CHAPTER EIGHT
I. JUDGE
Morgan stood in the middle of the ship's prow, just forward of the bridge. Or, what was once the bridge. Now it was more like a mess of strewn wires and broken controls.
He stood there with his sword, the Pearlsbane, balanced on his shoulder. He hadn't expected any need for the weapon, but he made a habit of keeping it handy regardless. He was glad of that now.
The sword was a large, heavy scimitar. He could feel the heat radiating from the carbon-black blade and the pleasing texture of the skin-bound grip, even through the leather glove on his right hand. From the hilt a number of decorative raven feathers dangled - one for every warrior he had killed with the weapon.
In his left hand he gripped the Imperial General's sword, still in its scabbard.
They were coming. All three of them. But he was ready.
He was taken by surprise a few minutes prior, which was something to which he was rapidly becoming unaccustomed.
I haven't been surprised like this since before I had the medallion.
It wasn't the medallion's fault all this happened, though. He had gotten too excited in playing with his prisoner, and as a result he wasn't giving it the attention it deserved.
He wasn't totally deaf to it, though. When the medallion told him that the prisoner's rescuers were approaching, he immediately left her, even though he was just beginning to have fun. The timing was unfortunate, as he was not finished with her yet, and would more than likely have to kill her now. That was a shame.
Still, he left his prisoner and got to the bridge just in time to engage his attackers in their airship. He did them some serious damage, but couldn't prevent their boarding his ship. He destroyed theirs and they disabled his, so he couldn't say for sure who held victory.
Without the main engine, the only thing his airship could do was descend. Still, he didn't want his multiple foes to split up, two detaining him in battle while one landed the ship. He wanted to kill them while in the air. After they were dead, he could spend all the time he needed piecing together the necessary controls and landing the ship safely, afterward finding his way to Zozo by land.
This plan, which he formulated the moment he sensed that Locke and Edgar had landed on the canopy, was still a good one. He had hoped that the two men would confront him directly rather than going for Celes. Unfortunately, she managed to escape and kill both his guards. That surprised him too, as he thought his guards were stronger than that. Not nearly as strong as he, but surely one of them should have defeated a beaten, nearly naked woman.
It didn't matter, though. Nothing did. His fun was ended prematurely, and he must now fight. He lost his airship and his toy, but there are plenty more airships and toys in this world.
I've enjoyed Celes more than most. These people who fought Kefka are an enticing bunch. Weren't there other females? The esper girl is dead, if I recall. There was another, though. A painter. Young thing. If she's anywhere near as feisty, I think I shall capture her at the first opportunity.
Morgan looked down at the medallion and concentrated.
I see Celes Cole. More blood on her hands already. I sense her rage toward me, but I see no fear. I suppose I did a much better job on her when I was peering into her mind. Resorting to physical abuse didn't bother her at all. A pity. Hurting her was pleasing.
I see Edgar Figaro. He carries a very powerful weapon. I see both anger and sorrow in him. He lost his airship, and that frustrates him. He fears his friend's anger. There is much guilt and suffering. What an absolute weakling.
I see Locke Cole. His soul seethes with hatred. That's all there is in that dense skull of his. He seems bothered by his wife's transgression. He hates me with a passion, of course. And I'll be damned if that isn't blinding, white-hot rage for his old pal Edgar. I think he wants to kill him.
Breaking off his meditative state, Morgan stood smiling.
That may prove useful.
II. JURY
Locke still harbored some anger toward Celes, but not much. He found her much easier to forgive. He loved her; he meant what he said.
And when Celes turned her back to him as they began to look around the ship, his heart broke.
He first noticed her hair, seeing it was totally devoid of ribbons, barrettes, or other accessories. He had never seen her without them - she never even bathed without something in her hair. Then he realized how disheveled her golden tresses had become, how they were soiled with dirt and grime and dried blood. He finally realized the unevenness and understood a considerable amount of her hair had been torn out.
Beneath her messy, scattered hair he could not see much of her back. Still, he could tell that her robe was marked almost completely with splotches of blood from shoulder to shoulder and from neck to waist.
And there was the matter of the robe itself. It was old, dusty, and torn in places. He knew she owned no such article of clothing. Why was she wearing it? Why didn't she have any shoes?
He couldn't bear to ask her what Morgan had done to her. There was no way he could stand hearing it.
"How many people are on this ship?" Edgar asked.
Celes shook her head curtly. "I don't know. I saw Morgan with two men earlier. I've killed both of them."
Edgar mused. "Well, we better stay alert. I think our best bet is to take control of the ship and land it before Morgan can fight us. If we can avoid a fight with him, then we'll get our friends together, prepare for battle, and track down Morgan later, when the odds are in our favor."
"I disagree," said Celes. "We need to fight him immediately."
Locke placed a hand on Celes's shoulder. "Honey, I know how you feel. But you're hurt, and I can't take care of you and fight at the same time. I certainly can't let Edgar fight Morgan all by himself."
Celes stepped back and pointed her sword directly at Locke's throat. The point of the blade was still a few feet away from him, but her threat was clear.
