"Gourry, let me see your hand."
Lina felt like her heart was going to break. Gourry stared at her uncomprehendingly, tears still glistening in his eyes. His hands hung limply in his lap. Finally, unable to bear that look anymore, she leaned over and grabbed his wrist. She felt the muscles in his arm tense up for just an instant before he relaxed.
It was as if a dam had burst inside of the swordsman. His shoulders drooped slightly and he leaned forward. For one fleeting moment, Lina thought that he meant to kiss her, but he moved down past her face until his head was resting in her lap. He fetched a deep sigh—exhaustion or contentment, she could not tell—and lay still.
"What are you . . .?" Lina started to ask. She thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut. He was . . . well, he was something. She favored him with a weak smile before turning her attention back to business: the Sword of Light, still clutched tightly in his grip.
She seized the hilt just above where he clutched it. Gently at first, but with increasing annoyance, she shook the weapon, trying to free it from his grip. At the moment, she would be happier knowing that he was unarmed.
"Let go," she hissed at him when he stubbornly refused to relinquish his hold on the hilt. She bit her tongue, barely resisting the urge to say something really mean to him. He was upset. He was upsetting her. And yelling at him would do little to help the situation. Well, it might make her feel better, but still . . .
Something was wrong. Frowning, Lina moved her hand from the sword up to his wrist. She pushed the leather of his glove aside, revealing the ghost of an injury earned while training years ago. Crimson eyes scrutinized the white line thoughtfully and after a moment of consideration, she traced it with her fingertip. She sighed and nodded almost imperceptibly. It was just as she suspected. There was no tenseness there; Gourry had not been holding onto the sword at all.
She returned her attention to his hand, but her goal had changed. Instead of trying to snatch the sword away from him, she worked her fingers around his. With painstaking gentleness, she peeled his hand away from the hilt. There was a quiet raspy sound, not unlike old parchment being unrolled, as his fingers came free. They had all but been welded to the hilt, it seemed.
"What happened?" she muttered, more to herself than anything. She actually jumped a little when Gourry answered her.
"It was hot," he explained in a voice utterly devoid of emotion.
"What was hot? Wait, you mean the sword?"
His silence was apparently supposed to be an affirmative response.
"Okay . . ." Sighing heavily, Lina laboriously climbed to her feet. Thankfully, Gourry refrained from grabbing her; she might not have made it up, otherwise. Having just been shot in the head, she was more than a little tipsy. Like being drunk without the fun, she thought glumly. When she shot him a glance, she noted that his eyes were glued to the sword—strange behavior, given how he had clung to her before.
Lina gave the sword a few empty swings. She felt a little silly for swinging a bladeless weapon, but otherwise normal. "Well, here goes nothing . . ." she said with a shrug. The best way to learn something was by doing so . . . She spent a long moment taking deep breaths and trying to clear her thoughts (it was a pain as a new one seemed to pop up every time she dispelled the old) before activating the sword.
Her voice was resolute and her grip steady when she spoke the words. But there was no familiar hum, no coruscating blade: the Sword of Light was dead.
Before she had time to ponder this new mystery, she became aware of an almost painful amount of pressure on her knee. She looked down to see that Gourry was the reason for her discomfort. He had gripped her leg compulsively when the activating words had been uttered. Now he stared at the weapon, fear written on his face.
Lina's gaze flitted between the sword and Gourry before finally coming to rest on the sword. She set it down beside her and took his hand in her own. "Does it hurt?" she asked, in a sweet tone she reserved for him alone. As the silence stretched out, she ran her fingertips along his palm, feeling ugly bumps that had to be blisters. If her exploration caused him any discomfort, his expression did not betray it. "Tell me what happened."
"I . . . I killed him."
"Okay," she replied in an even tone. There were so many feelings churning within her at that moment—disapproval of the murder, shock that Gourry could do such a thing, pity for his confusion and pain, and finally, although she was loathe to admit it, fear. How much further would he slip before getting better? Somehow, she managed to bite her tongue; if she interrupted him now, she might never get the whole story out of him.
Haltingly at first, but with increasing speed and urgency, Gourry told her what he had seen.
Over his mail shirt, Walters wore a dark blue tabard emblazoned with the emblem of a white dragon. Theoretically, this was a symbol of his rank as a sergeant in the SCG, with all the experience and leadership capability that implied. Right at this particular moment, however, he felt as green as any new recruit. He had never seen anything quite like the scene before him and was fighting what he sensed was going to be a losing battle with his gorge.
