Dayrid could see Luther steadily walking forward, the other three Yevonites following, clearly torn between fear and rage. "Stay here." whispered the ex-Savior, in a voice that brought to mind nothing so much as the sharpening of an executioner's axe. "Make sure the animal doesn't escape. She dies here."
* * *
Chenna whimpered silently, trying to reload the slugthrower with violently trembling hands. She had shot someone. She had actually shot a man. Oh, sure, Chenna had practiced with the slugthrower countless times. but she had never actually shot someone.
She had been aiming for the face, but her trembling arms had thrown her aim off. And now the man with the wicked-looking sword was coming for her. the young Al Bhed girl clicked the firing lever back and pulled the trigger. The slugthrower's handcarved barrel jerked back, the recoil nearly knocking her down. The slug splashed into the water besides the land bridge-she was way off.
Now, the bad man was a mere twenty feet away. Chenna gave in to her natural instinct, and ran. Vines and branches lashed at her face, at her body, at her injured leg, all trying to drag her down, but the girl kept on running, kept pushing herself farther. Her nerve, her conviction to show them no quarter had been dashed, and was now replaced with pure survival instinct.
Finally, a low-lying root on the path caught her ankle, and she tripped violently, feeling something snap in the bone. It didn't hurt like the way a broken bone should hurt, she thought, but her foot refused to support weight, and Chenna crawled into the thick underbrush, shaking violently and trying not to vomit.
'Get a hold of yourself, Chenna!' she scolded herself, trying to get a grip on reality. Chenna took several deep breaths, attempting to recollect her wits, and then crouched behind a tree and beneath a bush, hoping she was well-concealed. She popped the side of the slugthrower open, and drained her six remaining bullets into the magazine. If she were to survive, she couldn't spend time reloading.
No sooner had she clicked the firing lever into place than the flickering hellfire of a parade of torches began to cast dancing shadows over the surrounding forest. Slowly, inexorably, the three Yevonite torches came toward her. Chenna held her breath as the first torch-bearer passed her, a wooden club in his hands. The second Yevonite was carrying a spool of rope- the Al Bhed shivered in a mix of terror and fury, remembering the little boy hanging from the tree. The final torch-bearer was carrying a large carpenter's hammer, and he was looking around for their prey. None of them thought to look down, and so none of them noticed Chenna.
The girl exhaled in relief, before remembering the fourth man, the wicked- looking one. Her worst fears were confirmed a moment later as the curved blade sliced through the tree above her head, and the man looked down at her. "Well, well, well." he hissed. "Looks like the little vermin got into the woodwork."
Chenna sprang backwards as the scimitar slashed into the ground where she had been. She scuttled away from the swordsman, trying desperately to put some distance between her and the madman, when she found herself hitting a meaty wall. "Hey, Luther!" the Yevonite called out, grabbing her around the neck with his arm in a chokehold. "I got her!"
The swordsman who was called Luther slowly strode forward, the torchlight glinting from eyes like the fires of a demon. Her cries muffled from the suffocating pressure of the Yevonite's arm against her throat and mouth, Chenna struggled wildly, terror in her eyes. Luther was only a step or so away when the little Al Bhed managed to open her mouth wide enough to bite down on the meat of her captor's arm, tearing into it with the sort of strength that can only be brought on by an adrenaline rush.
Her captor yowled in pain, and Chenna stomped down hard on his foot, loosening his grip. In the same motion, she pivoted on her hips, driving her elbow hard into the Yevonite's groin area. He let go, howling, as the girl tore a chunk of his arm away, tasting the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth. "Sintanan!" she cried, spitting his flesh from her mouth.
The pain in her legs being ignored for the time being, Chenna leapt to the side and pulled the trigger, hitting the already-wounded Yevonite square in the thigh. He collapsed in a quivering heap of pain.
She had no time to either revel in her escape or feel pity for the wounded man, however. Luther kept on stalking closer, in his silent, unstoppable manner. "That wasn't very nice, little rodent." he smiled a shark's smile. "I think it's time to teach you a lesson."
In the blink of an eye, Luther was several strides closer to her, and his blade arced out in a nearly invisible motion. For a moment, Chenna thought he had missed, but then a thin red line appeared across her belly, and an incredible fiery sensation in her abdomen dropped her to her knees. The thin, shallow, slice he had delivered shouldn't be hurting this much. Chenna screamed in agony, trying to scramble away while clutching her burning stomach.
Chenna's vision began to blur, and she waved the slugthrower around wildly in her delirium, brandishing it to ward off whoever was around her. a spark of flame from a torch caught her eye, and she opened fire. There was no scream of pain-she must have missed the man carrying the torch-but the flame spun into the air and landed on the ground, igniting a thick patch of underbrush. The fire began to spread, hazy smoke filling the air.
Whatever vile poison it was that was afflicting her, the world swam, and the young Al Bhed girl collapsed on her back. A distant shadow loomed over her, a large, bulky shadow wielding a heavy-looking hammer. and Chenna knew, with the clarity of death, that she was going to die. Chenna screamed, kept screaming, started twitching. the hammer began its descent to crash down on her forehead.