"Listen, honey," she enunciated icily, "you have no idea how I feel. Perhaps you're not keeping up with things, but I've just spent the past day playing 'prisoner of war' to the most sadomasochistic fuck this side of the Serpent Trench. I'm going to fight Morgan, and if I feel like it, you two can assist me. But you are one sorely mistaken little man if you think I'm going to leave this airship while Morgan is alive."
Locke backed away. "Er, um . . ." He cleared his throat. "Celes, I'm sorry. You're in charge."
"Edgar?" she barked.
"Yes ma'am," he chirped. "Whatever you say, ma'am."
Instantly her hostile demeanor disappeared. She lowered her weapon to a less offensive position and turned to the bow of the ship, leading the two men to where she believed fate lay.
III. EXECUTIONER
They had just passed the bridge when they saw him.
"Gentlemen," Morgan greeted. "And lady. I see you've all given me some trouble today."
"Morgan!" Locke shouted.
The man smiled back, grinning broad with teeth white and terrible.
"You've crossed me for the last time, thief."
"I should say the same to you, demon!" spat Locke.
"You will pay for what you've done," added Edgar.
Men and their taunts. Always posturing, always with taunts and belches and shouts and slamming their beer bellies together in triumph. Leave it to a woman to get done what needs to be done, thought Celes.
"Just shut up and fight," she shouted.
Morgan nodded. "She gets to the point. But be warned - you will not survive this encounter."
Celes didn't even wait for Morgan to finish speaking - already she was upon him. When she was within six feet of her enemy, he swung the Runic Blade lengthwise, causing the scabbard to fly loose toward her legs, intending to trip her. She jumped over it, then swung repeatedly at him in a flurry of controlled rage. He blocked each strike with the Runic Blade. After a few seconds he swung with his Pearlsbane, striking Celes in the left shoulder.
She grunted, immediately jumping back. The cut wasn't deep, but already she could feel the blood coursing down her chest and back underneath her robe. She felt certain her shoulder was broken.
Morgan didn't advance, clearly content in watching her suffer. Locke and Edgar stood behind her, shouting her name. She paid no attention, instead putting down her sword and reaching for one of the potions in the pocket of her robe. She pulled the top loose with her teeth and immediately poured the liquid on her wound. She grimaced at the burning sensation, but within seconds felt a good deal of strength in her arm again.
Locke stepped past Celes, the Infinity Edge in his hand. He paused as he passed her, stretching out an arm to reassuringly grip her uninjured shoulder, or even run fingers through her hair. But he hesitated and drew back without touching her, realizing that at this time, comfort would be only an insult to her pride. He walked past her toward their enemy.
Morgan raised an eyebrow as he noticed the weapon Locke held.
"Ah, I see you have my gift. So good of you to return it to me."
Locke shook his head, then tossed the weapon overboard. Edgar and Morgan stared in shock.
"Your lust for that weapon has tainted it with evil. I feel corrupted even holding it. And I don't need it to defeat you," Locke sneered. He pulled a dirk from his belt and crouched low. "This is how a treasure hunter fights."
Morgan chuckled lightly, though the rage at seeing Locke throw away his prized possession was still evident in the lines of his face. "And here I was expecting a challenge." He threw the Runic Blade over his shoulder. Celes's eyes followed the blade as it flew through the air, seeing the weapon stick in the deck behind Morgan.
Locke rushed him, swinging his blade again and again but never getting past Morgan's defense. When he lunged forward too far, Morgan dodged right, caught Locke's arm, and brought the hilt of the Pearlsbane to his face.
Locke stumbled, blood streaming from his nose, and fell on his back. Morgan advanced, turning his sword for the death blow.
Already, Celes had sprinted past the two combatants and reacquired her sword. She shivered with anticipation as her fingers traced the grip, then tightened around it. Soundlessly, she pulled the point from the deck and balanced the weapon in both hands. She spread her legs into a crouching stance, the sword before her in the battle posture she had used so many times before - both terribly comfortable and ruthless. The blade thirsted blood. So did she.
There is nothing - not a sunrise, not a flower, not a rainbow - nothing more beautiful than the moment before the attack.
Celes waited as Morgan held his dark sword above her husband, waited until the second before the thrust, when Morgan would be his least balanced.
She rushed him, sword pulled back for a terrific slice.
Morgan thrust downward, but instead of running through the prostrate treasure hunter before him, he turned his sword to his right with eyes wide, just barely blocking Celes's attack. Morgan spun around and caught her blade at the edge of his hand guard.
Morgan smiled, an expression that would curdle milk. Celes responded in kind.
Morgan advanced, swinging heavy blows that drove Celes backward as she blocked. With every block she held, bone-jarring shock drove through her arms, her chest, and her legs. Each strike she checked rewarded her with pain, but she grunted and grit her teeth and kept her defense strong and swift. She allowed him to push her toward the bow, giving Locke some space to retreat and nurse his wound.
Edgar had watched both his friends struck down with muted horror. Morgan hadn't killed either of them, but he could tell from watching the man fight that their multi-fronted attack would not work as easily as he expected. Morgan's skill clearly advertised the fact that he was not fighting seriously - there was within him a fountain of strength and speed that was untapped as of yet. Edgar couldn't help but feel that their only chance was to strike quickly and without warning.
Edgar sheathed his sword and took his Autocrossbow from its holster. Discreetly, he cocked the bow and aimed it at his target.