"Alright, let's get this mess squared away before the captain gets here!" he barked. His attempt to sound authoritative sounded weak to his own ears. He croaked more than he yelled. "What are you waiting for?"
"Sarge," one extremely brave—or foolish—recruit piped up, "the boys and I have been talking and . . . we want to go back. We didn't sign up for this." He gestured to the gristly scene before them.
Walters looked for just a moment before squeezing his eyes shut and muttering a little prayer under his voice.
The young man continued. "Sir, I mean this . . . and what we did yesterday . . . it's not right. I think we should go."
The screams of the dead and dying reverberated in Walters' memory. "That's enough!" he barked, but more in response to the memories or the recruit, he could not say.
"But, sir . . ."
"What your compatriot was going to say," a childish voice chimed in, "is that you men are fulfilling the will of Ceiphied himself." Every soldier in the clearing cringed and turned to face the newcomer.
Inquisitor Lemner was one of the higher ups in the church—one of those charged with ferreting out vice and corruption in the populace. Her face was framed by shoulder length rich purple hair. Her age was indeterminable; the lines in her features could have belonged to anyone from age twenty to forty and nobody had mustered the nerve to ask for clarification. Regardless of her age, she was beautiful—or rather she would have been—save for one critical flaw: her lips were curled in a perpetual sneer.
She was clad in the golden vestments of her office. The robes represented the illumination of truth—casting light on the guilty hiding in the shadows. They were well suited for formal affairs, but her robes had been muddied and torn by the long field mission. Ritual trumped practicality in her eyes; she clung to church canon and decorum as if they could shield her from reality.
And now she was in full lecture mode. "Service to Ceiphied is the greatest act one can aspire to, bringing with it glory and respect in the Dragon's eyes," she chided in her infuriating child's voice, "and refusal to carry out the church's edict will . . ." Her violet eyes widened and she took a step back, apparently just noticing the scene before her. "Good heavens! What . . .?"
"I think you've said enough, Miss Lemner." Gaav strode into the clearing, moving the Inquisitor aside none too gently. He strode past the soldiers, not sparing them so much as a glance until he stood before the trembling recruit. "I don't talk as pretty as our civilian observer . . ."
Walters cringed at Gaav's tone. The captain had made no secret of his dislike for Lemner. The two had been at each other's throats since the beginning of the operation. He stole a quick glance at the Inquisitor and, just as expected, she was bristling at Gaav's dismissive tone—her venomous gaze fixed on the back of his orange trench coat.
The captain was apparently immune to her poison, however. " . . . so maybe this'll be more clear. You," he jabbed the terrified man in the chest for emphasis, "are a member of the SCG—the finest group of soldiers outside of the imperial army. You will fulfill your duty, no matter how unpleasant, or face court martial. Is that clear, recruit?"
The young man quickly nodded, and a moment later remembered to salute.
Gaav nodded in satisfaction. "Get back to it then." He raised his voice and snarled at the rest of troops. "And what are you all looking at? Do I look like a clown? Am I here to entertain you? Back to work!"
Without another word, the soldiers went back to their business with renewed urgency. It was as if they had heard the voice of Ceiphied himself, Walters mused. Actually, the dragon analogy might not be that far off the mark. Gaav's exploits had earned him many nicknames during the war: Chaos Dragon, Demon Dragon King, and worse. The captain bore them like badges of honor, grinning wickedly whenever they were brought up in conversation.
And now the Chaos Dragon's gaze was fixed upon Walters. There was no smile there, mirthful or cruel; the captain was all business. Walters saluted smartly. "Sir," he said, hoping that the weakness he felt did not reflect in his voice.
His worries were unfounded as Gaav gave a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement and sighed heavily. "Sergeant, where'd we get these boys? I swear, they all act like they're fresh off the goddamn farm."
"Some of them are, sir. They were all at the top of their classes though."
That elicited a snort of amusement from the captain. "Rookies . . ." He spat the word out as if it tasted bitter. His sneer quickly gave way to a grave look as he took in the crime scene. "What are we looking at here?" He withdrew a cigar from within his coat and produced a match from another pocket. Somehow, his face remained utterly impassive as he took in the scene.
Walters was taken aback by the captain's question. The moment of drama before had provided a much needed distraction from the scene before them. Going back to it now was like getting a slap in the face.
"Sergeant?" Gaav repeated. There was a barely veiled threat in his tone.