Without warning, the carpentry tool was knocked from the man's hands, and whirled away. Before succumbing to the haze, Chenna saw a man who seemed to be made of shadows, the light from the fire sparking in his silver eyes.
* * *
"I won't let you do it!" Tyron shouted, angry tears filling his eyes. "Tara. you can't go become a summoner, you can't!" he yelled, glaring accusingly at the young woman who looked at him with an expression that was partly guilty and partly heartbroken. Taradine seemed to be leaning on her staff for support; the argument had been going on for hours, and it had emotionally drained her.
Amono stepped between his best friend and his sister, trying to calm the younger boy down. "Tyron, listen to me." his voice was calm, yet insistent. "Taradine's made her choice. who are you to begrudge her that? She has the same right to choose her path that you do. She will be a summoner. and I'm going to be her guardian." The young man put a comforting hand on his closest friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tyron. but this is how it's going to be."
Defeated, the long-haired boy sunk to his knees, fighting the flood of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. "If you're going to do that." he whispered. "Then I'm coming with you."
The summoner-to-be looked down at him, crouching to his level, staring at him with those soulful eyes that read him all at once, like a book with only one page. "Excuse me, Tyron?" Taradine said. "I thought I heard you say you." their eyes met, and she shook her head, biting her lip worriedly. "No, Tyron. you can't do it. Amono and I have accepted that our fate will take us on a dangerous path. we don't want to drag you down with us."
"I said I'm coming with you!" tears were streaming down Tyron's cheeks now. "I won't let you leave me!" His voice broke as he clutched the sand of this haven, of this place he knew as a home. "I won't let you. I'm going to be your guardian."
There was a loud crack, a bang. The storm outside was raging. Tyron was sixteen now, and had been training to be a guardian, despite the misgivings of Taradine and Amono. they were going to leave tomorrow. Taradine had spent all the day in the Djose temple, praying to the fayth to grant her leave to become a summoner. She had succeeded.
Tyron had lived as a member of Amono's family for half his life now. tomorrow, he would leave it forever. It frightened him.
Outside, another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. An accompanying sharp crack echoed a moment later. The tempest outside raged, mirroring the storm within the young man. He idly stroked the end of his long, braided hair-a habit he had unconsciously picked up from Taradine-as sheets of water poured down the window.
"This seat taken?" Tyron turned to see the oldest brother in the family, Masa. He didn't socialize much, being completely taken with being a swordsmith. With all the studying he had put into it, Tyron was sure he would one day be the greatest weapon-maker in all of Spira. The younger man motioned silently to the empty stool beside him, turning his gaze to the window once more.
Masa ran his hand through his neatly cut brown hair. "Well. you're going to be leaving tomorrow, huh?" Tyron nodded wordlessly. "I suppose. well, I know you're going to make it back alive. You've got too much talent to die at the hands of some ugly fiend." In some weird way, Tyron hoped he would die out on the fields. give his life making a difference in the world. He shrugged.
Clearly, Masa was feeling very awkward at Tyron's silence, and so he tried to get to the point. "Look. Tyron, you know I've been working as a swordsmith recently.and I was kind of wondering if you wanted a sword. I mean, you've been a great guy in all the time you've been here. and I figure, if you're going to be a hero, you'll need a weapon, right?"
Tyron knew Masa was just fishing for reasons here, but found himself actually touched by the sentiment. He turned around, and shot a small smile at the oldest brother. "I'd like that, Masa. you can start making it, if you want. But don't give it to me until I deserve it."
The younger man had said nothing to definitely end the conversation, but both of them knew it was over.
Another crack echoed through the air, this time morphing into deafeningly loud heartbeats. Tyron swung at the fiend, this horrible corruption, this Malboro, fighting for his life. He had gotten separated from Taradine and Amono, had forgotten his special charms, and now, he was going to die.
The putrid odor of the Malboro's toxic breath washed over the young swordsman, filling him with nausea and an urge to vomit. He managed to suppress that compulsion, dashing at the large fiend and slicing several of its eye-stalks off, hoping to blind it. However, the Malboro had many more. Its gaping maw spread wide, exhaling another dose of noxious air. This assault dropped Tyron to his knees, and his vision went dark. Through his mental haze, the young warrior saw a tentacle lashing towards him, picking him up and squeezing him tightly.
He saw the Malboro's mouth opening even wider, and realized he was being pulled into it, a delectable meal for the horrible fiend. As the fangs of the beast closed around him, one slicing deep into his neck, Tyron made a last stand. He took a desperate stab upwards, penetrating the roof of the monster's mouth. The creature bellowed in pain, flinging this gnat away. Unfortunately for Tyron, the razor-sharp fang was yanked out with him, and as he fell, sliced a deep gash all the way to the small of his back.
Fighting the pain and agony, Tyron lifted his blade up in the air, blood streaming from his back and from his nose. the blade shone white, and the young warrior shot past the gigantic fiend, unleashing a massive cut enhanced by powerful ki energy.
As the pyreflies wisped into the air around him, Tyron knew he was poisoned, and began a final fall to the ground.
He never made it. A pair of strong, warm hands caught him as he fell, and he passed into the dream world knowing, somehow, that he was safe.his heartbeat thudded in his ears, growing louder and louder, becoming a series of rhythmic bangs.