Celes lunged, but Morgan sidestepped far quicker than she could ever have expected. She found herself flying headlong, her sword before her, wincing with expectation of Morgan's blade cleaving her spine.
Such was not the case, however. Morgan buried his left hand in her hair, pulling her toward his chest. Her head snapped back, and though she could not pull away she held tight to her sword. He immediately trapped her in a headlock, squeezing so tight she could feel the tendons in her neck pop.
"Cutting you open would be far too quick," Morgan whispered. "Sorry I don't have the time to strangle you properly - this will have to do."
Edgar began to panic as he saw Celes's face turn red. Her mouth opened wide and the tip of her tongue protruded, resting on her lower lip, as she frantically tried to pull air down her compressed throat. Morgan was speaking to her, but he could not hear the words.
He didn't even think as he brought the Autocrossbow to his shoulder and fired a bolt directly at Morgan. Only after pulling the trigger did it register in his mind how quickly Morgan turned, putting Celes directly in the path of the projectile.
Celes was also very, very fast. As she felt herself pulled upward and to Morgan's chest, no doubt serving as a human shield, she saw Edgar fire. With blinding speed, she swung her sword before her, feeling the blade contact the crossbow bolt, but only barely.
Morgan was surprised enough to allow his grip to loosen, and Celes took the opportunity to sink her teeth into his forearm.
Morgan shouted and released her, taking a step backward but making no effort to nurse his arm, which was marked by two hemispherical bleeding wounds.
Celes turned to him, again positioned in battle stance. She turned her head and spat blood. His blood. She coughed, and her breathing was haggard. She sucked in air though her mouth, which was stained dark crimson. Her teeth were red-orange and clenched in fury.
Behind her, Edgar stood with his weapon still aimed at the two combatants. Whether he remained in that way due to shock or shame was debatable. Locke stepped toward him and firmly placed his hand on top of the sight, pointing the barrel to the ground.
"I think you've done enough," he seethed.
Celes growled, then leapt toward Morgan, swinging once, twice. Morgan held his sword with both hands now, and his entire arm dripped with blood, flinging droplets as he blocked Celes's attacks.
It only took a few seconds before Celes's injured throat could no longer keep up the demand for air that her fight required. Gasping for breath, she began to step backward.
Screaming words of rage in a language no one else present understood, Morgan set forth a massive blow that Celes lacked the strength to block. The tip of the Pearlsbane danced across her neck, slicing her throat.
Celes's eyes widened in horror as she clapped her left hand to her throat, feeling warm lifeblood stream through her fingers, down her neck, and into her robe. She stumbled backward, then fell to her knees.
Both Locke and Edgar screamed: Locke uttering a cry of dread, Edgar roaring in rage. Both ran to where Morgan taunted the dying woman they loved.
Locke fell to one knee beside Celes, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back into him, but still kept her eyes fixed to Morgan, and her sword remained ready in her right hand.
Edgar had already thrown his Autocrossbow aside and drew his sword as he ran to Morgan. He brought the sword above his head, making no effort to block as Morgan thrust his sword toward Edgar's chest.
The Pearlsbane, aided by Edgar's momentum, tore through his chestplate just right of midline, burying itself almost entirely in his torso.
With his last bit of his strength, Edgar brought the Illumina down on Morgan's skull, striking him just above his left ear and cutting deep.
Edgar lost hold of his sword, and it came loose from Morgan's horrific wound, falling to the increasingly bloody deck.
Morgan fell backward, but retained enough malice somewhere in his brain to ensure he did not die alone. As he fell backward over the bow railing, both hands shot out to Edgar's collar. Edgar, whose injury left him barely conscious, offered no resistance as both he and Morgan fell off into space.
IV. THE LAST TEMPTATION
Locke didn't see - his attentions were so heavily focused on Celes he saw no one but her - but he heard the struggle, and he was aware that it had stopped.
Celes had her left hand over her neck. Blood flowed between her fingers, and Locke very carefully placed his hand upon her. He placed his arm around her back, supporting her. She turned toward him.
Her eyes were clear, and her face had yet to turn ashen.
She should be dying. Am I imagining this?
"It's not that bad," she whispered hoarsely. "It's just a scratch."
Locke found himself holding his breath as he carefully grabbed Celes's wrist and moved it away from her injury. He could see a deep cut about a half-inch long across her throat, as well as the ugly dark blue bruise forming around it. Locke tore the glove off his right had and touched the injury with his fingers, wiping the blood away for just an instant. He could see the skin hadn't been torn through completely, and though he could hear her hoarse breath in her heavily bruised throat, he did not detect the sickening gurgle of blood filling her lungs.
She's going to be okay, thought Locke. No, not okay. I can look in her face and tell she's been hurt in ways she was never hurt before. But she isn't going to die. Not today.
Locke grabbed her, wrapping his hands around her back and squeezing her close.
"I thought I lost you," he cried.
She released her sword and placed her hand reassuringly on his back while reaching into the robe with her free hand. She took out another potion and drank it as Locke loosened his grip and watched her. The cut stopped bleeding almost instantly. The injury was still severe, and Locke imagined that there would probably be a scar there when it had healed fully.
Celes found herself staring at Locke, the empty bottle of Potion still in her hand.