"Right, sir! Sorry, sir!" Walters cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. "As you can see, sir, we've got a camp—broken down in haste from the looks of things. I think the kid back at the farm was right; it was thieves and . . . they were spooked." He glanced down at the ruined remains of the campfire, the discarded blankets, and the occasional chicken feather and nodded. Yes, that should do it . . .
Gaav chuckled cruelly, setting Walters's nerves on edge. "I was referring to the corpse, sergeant. Elaborate work for a chicken thief, wouldn't you say?"
"Actually, sir, there's . . . there's not really enough left to call it a corpse."
Walters had neglected that particular portion of his assessment of the crime scene. The remains of a man—the farmer they were looking for, he would wager—leaned back against a nearby tree staring ahead blankly. That in itself was unsettling, but not at all unexpected; he had seen more than his share of cadavers during his service in the guard. It was just something one dealt with.
No, the really disquieting thing was that a large portion of the farmer was just missing. The head and shoulders were mostly intact . . . mostly. The flesh on the left side of his face had bubbled up as if exposed to extreme heat and from the looks of things his eyes had burst. His right arm was just gone below the bicep. There was no sign of ripping either. The flesh just seemed to taper and recede until there was only a pale point of bone visible. Things got much worse when one continued looking down though. Below his breastbone, he was gone for the most part. His skin was shredded in some places, melted in others and his insides were strewn pretty widely about the body. They were ugly and gray, and an image of slugs sprang unbidden to Walter's mind. They swelled in the morning sun, making the entire area stink like an abattoir.
A sudden sickening lurch indicated that his stomach had finally won the battle; Walters quickly turned and retched into a nearby bush. How the captain could stand the sight and smell of the scene was incomprehensible. That train of thought naturally terminated with the cadaver again, triggering a new round of vomiting.
Gaav's huge hand fell on Walters's shoulder a moment later. "Sergeant?"
Suppressing a groan, Walters swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and weakly replied, "Captain?" Sympathy was an alien emotion to Gaav and he could hardly believe that the captain was showing concern for him.
Leaning down until his mouth was next to Walters' ear, Gaav whispered, "You're compromising my crime scene. Toss your breakfast somewhere else." He clapped the sergeant on the shoulder a little harder than necessary and stood. "Alright, let's move!" he roared. "Martin, make yourself useful and double time it back to the farm and tell the kid we found his old man; that'll give you something to do besides traipsing around in those tracks."
The young man froze in act of taking a drink from his waterskin and cast a terrified glance downward. His jaw dropped when he discovered that the captain was right: there were fresh tracks leading away from the crime scene directly underfoot.
"Move!" Gaav roared.
The terrified recruit must have jumped a good five feet—an impressive feat, considering the fact that he was in full armor. He wore an expression of mingled relief and gratitude to be leaving the captain's presence, and he sprinted from the clearing.
"Hurry back or I'll gut you myself!" Gaav yelled after him, displaying the remarkable leadership skills that had earned him the love and loyalty of every man in his unit. "Walters, leave a man to wait for him and bring the rest." He turned to leave, but froze in his tracks after a few steps. He stood immobile for a few moments, his brow furrowed in consternation.
Walters briefly wondered if the captain was having an aneurysm or something. He quickly dismissed that notion; there was no way he could be that lucky. "Captain? Are you all right, sir?"
Gaav raised a finger and the sergeant got the message: "Shut up and let me think."
He closed his mouth with a snap, almost nipping his tongue in the process.
"Now, what was it . . .?" Gaav muttered to himself. He took a step back, paused, and took another. Suddenly, his face lit up with a frightening amount of eagerness. A cat toying with a mouse before going in for the kill might wear a similar expression. He scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot and Walters finally saw what had distracted him: light glinted faintly off some object on the ground. It was a wonder that the captain had detected it; Walters was sure he would have stepped on it and never broken stride.
Gaav knelt down and snagged the item. "What have we here?"
A dagger, Walters realized. They had missed it during their initial sweep, because the metal was coated with tacky blood and several leaves clung stubbornly to the blade; the captain hastily wiped it clean on his sleeve.
A moment of scrutiny elicited a wild laugh from Gaav.
Inquisitor Lemner stomped over to Gaav and glared up at him. "I demand to know what's so amusing! We're on very serious business here and your flippancy is not appreciated!"
Instead of raising his ire, the captain did the unthinkable: he reached down and wrapped Lemner in a mighty embrace. Walters thought for a moment that he meant to break her in half until he saw the exuberant grin on Gaav's face; somehow, it was more frightening than his scowl.
