Been a while, eh? I've been busy with schoolwork...
But, I've never really abandoned a story before, and don't plan to do so now. So!
Without further ado!
"SHOWTIME!"
Chapter Sixteen
The Road to Greece
Spalan, small town near Athens, Greece. Daytime.
The mercenary rounded the corner, his dogs baying up ahead. His thick, hairy form poured sweat as he ran down the corridor, formed of two small brick houses placed next to each other. His mace was in one hand, and in his mind, visions of gold danced in his head like sweet visions of a meal before supper. His nostrils flared as he drew in breath; she was up ahead. He knew it and, in his mind, he saw it; saw the dogs back her into a corner, saw them keep her there, dodging and dancing in between her sword slashes, just waiting, waiting for him, and when he got there he would smash her skull in. And when that was done, he would bring her dead corpse back to the priests at that temple of Ares, Cestel Fygumes, alongside her shield and weapon (that part had been underlined, really; the priests had desperately wanted her sword and shield for some reason) and earn his just reward.
He turned the corner-
And one of his own dogs was thrown back into his face, yelping and screaming the whole way. He cursed and desperately clawed his own animal off his face, throwing the dog back down with a yell. Damn! What she'd-
The second dog flew at him, this time connecting with his ribs, and the heavy meat of the over 90 lb. animal slammed into his guts. He let out a loud "Ooof!" and fell back down, this time dropping his mace. Cursing his own weakness, he frantically scrabbled for it with his free hand, just to get a very big and very painful heel slammed down on it.
He screamed.
" You might want to keep your mouth shut," a tough, very business-like voice ordered. " Otherwise I'll be forced to plant the end of this boot in your face, and you'll be eating mush the rest of your life."
The mercenary quieted. His dogs were just now getting up, and his quick glance at them (quick so as not to alert the woman now on his hand that he was looking at them) showed a big wound on their heads. It looked like the flat end of some blunt object- perhaps the shield the woman now wore on her left hand.
He looked up at her, and in the sunlight streaming down into his face he only got a silhoutte glimpse of her... but it was enough, and the woman seemed to allow him a bit of time to consider her form before continuing her threats. He got a glimpse of leaves passing through blowing hair in the wind, of bulky arms built up even more by shoulder pads, of a short, mid-sized body that packed more than its fair share of power, and when he glanced at her sword, he got a firm chill in his heart, as if it had been passed over by ice- or perhaps by fire.
Who is this kid? he thought desperately. The reward notice had not mentioned someone so obviously well-trained and tough. Resolving to either lose his life here or gamble for it, the mercenary began tensing up his left fist to strike.
" Now that I have your attention," the figure above him said, " let me tell you this. Whoever sent you, they did not pay you enough for your life. I'm an honorable person- generally speaking- but I will not hesitate to kill you if you continue to move. Also, your dogs are getting back up, and if they so much as growl at me, I will plant this sword through your chest. Do you understand?'
He nodded, sweat running in his eyes and blinding him, and he automatically moved his hand to wipe his face. The edge of something very sharp placed itself against his palm.
" Trust me, the sweat in your eyes is not as annoying as living with half a hand will be," she said. " The dogs. Make them move away now."
Understanding that the tone was final and that one flick of her wrist would leave him a cripple, he called to his dogs. " Yano, Schwarzvald! Back! Back, ci! Back!"
Understanding his tone (and a special command word that he'd invented himself, ordering his dogs to turn tail and run for it), the dogs turned around and slinked off, growling lowly as they went.
" You're a smart one," the woman above him said condescendingly, and the man felt a slight shiver of anger in his soul. The woman's blade did not so much as quiver, but the mercenary felt the hand behind it relax, just a little. " Now, listen to me, and you'll be able to get up and walk away from here without so much as a scratch. Of course, your pride might be wounded, but that's a small price to pay, isn't it?" Her tone turned musing, and the man found himself speaking up without planning to.
" Pride is not hurt by failure, but by incompetence," he said, and then tensed, waiting for the deathblow to come.