He looks like a spooked deer. I'm not sure I can blame him. I can't imagine how I would feel in his shoes. He worries about me too much, I think.
She scooted her legs underneath her until she was in a kneeling position, then tried to stand. She couldn't.
I'm in worse shape than I thought. She picked up her sword again; found it heavy in her hands. I can't stand, but I can still fight. Maybe ten percent combat effective, I think?
Commandant Harrington was big on combat effectiveness. She kept up this idea that you could ascribe a number to how battle-ready you were. I never liked the idea. I mean, it's too abstract to put a number to.
Funny how my lectures come back to me at a time like this.
Where is Edgar?
What happened to Morgan?
She dug the tip of the sword into the deck, using the hilt as a handle to pull her to her feet.
Now Celes, a good Imperial soldier uses her sword properly. It's a weapon, not a cane for a cripple.
"Twenty . . . percent," she hissed as she straightened out her wobbly legs.
Locke arched his eyebrows, a silent "What the hell?"
The sword broke free from the deck, and Celes fell into Locke's arms.
"Let me go," she hissed. "Find Edgar. And find Morgan!"
Nervously, regretfully, he set her down into a sitting position and stepped away from her.
I didn't even think - where did they go? thought Locke.
Clearly, there was only one place they could have gone. Edgar's bloody sword was right there on the deck, next to the railing.
He stood at the edge of the deck and leaned over, shocked at what he found.
He hadn't expected to see anything at all, for he had already believed Edgar and Morgan had gone overboard, and if that were true, there would be no evidence of their plummet. The two would fall, struggling as they went, trapped in the most futile fight, the winner of which would strike the ocean below an instant after the loser. That would be all: an insignificant splash in the sea, seen by no one. No body would ever wash ashore, no proof of life or death would ever surface. Both friend and enemy would simply have been cast into the great ambiguity of near-certain death, and though there was no chance either could have survived, there would always be the hope or fear that one or the other had made it. Such was the moment, fleeting though it was, that Locke considered Edgar his friend again. What Locke didn't know, what Morgan probably didn't know, and what Edgar couldn't have known, was that at this particular part of the airship there was a mooring post just below deck level, and at this post about a half-dozen rough hewn ropes appeared permanently fused in knots too tight and too old to ever be loosened, their ends hanging anywhere from two to ten feet below the airship deck. An arm's length below the spot where Locke stood, Edgar dangled, holding a rope with his left hand. The tip of Morgan's sword protruded through his back, driven completely through him. Edgar looked up to him, blood dripping from either side of his mouth, apparently unable to speak.
A few feet below, subject to the aggressive heel of Edgar's boot, Morgan hung on another rope with his left hand. He had sustained some horrific wound to the left side of his skull, and blood poured down his face. Both his right arm and leg flopped uselessly in the wind, no doubt paralyzed due to his injury. And yet, his left eye, terribly hemorrhaged, seemed to peer knowingly at Locke. And though Morgan's face seemed frozen, he could hear his voice.
"Locke, help me."
Locke shook his head, looking worriedly at Edgar.
"No, not him. Not Edgar. He's the one who hurt you. He took Celes from you, remember?"
"Shut up," Locke shouted. "You're a murderer and a thief."
"Yes, that's what they call us treasure hunters. But we're loyal to each other, aren't we, Locke?"
"You . . . you hurt Celes!"
"And I'm sorry, Locke. I kidnapped her, and maybe I hurt her even though I shouldn't have. But I only meant to punish her. For what she did to you, Locke. I'm sorry I did the things you should have done."
"No," Locke hissed. Morgan's words wove themselves into his brain, and though he didn't believe them on their content, there was something deep in them he wanted to believe. He listened.
"But I didn't rape her. Edgar did that. I didn't cuckold you. Edgar did that, too. And I never pretended to be your friend just to take your wife. That was Edgar, always Edgar."
A throwing knife appeared in Locke's right hand.
"Locke, if you could only see Edgar when he took Celes. Can you imagine what it looked like when Edgar ripped off her nightgown? Or stripped her, on your bed? Or when he pulled apart those white, trembling thighs and thrust into her again and again and again?"
"Enough!" Locke shouted, slashing at the ropes with his knife.
Somewhere in Locke's mind, he was cutting the rope he knew Morgan held. And somewhere else, perhaps nearer to the truth, he was simply swinging in blind anger to silence Morgan's voice. But deep in the worst recesses of his psyche, Locke knew only insatiable fury for Edgar, and wanted only to sever the lifeline the King of Figaro held.
Locke drew back, and with a sickening snap he saw the rope Edgar held give way, and his friend fall into space.
Morgan's voice did not hesitate. "A wise decision. Now, if you would please . . ."
"Trickster!" Locke shouted, throwing the knife and planting Morgan in the left shoulder. Morgan's hand immediately lost grip of the rope, and he plummeted backward into space as well.
Locke stepped backward, horrified.
"I take it back," he whispered. "Edgar . . . god, I take it back, all of it. This isn't honor."
"Locke?"
He turned, seeing Celes standing a few feet away. She was leaning on the railing for support, and the tears that began to swell in her eyes told Locke she had seen everything. Her tone changed from innocent to accusatory almost instantly.
"Locke!"
And finally, that sound of immeasurable hurt he had never before heard in her voice.