"Captain, release me this instant!" Lemner sputtered as she rained totally harmless blows upon him. Her face had turned a bright shade of red, although from embarrassment or anger it was impossible to tell. "Are you possessed or just mad!"
The huge man pushed her back to arms length and gave her a good-natured shake; it was a wonder she managed to retain her footing. "We found them," he explained. He brought the dagger up to her eye level and Walters could have sworn he heard the women squeak. "See?" After inadvertently menacing her for a moment longer, Gaav turned and casually tossed the blade to Walters. He released Inquisitor Lemner before turning and plunging into the underbrush. "Get a move on!" he called back. "The day's not getting any longer!"
Walters looked down at the blade in his hands. It was a standard issue SCG dagger—unremarkable in most respects, save for one detail. Etched in the blade near the hilt were two small letters.
"G.G."
Lina stared at the Sword of Light for a long moment before asking, "You say the sword turned red?" The question brought up old memories and she suddenly found herself drawn back to the past—to a time when a young child and her older sister attended a church service. She'd actually managed to stay awake for that one, oddly enough. Xellos had been in fine form that day, weaving words with such amazing skill that Lina had been weeping openly by the end of the sermon, filled with pity for a man who had fallen hundreds of years ago.
Gourry was staring at her questioningly.
She blinked in surprise and blurted, "What?"
"Red," Gourry repeated.
Lina's heart sank with his confirmation. "You wanted to kill him, didn't you?"
Gourry deftly deflected her question as easily as a clumsy strike with a blade. "He was going to hurt you. It was the right thing to do." His words were frighteningly cold. Gourry, the man she had heard speak at length to a childhood friend about how he abhorred killing. For him to speak so dismissively about something like this . . .
Shaking her head in befuddlement, Lina said, "Gourry, that's just . . ." She paused momentarily, trying to find the right words to continue, and gave his good hand a reassuring squeeze. He claimed there was no feeling in the other. Which was bad. What good was a swordsman without a sword hand? As mean as it might sound, he was pretty damn useless right now.
"Anyway," she muttered, getting herself back on topic, "that worries me—your description of the sword."
"W-Why?"
Lina winced at the waver in Gourry's voice. It hurt her to hear him like this. "Well . . . it's similar to the story of Rezo the Red and the Serpent, don't you think?" She fetched a deep sigh and slumped a bit when she noticed her companion's clueless look. Some things about him stayed the same at least. "Didn't you ever go to church? Listen to the sermons? Read the parables? Never mind. Scratch that last one."
Gourry thought long and hard and Lina smiled a bit in spite of herself. As long as she could keep him talking, there would be no time for him to sulk. Finally, he nodded and said, "Yeah, I've been before. I think Sylphiel had to keep waking me up . . ." Apparently sensing danger in her fiery gaze, he quickly added, "So, who was the Red Serpent guy?"
"Rezo the Red," Lina corrected through gritted teeth, "and the Serpent. It's one of the most important stories in our history. To explain the story, we need to go back to the beginning. You remember what I told you about the Sword of Light back in Sairaag, right?"
". . ."
"Never mind. I'll sum up. Basically, Rezo the First forged the sword to help him defeat the Hellmaster a thousand years ago. After that, it was passed from father to son in the holy bloodline for seven generations. That tradition ended with Rezo the Red. One of the many noteworthy things about the man was that he was the last in the line to bear the Sword of Light."
"Why?"
Lina vainly searched Gourry's face for some sort of answer. "Well . . ." she finally said with a sigh of defeat, "mostly because it drove him mad."
Martin was one of the younger recruits in the SCG, only having seen his seventeenth summer. And unlike many of his compatriots, he had joined out of a genuine desire to better the lives of others. He was also unique in the sense that he was eager to improve and gain approval from his superiors. That included (much to the morbid fascination of the others) Captain Gaav.
That was why he was cursing himself at the moment; the captain had chastised him (rightfully so) for marring the tracks of the perpetrators. In addition, the young soldier had suffered the indignity of being sent on a stupid errand.
Not stupid, he mentally corrected. He deserves to know what happened to his father. That brought up another important thought: what was he going to say to the guy? It would be a moot point if he spent the rest of the day stumbling around in a corn field. He had an irritating suspicion that he had gotten turned around somewhere. Dry husks of corn stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. Which was not saying much, as Martin was a rather short man and unable to see over the tops of the stalks anyway.
Uttering a small curse under his breath, the young man removed his helm, revealing a head of neatly trimmed dark hair and piercing blue eyes.