It never did. " I never thought of that," the woman above him said, and it seemed as if the idea, though not a shock to her system, was interesting enough to merit special attention. " Well, your pride is still wounded in either case, so I guess it's a moot point."
The man said nothing, merely nodded. His pride was fully intact at the moment; he'd done nothing dishonorable (yet), and he'd honestly been trying his best to kill this woman. The failure was not due to incompetence; his pride was unscathed.
And, if he made it through the next few minutes, his body might come out the same way. His hand was aching, but it had been through worse, and the thick calluses on it were protecting it from most of the damage. As for his other hand, the blade had not quivered, and neither had he. He had a feeling that barely brushing the blade could give one a nasty cut.
" What I want you to do," the woman said, " is empty your pockets of everything they own. That includes coins, jewels, gems, and pornographic drawings of your girlfriend. Everything. Out. Now."
Obeying the commanding tone in the voice, he obediently emptied out his pockets. What little was there might make the would-be thief kill him in sheer frustration- it didn't amount to much.
" Travel light, don't you?" the woman mused, then stepped off his hand. Not daring to move it yet, the woman moved her swordpoint to his neck, and said, " Up, now. And quickly- I haven't much time here."
The mercenary rose, noticing with disappointment that the woman had already kicked his mace far away from him, and that even the quickest of runners would barely reach the weapon before the swordswoman had plunged steel into their hearts. It was at one of those crucial distances where the object is too far to be in reach of even a long jump or stretch, but close enough that leg speed did not have time to factor in the equation. With his long, limber legs, the mercenary thought he could probably outrun this woman (and he almost had, when he first attacked her in the marketplace of this small town, but she had turned down an alley before he could really get to her) but the object was too close for him to make enough of a gain on her that her sword reach wouldn't matter. A really good distance would have been another five or six feet away; that would be enough time for him to rush over, grab it, and get it in a ready position before she struck; but that was not something he could do from where he was. Running over the bleak options in his mind, he stood up slowly, hands held out to the sides in the classic gesture of peace.
" Raise your hands," she said, and through the thin film of sweat in his eyes, he could see that she was beautiful; that, if mud and dirt were not caked all over her, and her lustrious blond hair not hidden under a cheap cover of old dye and black wool woven into a wig, she might well be called gorgeous, especially in the mercenary and German senses of the word: in Germany, where even the most innocent of woods tended to hold horrific monsters, even women went armed, and this woman's small, tough build would have made her a rare prize over there indeed. As the man looked into her blue eyes, he nodded slowly to her.
" Fine," he said. " I will acquit this battle."
" Acquit?" she said. " Hm, interesting term. Fine, so long as it means that you'll stop trying to kill me." He saw her smile dryly at this, and thought to himself that yes, indeed, she could be a beautiful woman... and that, if she were not holding him at swordpoint, he might even find her attractive. As it was now, her beauty was only another weapon; something that might distract him at a critical moment and make him lose his own life, all for the sake of beauty. Focusing his mind, he cleared all thoughts from it save for one thing: survival.
" You will never see me again," he said, his voice not fearful, merely flat and honorable, as if stating the weather or cold hard facts that were obvious to anyone with eyes to see- and some who didn't. " And I will even tell you who the bounty is from."
The woman sighed. " I know who its from," she said tiredly, and the man noticed how haggard and dirty she looked. " Fygul Cestemus. Same as always. Whenever you deal with a homicidal cult bent on world domination, you always find yourself dealing with Fygul Cestemus."
The man's eyebrows raised up as he heard the oft-spoken of name of the legendary cult devoted to Ares, the bleak god of war. " Interesting," he said. " They call themselves Cestel Fygumes now, or at least that's what they told me when I got the bounty from them."
" Cestel Fygumes... Heh. Clever. I'll remember that when I deal with them again." The woman made a motion with her sword. " Turn around."
The man did so, and felt a swordtip press against his abdomen. He tensed, and readied his fist to strike again. He'd lost his resolve after seeing her silhoutte in the sky, but now gained it back again. It was either now or never.