"Locke, what have you done?"
I. JUDGE
Morgan stood in the middle of the ship's prow, just forward of the bridge. Or, what was once the bridge. Now it was more like a mess of strewn wires and broken controls.
He stood there with his sword, the Pearlsbane, balanced on his shoulder. He hadn't expected any need for the weapon, but he made a habit of keeping it handy regardless. He was glad of that now.
The sword was a large, heavy scimitar. He could feel the heat radiating from the carbon-black blade and the pleasing texture of the skin-bound grip, even through the leather glove on his right hand. From the hilt a number of decorative raven feathers dangled - one for every warrior he had killed with the weapon.
In his left hand he gripped the Imperial General's sword, still in its scabbard.
They were coming. All three of them. But he was ready.
He was taken by surprise a few minutes prior, which was something to which he was rapidly becoming unaccustomed.
I haven't been surprised like this since before I had the medallion.
It wasn't the medallion's fault all this happened, though. He had gotten too excited in playing with his prisoner, and as a result he wasn't giving it the attention it deserved.
He wasn't totally deaf to it, though. When the medallion told him that the prisoner's rescuers were approaching, he immediately left her, even though he was just beginning to have fun. The timing was unfortunate, as he was not finished with her yet, and would more than likely have to kill her now. That was a shame.
Still, he left his prisoner and got to the bridge just in time to engage his attackers in their airship. He did them some serious damage, but couldn't prevent their boarding his ship. He destroyed theirs and they disabled his, so he couldn't say for sure who held victory.
Without the main engine, the only thing his airship could do was descend. Still, he didn't want his multiple foes to split up, two detaining him in battle while one landed the ship. He wanted to kill them while in the air. After they were dead, he could spend all the time he needed piecing together the necessary controls and landing the ship safely, afterward finding his way to Zozo by land.
This plan, which he formulated the moment he sensed that Locke and Edgar had landed on the canopy, was still a good one. He had hoped that the two men would confront him directly rather than going for Celes. Unfortunately, she managed to escape and kill both his guards. That surprised him too, as he thought his guards were stronger than that. Not nearly as strong as he, but surely one of them should have defeated a beaten, nearly naked woman.
It didn't matter, though. Nothing did. His fun was ended prematurely, and he must now fight. He lost his airship and his toy, but there are plenty more airships and toys in this world.
I've enjoyed Celes more than most. These people who fought Kefka are an enticing bunch. Weren't there other females? The esper girl is dead, if I recall. There was another, though. A painter. Young thing. If she's anywhere near as feisty, I think I shall capture her at the first opportunity.
Morgan looked down at the medallion and concentrated.
I see Celes Cole. More blood on her hands already. I sense her rage toward me, but I see no fear. I suppose I did a much better job on her when I was peering into her mind. Resorting to physical abuse didn't bother her at all. A pity. Hurting her was pleasing.
I see Edgar Figaro. He carries a very powerful weapon. I see both anger and sorrow in him. He lost his airship, and that frustrates him. He fears his friend's anger. There is much guilt and suffering. What an absolute weakling.
I see Locke Cole. His soul seethes with hatred. That's all there is in that dense skull of his. He seems bothered by his wife's transgression. He hates me with a passion, of course. And I'll be damned if that isn't blinding, white-hot rage for his old pal Edgar. I think he wants to kill him.
Breaking off his meditative state, Morgan stood smiling.
That may prove useful.
II. JURY
Locke still harbored some anger toward Celes, but not much. He found her much easier to forgive. He loved her; he meant what he said.
And when Celes turned her back to him as they began to look around the ship, his heart broke.
He first noticed her hair, seeing it was totally devoid of ribbons, barrettes, or other accessories. He had never seen her without them - she never even bathed without something in her hair. Then he realized how disheveled her golden tresses had become, how they were soiled with dirt and grime and dried blood. He finally realized the unevenness and understood a considerable amount of her hair had been torn out.
Beneath her messy, scattered hair he could not see much of her back. Still, he could tell that her robe was marked almost completely with splotches of blood from shoulder to shoulder and from neck to waist.
And there was the matter of the robe itself. It was old, dusty, and torn in places. He knew she owned no such article of clothing. Why was she wearing it? Why didn't she have any shoes?
He couldn't bear to ask her what Morgan had done to her. There was no way he could stand hearing it.
"How many people are on this ship?" Edgar asked.
Celes shook her head curtly. "I don't know. I saw Morgan with two men earlier. I've killed both of them."
Edgar mused. "Well, we better stay alert. I think our best bet is to take control of the ship and land it before Morgan can fight us. If we can avoid a fight with him, then we'll get our friends together, prepare for battle, and track down Morgan later, when the odds are in our favor."
"I disagree," said Celes. "We need to fight him immediately."
Locke placed a hand on Celes's shoulder. "Honey, I know how you feel. But you're hurt, and I can't take care of you and fight at the same time. I certainly can't let Edgar fight Morgan all by himself."
Celes stepped back and pointed her sword directly at Locke's throat. The point of the blade was still a few feet away from him, but her threat was clear.
"Listen, honey," she enunciated icily, "you have no idea how I feel. Perhaps you're not keeping up with things, but I've just spent the past day playing 'prisoner of war' to the most sadomasochistic fuck this side of the Serpent Trench. I'm going to fight Morgan, and if I feel like it, you two can assist me. But you are one sorely mistaken little man if you think I'm going to leave this airship while Morgan is alive."