Tyron's silver eyes flashed open as another bang echoed through the air. That wasn't his heartbeat. he narrowed his eyes, plucking his katana from the ground in one smooth motion. It was a gunshot. The acrid odor of smoke washed across him, and he fought the urge to retch, so powerful was the recent memory of his encounter with the Malboro.
The warrior turned to see the distant yet unmistakable light of flames deep within his sanctuary. and strode to meet them.
Interlude (Part Five)
"Who in the name of Yevon are you, jackass?" growled the bulky man who had been planning on crushing the skull of the unconscious Al Bhed girl scant moments before, until Tyron had intervened. "You some sort of Al Bhed lover or something?" He shook his head, his flabby jowls shaking. "It's sick what some people will do to protect these. animals."
Tyron paid no mind to the ramblings of the hoodlum, his gaze focused on the gaunt swordsman who was standing calmly in the middle of the brush fire, ignoring the smoke and flames around him, meeting the warrior's stare. The other two-three, actually, but the girl had taken care of one already-posed no threat. this man was the real problem.
His view of the swordsman was obscured by the thug's bulk, determined to get a response. "Hey, stupid, I'm talking to you! You better get out of her before we decide to string her up with a rope made out of your flesh!"
The older warrior gave no indication that he had even heard the fat Yevonite, still staring straight ahead.
"Fine then," snorted the ruffian. "Hey, Luther!" he called to the swordsman. "Let's kick his ass!" With a sound not unlike that of an elephant stampede, the massive thug ran at the much smaller Tyron, obviously hoping to crush him.
All of a sudden, Tyron wasn't there anymore, and the hoodlum felt something wooden and hard clock him on the back of the neck with what felt like enough force to split stone. Clutching his head in pain, the thug stumbled and tripped into a burning bush, extinguishing the flame with his bulk. "What the.!!" he yelped, as the pain from the fire and the strike hit him simultaneously.
Tyron was crouched in a low stance, his sword-still sheathed-held in the exact position where it had made contact with the thug's skull. Standing up, he returned the weapon to its resting place at his hip, where the black scabbard blended in perfectly with the shadows surrounding him.
Two hands reached out of the darkness behind him, holding a rope that was obviously meant to be a garrote. Tyron jerked backwards, bringing his arm up and smashing the base of the hilt into the second thug's face, then placed his left foot in between the ruffian's legs and spun around. The expression on the thug's face as he felt his legs break with an earsplitting 'crack' was almost comical. Howling in pain, the second thug fell down beside his stunned compatriot.
"Very impressive." The swordsman named Luther hadn't budged, being content to watch Tyron teach his fellows a lesson. "You know how to handle yourself."
"As do you."
Luther motioned to Tyron's outfit, the black-and-white Crusaders' uniform. "I wonder. do you wear it like that to symbolize how you have perverted the holy values and teachings of Yevon by protecting these. these." Luther's face contorted wildly in the golden firelight. ".these BEASTS!"
Still as cool as ever, Tyron shrugged. "You've obviously defiled them more."
The rage on the gaunt Savior's face metamorphosed into pure, blind, hate at this newcomer who had dared to even imply that he, Luther Ansr, was not a devout and faithful Yevonite. But this stranger had crossed the line by suggesting that Luther, in his following of Yevon, had defiled the sacred teachings.
With a bellow of rage, Luther leapt at Tyron, his scimitar slicing over his head in a broad vertical stroke. At the same instant, the Crusader let his wooden sheath fall to the ground, whipping the katana up to parry the blow with a speed that defied description.
Naked steel met naked steel with a crash, and Luther's nostril's flared. The blades disengaged, and he feinted low before slashing at Tyron's midsection, only to have the strike blocked again.
The two swordsmen traded blows back and forth, ignoring the rapidly- spreading fire that threatened to consume them. Tyron dashed forward, arcing his katana through the air in a disemboweling strike that Luther ducked under, stabbing viciously up at Tyron's abdomen. In the same motion, the Crusader pivoted quickly to the side, blocking the deadly blade with the hilt of his sword. Continuing the turn, Tyron brought his fist down to smash into the Savior's face.
Luther staggered, but responded with a brutal kick to the thigh that brought Tyron down to one knee for a moment, before recovering just in time to parry another strike.
The kick that Luther had delivered had broken Tyron's momentum, and the swordsman pressed his advantage, driving the older man back. back to where the bulky man, his compatriot, was slowly climbing to his feet. Tyron kept retreating, easily parrying Luther's feints. but then stopped as he collided with the bulky Yevonite.
With a crow of victory, Luther stepped forward, the scimitar coming up in a diagonal cut that started low and to Luther's left and ended high and to the right. There was no way that the Crusader could possibly dodge this one, he knew.
But then his comrade screamed out loud and clutched the gash that had appeared on his belly, and Luther's blood froze in his veins. He felt his legs being kicked out from under him, and hit the ground on his knees at the same time as the bulky man fell to the forest floor.