" Now, leave, and-"
She never finished the sentence. The mercenary whirled on her, past her already-thrusting swordpoint (and the mercenary had time to wonder at that, at how fast she had reacted, even while in mid-sentence like that) and slugged her with his left hand. The blow was fierce and caught her off-guard. She recoiled, staggering, and automatically placed herself in fight mode, gathering her shield to her, moving it chest-high it to block vital areas ( Mace, she thought, he wields a mace, and raised her shield accordingly) and stepping back, sword raised as she cleared her head- but no blows ever came. As she finally managed to get a look around, she saw he was gone, his mace with him. Shaking her head at this strange display of honor (he'd been beaten, and so had decided to simply run for it instead of sticking around to see how good she was in a stand-up fight) the woman looked around to make sure he was nowhere in sight, then gathered up the few coins and objects of value he had left on the floor and got up. Looking around once more, Cassandra turned to find an exit from these buildings, one preferably on the far side of town, from which she hoped to get to the main road and head to a certain somewhere.
Sparta, in Greece... the headquarters of Fygul Cestemus.
-
Roads heading towards Greece, near Rome, Italy, in Europe. Same time.
Kevin and Rafe (as the two called themselves) continued walking down the road, exchanging stories of old times- or, more accurately, Rafe told hilariously funny dirty jokes and Kevin listened, or alternatively Kevin talked of medicinal herbs and the quiet of a good meditation room while Rafe listened with that unsettling gleam in his eye. The two did not notice it, but they were both doing a very strange thing- guarding their pasts while actually revealing a great deal about themselves. More was said to each other on that road of who they were (both in the things they said and the things they did not say) then either of them ever knew.
After all, it's hard to know when you're doing it that you're making new friends, all while hiding yourself from the other person. By the end of a few weeks time (during which Siegfried and Ivy, on a slightly more southern route, caught up to them and ended up keeping almost exact pace with them on a parallel course heading to Greece) Raphael and Kilik had found that they liked each other, and Kilik mused more than once that Rafe (as he knew him) was a relatively nice guy- a bit of a mad genius in some ways (he had a strange, almost unsettled way of looking at things, as if the foundations of his vision had been cracked more than once) but a generally nice person nonetheless. Something felt false to him, however, when it came to Rafe's jokes and laugh; they were both quite good, but they were loud and big- and that somehow seemed to be completely out of character for him. Kilik didn't know why, but he sensed that "Rafe" was probably a far more cunning, colder man than he appeared to be, and that his big guffawing laugh and raunchy jokes were nothing but a show he was putting on. It wasn't a bad show by any means, but Kilik was used to tricksters, and (to put it in Western terms) Rafe was going to have to do better than that to pull one over on Kilik. Kilik reminded himself every day to keep on his toes around Rafe, and that suited him just fine. He'd traveled with worser sorts before.
Oddly, as the days passed, Rafe's jokes became both less common and funnier (in a high-born, noble class sort of way), and his laugh became more of a quiet chuckle, which spoke volumes to Kilik. He thought that perhaps Rafe was getting careless, having gotten so close to him. Kilik did not know why Rafe wanted to be near him in the first place, but he thought that perhaps if he just waited a few more days, he might get a chance to know the real Rafe, and see what lay under his skin.
Kilik was right. In three days, his chance came. "Kevin" and "Rafe" were assaulted by bandits.
The attack came without warning. Completely without the tension filled, "someone's around me" scenes that seemed to follow these events like a bad case of the cold in the old stories, the attack was sudden, shocking, and completely without warning. It was also met with a furious defense from both parties involved. Kilik and Raphael discovered something about each other that day- they were both incredibly good fighters.
Kilik was moving as soon as he heard the first war cry, cutting off his sentence on herbal treatments mid-word and raising his staff in the same instance. There were no archers among the bandits (otherwise, both fighters would have been dead long before now) but there were a few men with pikes, and pikes were very bad when it came to fighting a group; they tended to hang around the edges of a combat, using the long reach of their weapons as a way to damage opponenets without ever physically "getting into" the fight zone itself. In the part of his mind not preoccupied with getting to those self-same pikemen and slamming them in the face with his staff, Kilik hoped that "Rafe" could defend himself well; Kilik was going to be very busy in the next few minutes, and he wasn't going to be able to help him. Three bandits were in front of Kilik, all of them with swords. Behind them, grinning wickedly as they crawled out of their make-shift hiding holes in the ground (holes that were covered with a clever mix of grass and dirt, an extremely good cover, Kilik noted, that blended in with the ground of the plains in this area) came two bandits with pikes. Kilik risked side glances and didn't see any other bandits in the area, so charged ahead.