He raised his waterskin to his lips. Before taking so much as a gulp, he was sputtering. "What the hell?" he mumbled. The water had tasted off and a moment later he saw why; the spout was smeared with blood. He immediately clutched his side, wondering when he could have picked up an injury—more blood, but no pain. Not his then.
That was when he noticed the corn. There were traces of crimson about waist level on the stalks to his left. He reached out to touch them. His heart skipped a beat when his glove came away damp. It was fresh then!
His orders forgotten, Martin set off on a new path. One bloody stalk, then another, and another—there was a trail here. His mind raced with the possibilities. First it was a wounded animal, then a civilian in trouble. By the end, he was tracking the perpetrators of the heinous crime in the forest. His imagination had just reached the part where the captain had commended his valor in apprehending the entire band of brigands when he heard something over the whisper of wind through the corn.
He weighed his options—stealth and the element of surprise versus announcing his presence. After a moment of deliberation, he decided that there was no way he could sneak up on anyone. The corn was maddeningly loud and he had only a vague idea of where his target was—or if there was anyone out there at all, for that matter. He hesitantly called, "Anyone there? This is Guardsman Martin of the SCG. Are you wounded?"
The breeze intensified ever so slightly, sending the corn into a maddening bout of rustling. Martin struggled to remain calm, while simultaneously trying to look in every direction at once. It had been a mistake to announce his presence. He was certain that something was watching from just beyond the rows.
Even as he cowered, one of Gaav's first and most insistent lessons sprang to mind. Remember your badge, son. They have to respect you if you show them your badge. He reached into a pouch on his belt and fished around for a moment. "Come on, come on . . ." he muttered under his breath.
Finally, he found it. Pulling it free, he thrust the small bronze emblem of rank out before him, as if warding off some evil. "This is Guardsman Martin of the SCG!" he repeated with more confidence. "Stand and identify yourself, citizen, or I will be forced to hurt you!" He slid his sword free of its scabbard and held it out before him.
It was not quite midmorning yet, but the sun was already fairly high in the cloudless sky. Light reflected on Martin's highly polished blade, bringing him some small measure of comfort.
There was a moment of silence and then an explosion of movement not more than a dozen feet to Martin's left. He turned and thrust his sword out threateningly and for the briefest instant, he thought he saw something between the stalks. His defensive posture proved unnecessary, as whatever he had flushed out was apparently more interested in flight than fighting. The sound of snaps and pops reached Martin's ears as his adversary retreated; it was crashing through the corn at a frightening speed; had the guard any intention of pursuing (and to be quite honest, he was ready to let this one go), there would have been no way of keeping up with its pace.
Martin held his guarded position until he was sure that it had gone. He finally let out a shaky sigh and considered his options. The captain; he had to get the captain. The troops were mucking around in the forest, and he had the killer right here.
A shudder ran down the young man's spine as he considered another equally terrifying option: what if it had been an animal? A bear maybe? He could imagine the captain's wrath if Martin dragged him all the way back here for a bear. Not to mention that Lemner witch; what would she say if he pulled them away from their mission?
"That's a load of bull," he said aloud. Whatever that was, it was not a goddamned bear, Ceiphied pardon his language. Still, he owed it to the captain—and to himself—to be sure before going back.
The decision made, Martin reluctantly advanced on the spot where the "bear" had been lurking. Pushing through the last stalks, he frowned. It was gristly, yes, but at least there was no corpse, as he had secretly feared. Slightly mollified, he knelt down to get a better look at the scene. Mangled chickens were strewn carelessly about, and judging from how the corn plants were tamped down, something had been laying here—perhaps for several nights.
As he surveyed the area, a welter of thoughts came to him, none of them pleasant.
First off, this was no bear. His father had taken him hunting when he was younger and Martin had seen his share of bears. Making a home out in the open like this was not animal behavior. Whatever was out here had known that the harvest season was over and its resting place was unlikely to be discovered.
Secondly, it was clever—dangerously so. Martin followed the path of its retreat with his eyes. The corn was battered and broken in a straight line for what looked to be twenty or thirty feet in the direction it had retreated. Past that, he could still see a bit of blood on the stalks, but no other evidence of its passing.
Martin had the horrible feeling that his adversary had just made a clever feint. He was sweating now, even in the cool autumn morning. Swiping his arm across his forehead, he cursed. Even now, he could see it. He runs—he's got to; he knows I'm onto him. Makes a hell of a lot of noise to show me that he's really going . . .