Behind him, Tyron swung his razor-sharp katana around in a grand decapitating strike, and Luther welcomed oblivion, the chance to meet his Creator. but then, Tyron slightly adjusted the strike, and clocked the gaunt swordsman over the head with his hilt, instead. Luther fell to the ground, unconscious.
His foes dispatched, Tyron quickly hurried over to the young girl writhing on the ground, and knelt at her side, feeling her pulse. It was regular, but much too quick, and her face was drenched in cold sweat as she shuddered. A quick glance at the scarlet haloing the wound on her stomach told him all that he needed to know. She had been poisoned, and the only way she would survive would be to get her to the nearest temple for healing, and quickly.
Tyron tried to pick her up, but her febrile struggles complicated things a bit. "Hold still!" he commanded, but got no response.
Finally, it dawned on him. "Rumt cdemm!" he repeated the same command in the Al Bhed tongue, and this time, he got results. Although she was still shivering, hearing her native tongue must have reassured her some, and the girl stopped struggling violently.
Now that she was still, Tyron picked her up and gently slung her over his shoulder. As he turned to leave, he spared a glance around at the clearing, at the flames that threatened to overtake it, and whispered an incantation- one of the very few he knew how to perform. Drops of mist coalesced from thin air, and condensed into water, pouring down on the fires and extinguishing them, causing clouds of steam to billow into the night sky.
The girl over his shoulders, Tyron walked through the steam. He didn't know her name, or where she was from. but she needed his help. Taradine would be proud.
Embers from the dying fire glinted in Tyron Sul's silver eyes. The sun had long ago disappeared below the gently curving horizon, and the moon was about a quarter of the way through its nightly arc. He remained sitting on an old piece of driftwood that had washed up on the sandy shore, staring into the flames, completely still.
Tyron's gaze fixed on one particular piece of wood, leaning near the center. Flecks of orange lapped over it, and he could see the glowing warmth within, eating the wood away from within.
As Tyron watched, the firewood began to sag, to bend. and then, unable to hold out any longer, the branch cracked in two, and the fire collapsed further in on itself. As it did so, dozens of sparks wafted into the air, miniature stars in the darkness. He watched one float up, higher and higher, until it winked out in the night sky.
Sighing, the warrior stood up, getting off of the piece of driftwood and stretching muscles that protested after hours of stillness. Without further ado, he lay down on the sand, finding comfort in the way it adapted to the shape of his body. the fire, behind him, burned out.
That night, the dreams came to him again.
* * *
Chenna Venamekrd stifled a yelp as a rock she had been using as a handhold broke. She flattened herself against the cliff, clinging to it with all of her strength, and closed her eyes tightly. A fall onto the rocks below, even from only ten or so feet up, would probably cause serious injuries.
Her heart thudded in her ears as she looked up at the top of the bluff. Maybe they had missed her. maybe they wouldn't find her. A chorus of angry yells from above on the Mi'ihen Highroad, however, dashed her hopes. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Chenna fervently wished she could understand the Yevonites' language better.
Biting her lip, she looked down at the cliff below her, silver-white in the moonlight. Chenna saw what appeared to be a crack in the rock, and gingerly slipped her foot inside. It held her weight, and she resumed her climb. Trying not to think about either the jagged rocks below her or the angry mob above, she made her way to the base of the cliff.
The land bridge she had seen from up on top of the bluff hadn't been just a trick of the light, thankfully. Without pausing to think about it, Chenna sprinted out onto the rocks.
She immediately regretted the decision. Chenna had gone no more than ten steps when her booted foot caught on a protruding shard. Her knees hit the ground first, and agonies shot up her spine as a stone knife sliced through her wetsuit and into her shin, cutting a shallow, yet painful gash.
Tears streamed from the corners of her green-swirled eyes, and the Al Bhed girl fought the urge to scream out loud at the pain. Chenna scrambled to her feet, and nearly collapsed again after putting weight on her injured leg. She managed to stay upright, though, and limped onwards, being much more careful than before.
A stiff breeze blew, whipping her blonde hair across her face, spraying her with seawater. Although every step was agony, Chenna forced her legs to move onward. The shouts were louder now, and she turned. There were about ten or so flames up on the cliff, casting flickering golden light over the stone wall.
For a moment, the girl paused. They wouldn't dare follow her down the cliff, would they? Especially not carrying torches like that. she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the flames sink below the cliffline, out of sight. They were leaving.
Then her heart caught in her throat as the first torch appeared down on the beach, off to the side from where she had climbed down. The second one followed, and then a third. Chenna turned and staggered onward. There must have been another, safer path down. She had been stupid, stupid, stupid! And now they were going to catch her.
The rocks below her suddenly gave way to smooth, cool, sand, and she fell forward, landing with a soft puff. It was so cool. the throbbing agony in her shin seemed to ebb, to vanish. she could just go to sleep, and everything would be okay. Darkness crept into the corners of her vision. then the body of the little Al Bhed boy, mutilated and hanging from a tree, came into her minds eye, and Chenna pushed herself to her knees. If the mob caught her, they wouldn't show her any mercy.