Behind him, Raphael unbuckled his sword and smiled. One of the bandits near him (there had been a second group of three on the sides of the road, two on the left, one on the right, who had sprung up when the first group arose) rushed forward, and with but a flick of his wrist Raphael unsowed the binding that held his tendons together. The man's sword dropped with a clattering clang, and the man screamed in pain.
" Well then," Raphael said, " let us dance!" He struck quickly, covering the ground in a single smooth maneuver, striking with a quick "rap" of his blade's edge against his opponent's forehead. The skin split and blood poured into the wounded bandit's eyes. The man quickly screamed again, and Raphael ended his pain, slicing open his stomach with a second almost-horizontal sweep of his blade.
" Coup..." Raphael said slowly, as he swept the blade across the man's guts, " de grace!" he finished, as he finished with a second sweeping, upward diagonal blow that cut across the man's chest and finished him off. He stomped his foot and turned about with an airy grace. " Now," he said, " which of you want to join me first?"
The two remaining bandits looked at each other, than advanced on the obviously crazy man with a air a bit less self-possessed than the one they had carried before. As one came forward, Raphael surprised him by jumping backwards- causing the man to instinctly block with his blade upwards- and then Raphael took the opportunity to leap forward, his blade turning in quick circles both times, and the Flambert sang as it buried itself in the man's heart. The bandit died gasping, sword still clenched in hand. Looking up, Raphael said, " Aren't you going to avenge your friend?"
The last bandit only stared, before turning tail and running. Raphael shrugged and turned to see how Kevin was doing.
Kilik had leapt over the bandits before him by pole-vaulting- a neat trick the bandits were not used to- and when he had crossed over their heads he had wasted no time rushing up to the pikemen. At close ranges, their weapons were useless, and they were apparently quite aware of that fact- one dropped his weapon to come rushing Kilik. Kilik struck with his staff, holding it in the middle to make up for the shorter range, and caught the man's head on the side. Kilik quickly reversed the staff's direction and smacked him again, leaving the man out cold (and missing a few teeth). Turning, Kilik ducked under the clumsy pike strike the last bandit had thrown at him, and as he ducked he threw his staff out behind him in a wide, sweeping arc, letting his right hand slide down its length to the end while his left hit the ground to help him maintain balance. The other bandits, who had been busy rushing him, were caught by this low blow and knocked over. Kilik swung his weapon in a firm, flat arc at the last remaining pike bandit's head, and the staff struck him with it's middle. The great force of the weapon completely knocked him out. As Kilik turned, he saw Rafe run one of the downed bandits through with his sword. Taking up the Kali-Yuga, Kilik struck the rest of them down as well.
Taking a few breaths to calm himself (battles always left him with a pitter-pattering heart), Kilik said, " Are you alright, Rafe?"
" Fine," Rafe said, and as he did so Kilik noticed that he was barely breathing hard at all. " I'm just perfect. You?"
" Fine," Kilik said. " That was... an interesting diversion, but not one I'd care to repeat. Let's keep going."
" Oh, come now," Rafe said. " Let's take all their gold." His eyes had a glitter that Kilik didn't care for. Not the bandit's gleam, no, but so damn close...
" Alright," Kilik said, after a few minutes in which he thought not about what he was doing but about that gleam in Raphael's eye. " Good idea."
With a bark of short, chuckling laughter, Rafe dropped to his knees and begin rooting through the purses of the defeated bandits. Looking at his companion with a mixture of worry and respect, Kilik soon dropped to his own and began rooting through them too.
-R & R please! And thanks to all my reviewers: Reiko5, Mal, Anonymouse, Sabriel41, and all my other reviewers!