Locke backed away. "Er, um . . ." He cleared his throat. "Celes, I'm sorry. You're in charge."
"Edgar?" she barked.
"Yes ma'am," he chirped. "Whatever you say, ma'am."
Instantly her hostile demeanor disappeared. She lowered her weapon to a less offensive position and turned to the bow of the ship, leading the two men to where she believed fate lay.
III. EXECUTIONER
They had just passed the bridge when they saw him.
"Gentlemen," Morgan greeted. "And lady. I see you've all given me some trouble today."
"Morgan!" Locke shouted.
The man smiled back, grinning broad with teeth white and terrible.
"You've crossed me for the last time, thief."
"I should say the same to you, demon!" spat Locke.
"You will pay for what you've done," added Edgar.
Men and their taunts. Always posturing, always with taunts and belches and shouts and slamming their beer bellies together in triumph. Leave it to a woman to get done what needs to be done, thought Celes.
"Just shut up and fight," she shouted.
Morgan nodded. "She gets to the point. But be warned - you will not survive this encounter."
Celes didn't even wait for Morgan to finish speaking - already she was upon him. When she was within six feet of her enemy, he swung the Runic Blade lengthwise, causing the scabbard to fly loose toward her legs, intending to trip her. She jumped over it, then swung repeatedly at him in a flurry of controlled rage. He blocked each strike with the Runic Blade. After a few seconds he swung with his Pearlsbane, striking Celes in the left shoulder.
She grunted, immediately jumping back. The cut wasn't deep, but already she could feel the blood coursing down her chest and back underneath her robe. She felt certain her shoulder was broken.
Morgan didn't advance, clearly content in watching her suffer. Locke and Edgar stood behind her, shouting her name. She paid no attention, instead putting down her sword and reaching for one of the potions in the pocket of her robe. She pulled the top loose with her teeth and immediately poured the liquid on her wound. She grimaced at the burning sensation, but within seconds felt a good deal of strength in her arm again.
Locke stepped past Celes, the Infinity Edge in his hand. He paused as he passed her, stretching out an arm to reassuringly grip her uninjured shoulder, or even run fingers through her hair. But he hesitated and drew back without touching her, realizing that at this time, comfort would be only an insult to her pride. He walked past her toward their enemy.
Morgan raised an eyebrow as he noticed the weapon Locke held.
"Ah, I see you have my gift. So good of you to return it to me."
Locke shook his head, then tossed the weapon overboard. Edgar and Morgan stared in shock.
"Your lust for that weapon has tainted it with evil. I feel corrupted even holding it. And I don't need it to defeat you," Locke sneered. He pulled a dirk from his belt and crouched low. "This is how a treasure hunter fights."
Morgan chuckled lightly, though the rage at seeing Locke throw away his prized possession was still evident in the lines of his face. "And here I was expecting a challenge." He threw the Runic Blade over his shoulder. Celes's eyes followed the blade as it flew through the air, seeing the weapon stick in the deck behind Morgan.
Locke rushed him, swinging his blade again and again but never getting past Morgan's defense. When he lunged forward too far, Morgan dodged right, caught Locke's arm, and brought the hilt of the Pearlsbane to his face.
Locke stumbled, blood streaming from his nose, and fell on his back. Morgan advanced, turning his sword for the death blow.
Already, Celes had sprinted past the two combatants and reacquired her sword. She shivered with anticipation as her fingers traced the grip, then tightened around it. Soundlessly, she pulled the point from the deck and balanced the weapon in both hands. She spread her legs into a crouching stance, the sword before her in the battle posture she had used so many times before - both terribly comfortable and ruthless. The blade thirsted blood. So did she.
There is nothing - not a sunrise, not a flower, not a rainbow - nothing more beautiful than the moment before the attack.
Celes waited as Morgan held his dark sword above her husband, waited until the second before the thrust, when Morgan would be his least balanced.
She rushed him, sword pulled back for a terrific slice.
Morgan thrust downward, but instead of running through the prostrate treasure hunter before him, he turned his sword to his right with eyes wide, just barely blocking Celes's attack. Morgan spun around and caught her blade at the edge of his hand guard.
Morgan smiled, an expression that would curdle milk. Celes responded in kind.
Morgan advanced, swinging heavy blows that drove Celes backward as she blocked. With every block she held, bone-jarring shock drove through her arms, her chest, and her legs. Each strike she checked rewarded her with pain, but she grunted and grit her teeth and kept her defense strong and swift. She allowed him to push her toward the bow, giving Locke some space to retreat and nurse his wound.
Edgar had watched both his friends struck down with muted horror. Morgan hadn't killed either of them, but he could tell from watching the man fight that their multi-fronted attack would not work as easily as he expected. Morgan's skill clearly advertised the fact that he was not fighting seriously - there was within him a fountain of strength and speed that was untapped as of yet. Edgar couldn't help but feel that their only chance was to strike quickly and without warning.
Edgar sheathed his sword and took his Autocrossbow from its holster. Discreetly, he cocked the bow and aimed it at his target.