A wave of fury washed over her, seething hatred. These Yevonites hated her. She had committed no crime other than being born Al Bhed, yet they would murder her. They had murdered her father during the Al Bhed Crisis, hadn't they? And her mother shortly afterwards. even though she had been one of them. Lina Swiftin had been the daughter of a priest, yet had found love with an Al Bhed man. Her own people had shunned her, and had murdered her. Nothing mattered to those bloodthirsty pycdyntc. the little boy they had killed before going after Chenna had only been about seven or so. She was only twelve herself, and they were going to kill her too.
If the mob caught Chenna, they wouldn't show her any mercy. She was determined not to show them any either. Chenna reached down to her side and pulled out the slugthrower hanging from her belt. Her brother had given her this. she hadn't wanted it, but Nulgo had insisted. "To kill those vermin," he had said.
No mercy. That's what Nulgo and Ryda had said. No mercy.
Six of the torches were now crossing the land bridge; the other four were remaining behind. Chenna knew they were coming to kill her. They wouldn't spare her life.
Chenna checked the machina weapon, made sure it was functioning, then pulled the firing lever back. It locked into place with a snap, and the slugthrower seemed to jump in her hands.
There was no one on this island, she knew. No one to help her-and even if there were, why would they help an Al Bhed? She was alone.
No mercy. Chenna turned and limped into the thick forest in the middle of the island. She sat down on a rock behind a tree, and watched the onward march of the flames, and waited.
* * *
Griff Moano held his torch high, illuminating the rocky land bridge on which he was walking. A predatorial grin made its way onto his unshaven, sunburned face as he clearly saw drops of blood on the stone, traveling onto the sand in front of him, and into the forest. "I suppose we should thank the little bitch, huh?" he growled, tightening his grip on the crude stone club he was carrying. "She left us a little trail for us to follow. Damn considerate for one of those Yevon-forsaken heathens." Snickering, Griff looked around at his compatriots to gauge their reactions to his joke.
Most of them chuckled, with the exception of Luther. Luther Ansr was a skinny, sunken-cheeked man with jaundiced skin and an overhanging brow. He was known for being not only one of the most pious men in all of Spira, but he was reckoned as one of the fastest warriors as well (at least in this area, of course). Luther had no torch like the rest of them, but instead wielded a deadly-looking scimitar, which glistened with more than sea- spray. The poisoned blade of Luther Ansr was said to be the terror that crept up on those savages, those heathens, while they slept. The only thing that mattered to Luther was cleaning Spira of those who defiled it, those who used the forbidden machina. While Griff and his buddies saw this as fun- both having a good time and ridding Mi'ihen of some vermin-Luther believed it to be a sacred crusade. It was widely known that he had been a member of the Saviors, a secret organization during the Al Bhed Crisis. and rumors about the Saviors ranged from the obscene to the merely terrible.
The look of pure venom on Luther's cragged, sallow features would have sent shivers down a normal man's spine, but Moano was no craven Al Bhed. he was a brave, hardy, faithful Yevonite. "C'mon, guys, let's get that little bitch!" cried Dayrid, one of Griff's many drinking partners, smashing the butt of the stone spike he carried against the rocks. None of them noticed the small splashing sound it made as the waters slowly rose with the tide.
Laughing, Griff swaggered off the land bridge, following the trail of dried blood. "Hey, you stupid little bitch!" he called out. "You can't hide from us forever! We're gonna find you, and you know what we're gonna do then?" Griff looked back at his buddies and guffawed before turning back. "We're gonna tie you-"
He didn't get to finish the threat. A sharp crack echoed through the air, accompanying a flash of light from inside the forest, and blood splashed into the air. Griff screamed as he fell backwards, clutching his shoulder while moaning in agony.
"She's using a machina weapon." whispered Dayrid, running over to his fallen friend and trying to help stop the bloodflow. "The little." He ducked reflexively as another shot rang out, kicking up a puff of sand a few feet to the left of him.
In the starlight, Dayrid could see Luther steadily walking forward, the other three Yevonites following, clearly torn between fear and rage. "Stay here." whispered the ex-Savior, in a voice that brought to mind nothing so much as the sharpening of an executioner's axe. "Make sure the animal doesn't escape. She dies here."
* * *
Chenna whimpered silently, trying to reload the slugthrower with violently trembling hands. She had shot someone. She had actually shot a man. Oh, sure, Chenna had practiced with the slugthrower countless times. but she had never actually shot someone.
She had been aiming for the face, but her trembling arms had thrown her aim off. And now the man with the wicked-looking sword was coming for her. the young Al Bhed girl clicked the firing lever back and pulled the trigger. The slugthrower's handcarved barrel jerked back, the recoil nearly knocking her down. The slug splashed into the water besides the land bridge-she was way off.
Now, the bad man was a mere twenty feet away. Chenna gave in to her natural instinct, and ran. Vines and branches lashed at her face, at her body, at her injured leg, all trying to drag her down, but the girl kept on running, kept pushing herself farther. Her nerve, her conviction to show them no quarter had been dashed, and was now replaced with pure survival instinct.
Finally, a low-lying root on the path caught her ankle, and she tripped violently, feeling something snap in the bone. It didn't hurt like the way a broken bone should hurt, she thought, but her foot refused to support weight, and Chenna crawled into the thick underbrush, shaking violently and trying not to vomit.
'Get a hold of yourself, Chenna!' she scolded herself, trying to get a grip on reality. Chenna took several deep breaths, attempting to recollect her wits, and then crouched behind a tree and beneath a bush, hoping she was well-concealed. She popped the side of the slugthrower open, and drained her six remaining bullets into the magazine. If she were to survive, she couldn't spend time reloading.
No sooner had she clicked the firing lever into place than the flickering hellfire of a parade of torches began to cast dancing shadows over the surrounding forest. Slowly, inexorably, the three Yevonite torches came toward her. Chenna held her breath as the first torch-bearer passed her, a wooden club in his hands. The second Yevonite was carrying a spool of rope- the Al Bhed shivered in a mix of terror and fury, remembering the little boy hanging from the tree. The final torch-bearer was carrying a large carpenter's hammer, and he was looking around for their prey. None of them thought to look down, and so none of them noticed Chenna.
The girl exhaled in relief, before remembering the fourth man, the wicked- looking one. Her worst fears were confirmed a moment later as the curved blade sliced through the tree above her head, and the man looked down at her. "Well, well, well." he hissed. "Looks like the little vermin got into the woodwork."
Chenna sprang backwards as the scimitar slashed into the ground where she had been. She scuttled away from the swordsman, trying desperately to put some distance between her and the madman, when she found herself hitting a meaty wall. "Hey, Luther!" the Yevonite called out, grabbing her around the neck with his arm in a chokehold. "I got her!"
The swordsman who was called Luther slowly strode forward, the torchlight glinting from eyes like the fires of a demon. Her cries muffled from the suffocating pressure of the Yevonite's arm against her throat and mouth, Chenna struggled wildly, terror in her eyes. Luther was only a step or so away when the little Al Bhed managed to open her mouth wide enough to bite down on the meat of her captor's arm, tearing into it with the sort of strength that can only be brought on by an adrenaline rush.
Her captor yowled in pain, and Chenna stomped down hard on his foot, loosening his grip. In the same motion, she pivoted on her hips, driving her elbow hard into the Yevonite's groin area. He let go, howling, as the girl tore a chunk of his arm away, tasting the metallic flavor of blood in her mouth. "Sintanan!" she cried, spitting his flesh from her mouth.
The pain in her legs being ignored for the time being, Chenna leapt to the side and pulled the trigger, hitting the already-wounded Yevonite square in the thigh. He collapsed in a quivering heap of pain.
She had no time to either revel in her escape or feel pity for the wounded man, however. Luther kept on stalking closer, in his silent, unstoppable manner. "That wasn't very nice, little rodent." he smiled a shark's smile. "I think it's time to teach you a lesson."
In the blink of an eye, Luther was several strides closer to her, and his blade arced out in a nearly invisible motion. For a moment, Chenna thought he had missed, but then a thin red line appeared across her belly, and an incredible fiery sensation in her abdomen dropped her to her knees. The thin, shallow, slice he had delivered shouldn't be hurting this much. Chenna screamed in agony, trying to scramble away while clutching her burning stomach.
Chenna's vision began to blur, and she waved the slugthrower around wildly in her delirium, brandishing it to ward off whoever was around her. a spark of flame from a torch caught her eye, and she opened fire. There was no scream of pain-she must have missed the man carrying the torch-but the flame spun into the air and landed on the ground, igniting a thick patch of underbrush. The fire began to spread, hazy smoke filling the air.
Whatever vile poison it was that was afflicting her, the world swam, and the young Al Bhed girl collapsed on her back. A distant shadow loomed over her, a large, bulky shadow wielding a heavy-looking hammer. and Chenna knew, with the clarity of death, that she was going to die. Chenna screamed, kept screaming, started twitching. the hammer began its descent to crash down on her forehead.
Without warning, the carpentry tool was knocked from the man's hands, and whirled away. Before succumbing to the haze, Chenna saw a man who seemed to be made of shadows, the light from the fire sparking in his silver eyes.
* * *
"I won't let you do it!" Tyron shouted, angry tears filling his eyes. "Tara. you can't go become a summoner, you can't!" he yelled, glaring accusingly at the young woman who looked at him with an expression that was partly guilty and partly heartbroken. Taradine seemed to be leaning on her staff for support; the argument had been going on for hours, and it had emotionally drained her.
Amono stepped between his best friend and his sister, trying to calm the younger boy down. "Tyron, listen to me." his voice was calm, yet insistent. "Taradine's made her choice. who are you to begrudge her that? She has the same right to choose her path that you do. She will be a summoner. and I'm going to be her guardian." The young man put a comforting hand on his closest friend's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tyron. but this is how it's going to be."
Defeated, the long-haired boy sunk to his knees, fighting the flood of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. "If you're going to do that." he whispered. "Then I'm coming with you."
The summoner-to-be looked down at him, crouching to his level, staring at him with those soulful eyes that read him all at once, like a book with only one page. "Excuse me, Tyron?" Taradine said. "I thought I heard you say you." their eyes met, and she shook her head, biting her lip worriedly. "No, Tyron. you can't do it. Amono and I have accepted that our fate will take us on a dangerous path. we don't want to drag you down with us."