Celes lunged, but Morgan sidestepped far quicker than she could ever have expected. She found herself flying headlong, her sword before her, wincing with expectation of Morgan's blade cleaving her spine.
Such was not the case, however. Morgan buried his left hand in her hair, pulling her toward his chest. Her head snapped back, and though she could not pull away she held tight to her sword. He immediately trapped her in a headlock, squeezing so tight she could feel the tendons in her neck pop.
"Cutting you open would be far too quick," Morgan whispered. "Sorry I don't have the time to strangle you properly - this will have to do."
Edgar began to panic as he saw Celes's face turn red. Her mouth opened wide and the tip of her tongue protruded, resting on her lower lip, as she frantically tried to pull air down her compressed throat. Morgan was speaking to her, but he could not hear the words.
He didn't even think as he brought the Autocrossbow to his shoulder and fired a bolt directly at Morgan. Only after pulling the trigger did it register in his mind how quickly Morgan turned, putting Celes directly in the path of the projectile.
Celes was also very, very fast. As she felt herself pulled upward and to Morgan's chest, no doubt serving as a human shield, she saw Edgar fire. With blinding speed, she swung her sword before her, feeling the blade contact the crossbow bolt, but only barely.
Morgan was surprised enough to allow his grip to loosen, and Celes took the opportunity to sink her teeth into his forearm.
Morgan shouted and released her, taking a step backward but making no effort to nurse his arm, which was marked by two hemispherical bleeding wounds.
Celes turned to him, again positioned in battle stance. She turned her head and spat blood. His blood. She coughed, and her breathing was haggard. She sucked in air though her mouth, which was stained dark crimson. Her teeth were red-orange and clenched in fury.
Behind her, Edgar stood with his weapon still aimed at the two combatants. Whether he remained in that way due to shock or shame was debatable. Locke stepped toward him and firmly placed his hand on top of the sight, pointing the barrel to the ground.
"I think you've done enough," he seethed.
Celes growled, then leapt toward Morgan, swinging once, twice. Morgan held his sword with both hands now, and his entire arm dripped with blood, flinging droplets as he blocked Celes's attacks.
It only took a few seconds before Celes's injured throat could no longer keep up the demand for air that her fight required. Gasping for breath, she began to step backward.
Screaming words of rage in a language no one else present understood, Morgan set forth a massive blow that Celes lacked the strength to block. The tip of the Pearlsbane danced across her neck, slicing her throat.
Celes's eyes widened in horror as she clapped her left hand to her throat, feeling warm lifeblood stream through her fingers, down her neck, and into her robe. She stumbled backward, then fell to her knees.
Both Locke and Edgar screamed: Locke uttering a cry of dread, Edgar roaring in rage. Both ran to where Morgan taunted the dying woman they loved.
Locke fell to one knee beside Celes, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back into him, but still kept her eyes fixed to Morgan, and her sword remained ready in her right hand.
Edgar had already thrown his Autocrossbow aside and drew his sword as he ran to Morgan. He brought the sword above his head, making no effort to block as Morgan thrust his sword toward Edgar's chest.
The Pearlsbane, aided by Edgar's momentum, tore through his chestplate just right of midline, burying itself almost entirely in his torso.
With his last bit of his strength, Edgar brought the Illumina down on Morgan's skull, striking him just above his left ear and cutting deep.
Edgar lost hold of his sword, and it came loose from Morgan's horrific wound, falling to the increasingly bloody deck.
Morgan fell backward, but retained enough malice somewhere in his brain to ensure he did not die alone. As he fell backward over the bow railing, both hands shot out to Edgar's collar. Edgar, whose injury left him barely conscious, offered no resistance as both he and Morgan fell off into space.
IV. THE LAST TEMPTATION
Locke didn't see - his attentions were so heavily focused on Celes he saw no one but her - but he heard the struggle, and he was aware that it had stopped.
Celes had her left hand over her neck. Blood flowed between her fingers, and Locke very carefully placed his hand upon her. He placed his arm around her back, supporting her. She turned toward him.
Her eyes were clear, and her face had yet to turn ashen.
She should be dying. Am I imagining this?
"It's not that bad," she whispered hoarsely. "It's just a scratch."
Locke found himself holding his breath as he carefully grabbed Celes's wrist and moved it away from her injury. He could see a deep cut about a half-inch long across her throat, as well as the ugly dark blue bruise forming around it. Locke tore the glove off his right had and touched the injury with his fingers, wiping the blood away for just an instant. He could see the skin hadn't been torn through completely, and though he could hear her hoarse breath in her heavily bruised throat, he did not detect the sickening gurgle of blood filling her lungs.
She's going to be okay, thought Locke. No, not okay. I can look in her face and tell she's been hurt in ways she was never hurt before. But she isn't going to die. Not today.
Locke grabbed her, wrapping his hands around her back and squeezing her close.
"I thought I lost you," he cried.
She released her sword and placed her hand reassuringly on his back while reaching into the robe with her free hand. She took out another potion and drank it as Locke loosened his grip and watched her. The cut stopped bleeding almost instantly. The injury was still severe, and Locke imagined that there would probably be a scar there when it had healed fully.
Celes found herself staring at Locke, the empty bottle of Potion still in her hand.
He looks like a spooked deer. I'm not sure I can blame him. I can't imagine how I would feel in his shoes. He worries about me too much, I think.