"I said I'm coming with you!" tears were streaming down Tyron's cheeks now. "I won't let you leave me!" His voice broke as he clutched the sand of this haven, of this place he knew as a home. "I won't let you. I'm going to be your guardian."
There was a loud crack, a bang. The storm outside was raging. Tyron was sixteen now, and had been training to be a guardian, despite the misgivings of Taradine and Amono. they were going to leave tomorrow. Taradine had spent all the day in the Djose temple, praying to the fayth to grant her leave to become a summoner. She had succeeded.
Tyron had lived as a member of Amono's family for half his life now. tomorrow, he would leave it forever. It frightened him.
Outside, another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. An accompanying sharp crack echoed a moment later. The tempest outside raged, mirroring the storm within the young man. He idly stroked the end of his long, braided hair-a habit he had unconsciously picked up from Taradine-as sheets of water poured down the window.
"This seat taken?" Tyron turned to see the oldest brother in the family, Masa. He didn't socialize much, being completely taken with being a swordsmith. With all the studying he had put into it, Tyron was sure he would one day be the greatest weapon-maker in all of Spira. The younger man motioned silently to the empty stool beside him, turning his gaze to the window once more.
Masa ran his hand through his neatly cut brown hair. "Well. you're going to be leaving tomorrow, huh?" Tyron nodded wordlessly. "I suppose. well, I know you're going to make it back alive. You've got too much talent to die at the hands of some ugly fiend." In some weird way, Tyron hoped he would die out on the fields. give his life making a difference in the world. He shrugged.
Clearly, Masa was feeling very awkward at Tyron's silence, and so he tried to get to the point. "Look. Tyron, you know I've been working as a swordsmith recently.and I was kind of wondering if you wanted a sword. I mean, you've been a great guy in all the time you've been here. and I figure, if you're going to be a hero, you'll need a weapon, right?"
Tyron knew Masa was just fishing for reasons here, but found himself actually touched by the sentiment. He turned around, and shot a small smile at the oldest brother. "I'd like that, Masa. you can start making it, if you want. But don't give it to me until I deserve it."
The younger man had said nothing to definitely end the conversation, but both of them knew it was over.
Another crack echoed through the air, this time morphing into deafeningly loud heartbeats. Tyron swung at the fiend, this horrible corruption, this Malboro, fighting for his life. He had gotten separated from Taradine and Amono, had forgotten his special charms, and now, he was going to die.
The putrid odor of the Malboro's toxic breath washed over the young swordsman, filling him with nausea and an urge to vomit. He managed to suppress that compulsion, dashing at the large fiend and slicing several of its eye-stalks off, hoping to blind it. However, the Malboro had many more. Its gaping maw spread wide, exhaling another dose of noxious air. This assault dropped Tyron to his knees, and his vision went dark. Through his mental haze, the young warrior saw a tentacle lashing towards him, picking him up and squeezing him tightly.
He saw the Malboro's mouth opening even wider, and realized he was being pulled into it, a delectable meal for the horrible fiend. As the fangs of the beast closed around him, one slicing deep into his neck, Tyron made a last stand. He took a desperate stab upwards, penetrating the roof of the monster's mouth. The creature bellowed in pain, flinging this gnat away. Unfortunately for Tyron, the razor-sharp fang was yanked out with him, and as he fell, sliced a deep gash all the way to the small of his back.
Fighting the pain and agony, Tyron lifted his blade up in the air, blood streaming from his back and from his nose. the blade shone white, and the young warrior shot past the gigantic fiend, unleashing a massive cut enhanced by powerful ki energy.
As the pyreflies wisped into the air around him, Tyron knew he was poisoned, and began a final fall to the ground.
He never made it. A pair of strong, warm hands caught him as he fell, and he passed into the dream world knowing, somehow, that he was safe.his heartbeat thudded in his ears, growing louder and louder, becoming a series of rhythmic bangs.
Tyron's silver eyes flashed open as another bang echoed through the air. That wasn't his heartbeat. he narrowed his eyes, plucking his katana from the ground in one smooth motion. It was a gunshot. The acrid odor of smoke washed across him, and he fought the urge to retch, so powerful was the recent memory of his encounter with the Malboro.
The warrior turned to see the distant yet unmistakable light of flames deep within his sanctuary. and strode to meet them.
Interlude (Part Five)
"Who in the name of Yevon are you, jackass?" growled the bulky man who had been planning on crushing the skull of the unconscious Al Bhed girl scant moments before, until Tyron had intervened. "You some sort of Al Bhed lover or something?" He shook his head, his flabby jowls shaking. "It's sick what some people will do to protect these. animals."
Tyron paid no mind to the ramblings of the hoodlum, his gaze focused on the gaunt swordsman who was standing calmly in the middle of the brush fire, ignoring the smoke and flames around him, meeting the warrior's stare. The other two-three, actually, but the girl had taken care of one already-posed no threat. this man was the real problem.
His view of the swordsman was obscured by the thug's bulk, determined to get a response. "Hey, stupid, I'm talking to you! You better get out of her before we decide to string her up with a rope made out of your flesh!"
The older warrior gave no indication that he had even heard the fat Yevonite, still staring straight ahead.