She scooted her legs underneath her until she was in a kneeling position, then tried to stand. She couldn't.
I'm in worse shape than I thought. She picked up her sword again; found it heavy in her hands. I can't stand, but I can still fight. Maybe ten percent combat effective, I think?
Commandant Harrington was big on combat effectiveness. She kept up this idea that you could ascribe a number to how battle-ready you were. I never liked the idea. I mean, it's too abstract to put a number to.
Funny how my lectures come back to me at a time like this.
Where is Edgar?
What happened to Morgan?
She dug the tip of the sword into the deck, using the hilt as a handle to pull her to her feet.
Now Celes, a good Imperial soldier uses her sword properly. It's a weapon, not a cane for a cripple.
"Twenty . . . percent," she hissed as she straightened out her wobbly legs.
Locke arched his eyebrows, a silent "What the hell?"
The sword broke free from the deck, and Celes fell into Locke's arms.
"Let me go," she hissed. "Find Edgar. And find Morgan!"
Nervously, regretfully, he set her down into a sitting position and stepped away from her.
I didn't even think - where did they go? thought Locke.
Clearly, there was only one place they could have gone. Edgar's bloody sword was right there on the deck, next to the railing.
He stood at the edge of the deck and leaned over, shocked at what he found.
He hadn't expected to see anything at all, for he had already believed Edgar and Morgan had gone overboard, and if that were true, there would be no evidence of their plummet. The two would fall, struggling as they went, trapped in the most futile fight, the winner of which would strike the ocean below an instant after the loser. That would be all: an insignificant splash in the sea, seen by no one. No body would ever wash ashore, no proof of life or death would ever surface. Both friend and enemy would simply have been cast into the great ambiguity of near-certain death, and though there was no chance either could have survived, there would always be the hope or fear that one or the other had made it. Such was the moment, fleeting though it was, that Locke considered Edgar his friend again. What Locke didn't know, what Morgan probably didn't know, and what Edgar couldn't have known, was that at this particular part of the airship there was a mooring post just below deck level, and at this post about a half-dozen rough hewn ropes appeared permanently fused in knots too tight and too old to ever be loosened, their ends hanging anywhere from two to ten feet below the airship deck. An arm's length below the spot where Locke stood, Edgar dangled, holding a rope with his left hand. The tip of Morgan's sword protruded through his back, driven completely through him. Edgar looked up to him, blood dripping from either side of his mouth, apparently unable to speak.
A few feet below, subject to the aggressive heel of Edgar's boot, Morgan hung on another rope with his left hand. He had sustained some horrific wound to the left side of his skull, and blood poured down his face. Both his right arm and leg flopped uselessly in the wind, no doubt paralyzed due to his injury. And yet, his left eye, terribly hemorrhaged, seemed to peer knowingly at Locke. And though Morgan's face seemed frozen, he could hear his voice.
"Locke, help me."
Locke shook his head, looking worriedly at Edgar.
"No, not him. Not Edgar. He's the one who hurt you. He took Celes from you, remember?"
"Shut up," Locke shouted. "You're a murderer and a thief."
"Yes, that's what they call us treasure hunters. But we're loyal to each other, aren't we, Locke?"
"You . . . you hurt Celes!"
"And I'm sorry, Locke. I kidnapped her, and maybe I hurt her even though I shouldn't have. But I only meant to punish her. For what she did to you, Locke. I'm sorry I did the things you should have done."
"No," Locke hissed. Morgan's words wove themselves into his brain, and though he didn't believe them on their content, there was something deep in them he wanted to believe. He listened.
"But I didn't rape her. Edgar did that. I didn't cuckold you. Edgar did that, too. And I never pretended to be your friend just to take your wife. That was Edgar, always Edgar."
A throwing knife appeared in Locke's right hand.
"Locke, if you could only see Edgar when he took Celes. Can you imagine what it looked like when Edgar ripped off her nightgown? Or stripped her, on your bed? Or when he pulled apart those white, trembling thighs and thrust into her again and again and again?"
"Enough!" Locke shouted, slashing at the ropes with his knife.
Somewhere in Locke's mind, he was cutting the rope he knew Morgan held. And somewhere else, perhaps nearer to the truth, he was simply swinging in blind anger to silence Morgan's voice. But deep in the worst recesses of his psyche, Locke knew only insatiable fury for Edgar, and wanted only to sever the lifeline the King of Figaro held.
Locke drew back, and with a sickening snap he saw the rope Edgar held give way, and his friend fall into space.
Morgan's voice did not hesitate. "A wise decision. Now, if you would please . . ."
"Trickster!" Locke shouted, throwing the knife and planting Morgan in the left shoulder. Morgan's hand immediately lost grip of the rope, and he plummeted backward into space as well.
Locke stepped backward, horrified.
"I take it back," he whispered. "Edgar . . . god, I take it back, all of it. This isn't honor."
"Locke?"
He turned, seeing Celes standing a few feet away. She was leaning on the railing for support, and the tears that began to swell in her eyes told Locke she had seen everything. Her tone changed from innocent to accusatory almost instantly.
"Locke!"
And finally, that sound of immeasurable hurt he had never before heard in her voice.
"Locke, what have you done?"