"Fine then," snorted the ruffian. "Hey, Luther!" he called to the swordsman. "Let's kick his ass!" With a sound not unlike that of an elephant stampede, the massive thug ran at the much smaller Tyron, obviously hoping to crush him.
All of a sudden, Tyron wasn't there anymore, and the hoodlum felt something wooden and hard clock him on the back of the neck with what felt like enough force to split stone. Clutching his head in pain, the thug stumbled and tripped into a burning bush, extinguishing the flame with his bulk. "What the.!!" he yelped, as the pain from the fire and the strike hit him simultaneously.
Tyron was crouched in a low stance, his sword-still sheathed-held in the exact position where it had made contact with the thug's skull. Standing up, he returned the weapon to its resting place at his hip, where the black scabbard blended in perfectly with the shadows surrounding him.
Two hands reached out of the darkness behind him, holding a rope that was obviously meant to be a garrote. Tyron jerked backwards, bringing his arm up and smashing the base of the hilt into the second thug's face, then placed his left foot in between the ruffian's legs and spun around. The expression on the thug's face as he felt his legs break with an earsplitting 'crack' was almost comical. Howling in pain, the second thug fell down beside his stunned compatriot.
"Very impressive." The swordsman named Luther hadn't budged, being content to watch Tyron teach his fellows a lesson. "You know how to handle yourself."
"As do you."
Luther motioned to Tyron's outfit, the black-and-white Crusaders' uniform. "I wonder. do you wear it like that to symbolize how you have perverted the holy values and teachings of Yevon by protecting these. these." Luther's face contorted wildly in the golden firelight. ".these BEASTS!"
Still as cool as ever, Tyron shrugged. "You've obviously defiled them more."
The rage on the gaunt Savior's face metamorphosed into pure, blind, hate at this newcomer who had dared to even imply that he, Luther Ansr, was not a devout and faithful Yevonite. But this stranger had crossed the line by suggesting that Luther, in his following of Yevon, had defiled the sacred teachings.
With a bellow of rage, Luther leapt at Tyron, his scimitar slicing over his head in a broad vertical stroke. At the same instant, the Crusader let his wooden sheath fall to the ground, whipping the katana up to parry the blow with a speed that defied description.
Naked steel met naked steel with a crash, and Luther's nostril's flared. The blades disengaged, and he feinted low before slashing at Tyron's midsection, only to have the strike blocked again.
The two swordsmen traded blows back and forth, ignoring the rapidly- spreading fire that threatened to consume them. Tyron dashed forward, arcing his katana through the air in a disemboweling strike that Luther ducked under, stabbing viciously up at Tyron's abdomen. In the same motion, the Crusader pivoted quickly to the side, blocking the deadly blade with the hilt of his sword. Continuing the turn, Tyron brought his fist down to smash into the Savior's face.
Luther staggered, but responded with a brutal kick to the thigh that brought Tyron down to one knee for a moment, before recovering just in time to parry another strike.
The kick that Luther had delivered had broken Tyron's momentum, and the swordsman pressed his advantage, driving the older man back. back to where the bulky man, his compatriot, was slowly climbing to his feet. Tyron kept retreating, easily parrying Luther's feints. but then stopped as he collided with the bulky Yevonite.
With a crow of victory, Luther stepped forward, the scimitar coming up in a diagonal cut that started low and to Luther's left and ended high and to the right. There was no way that the Crusader could possibly dodge this one, he knew.
But then his comrade screamed out loud and clutched the gash that had appeared on his belly, and Luther's blood froze in his veins. He felt his legs being kicked out from under him, and hit the ground on his knees at the same time as the bulky man fell to the forest floor.
Behind him, Tyron swung his razor-sharp katana around in a grand decapitating strike, and Luther welcomed oblivion, the chance to meet his Creator. but then, Tyron slightly adjusted the strike, and clocked the gaunt swordsman over the head with his hilt, instead. Luther fell to the ground, unconscious.
His foes dispatched, Tyron quickly hurried over to the young girl writhing on the ground, and knelt at her side, feeling her pulse. It was regular, but much too quick, and her face was drenched in cold sweat as she shuddered. A quick glance at the scarlet haloing the wound on her stomach told him all that he needed to know. She had been poisoned, and the only way she would survive would be to get her to the nearest temple for healing, and quickly.
Tyron tried to pick her up, but her febrile struggles complicated things a bit. "Hold still!" he commanded, but got no response.
Finally, it dawned on him. "Rumt cdemm!" he repeated the same command in the Al Bhed tongue, and this time, he got results. Although she was still shivering, hearing her native tongue must have reassured her some, and the girl stopped struggling violently.
Now that she was still, Tyron picked her up and gently slung her over his shoulder. As he turned to leave, he spared a glance around at the clearing, at the flames that threatened to overtake it, and whispered an incantation- one of the very few he knew how to perform. Drops of mist coalesced from thin air, and condensed into water, pouring down on the fires and extinguishing them, causing clouds of steam to billow into the night sky.
The girl over his shoulders, Tyron walked through the steam. He didn't know her name, or where she was from. but she needed his help. Taradine would be proud.