His breath quickened and he could feel his pulse hammering in his temples. He was screwed. It had never left at all. He could see it in his mind's eye, running at a rapid pace one moment and slipping into concealment the next—slow and deliberate movements concealed by the breeze. He had no idea of what it was, but he pictured it circling around, moving with deadly stealth, stalking him . . . His imagination continued on, despite his best attempts to stop the scenario. He could see his own back, where he was still crouched in the small clearing like a fool—why had he lowered his guard? It approached within springing distance and . . .
Martin screamed and whirled, swinging his sword wildly as he lurched to his feet. Several plants fell to his vicious assault, but aside from that, there was nothing there. His brilliant blue eyes darted to and fro in a vain attempt to confirm his initial impression.
Nothing.
The young soldier released a half-sigh/half-sob of relief and tried to calm his nerves. There was nothing there. He was really alone. And he had wasted far too much time here. He had to get back to the captain and report his findings.
So intent was Martin on his thoughts that he failed to notice a change in the rustling of the corn. There was another noise beneath it, more deliberate and measured—the deadly quiet of dry husks being crushed underfoot.
Only when a menacing shadow fell over him, did Martin understand what had happened.
"Sir, did you hear that?"
Gaav was in the process of fording a stream. Knee deep in water, he paused and turned. A noise had just disrupted the quiet harmony of the morning. A scream, by the sound of it, but very faint. He puffed slowly on his ever-present cigar and considered the possibilities. "Just a bird, Walters," he concluded after a moment. "Keep moving." He turned, but before he could take two steps, Walters interrupted again.
"Captain, I don't think that was a bird."
The first hints of a headache stirred within his skull. Count to ten, Gaav told himself. Give it time to settle in and you'll enjoy pulling his head off even more. Oh, that was a soothing thought. Except, it would be infuriatingly inconvenient to lose his second at the moment.
The fact that Walters was voicing concerns that had been nagging at him all morning did nothing to make him feel better; on the contrary, it felt like having a second conscience nagging at him. Unfortunately for Walters, however, he was a conscience that could be silenced by a hand around his throat. The idea was immensely appealing.
Still, he was on the trail of the perps and, as much as he loathed admitting it, he needed Walters for the immediate future. He beckoned his subordinate over with a crooked finger. "Sergeant, a word." He grinned wickedly when he saw Walters' reluctance to move. The officer had to be wondering if this was the time that he had finally pushed Gaav too far.
Finally, Walters resigned himself to his fate and waded out to where the captain waited. He struggled slightly, the water coming up to mid-thigh.
Counting on the noise of the water to obscure their discussion from the men on shore, Gaav growled, "Insubordination, Walters?"
Walters blanched, but to his credit, his fear never reached his voice. "No, sir. It's just that it sounded like Martin."
"I concur. And I don't care," Gaav replied. "Davis can check it out; that's why he's back there. We're moving on." The captain's instincts nagged at him; this was a reckless decision from a tactical standpoint. His squad had been decimated and further dividing them could be dangerous. However, he was not going to risk losing his quarry by marching the entire group back. Gabriev was a deserter and a traitor—two qualities that Gaav despised. Worthless men like Gabriev had done more damage during the war than the enemy. They were cowardly insufferable creatures and deserved nothing more than a miserable death.
Gaav's lips curled in a snarl at the thought. He was this close to grinding Gabriev beneath his heel and another obstacle had been laid in his path. And like most other mishaps on this mission, this could be chalked up to improper leadership by . . .
An infuriating voice, dripping with petulant indignance, called out, "What seems to be the problem here?"
"Speak of the Dark Lord and he shall appear . . ." Gaav muttered under his breath. He and his subordinate both looked up to see Inquisitor Lemner gingerly making her way out into the water. She had her robes bunched up in her hands in an attempt to keep them dry; all she really managed to do was give the men a look at her legs.
"I was unaware that there was a problem," Gaav growled.
Lemner glanced down at her thoroughly soaked vestments thoughtfully. Finally, she apparently decided that the damage was already done and released them. "Let's step onto shore and talk, captain."
"No," Gaav immediately retorted.
Both Lemner and Walters seemed taken aback by Gaav's impertinence. Walters was unable to conceal a gasp and Lemner's mouth hung open in utter disbelief.
Frustration over the events of the past few days churned just below the surface of Gaav's consciousness, but he somehow managed to keep his face a frightening mask of neutrality. He hated this woman with a passion. Although she was technically above him in the chain of command—Shabranigdo take her—she was a pathetic leader and lacked the merest inkling of how to run a squad. Not to mention the fact that she had gotten more than a few of his best men killed in the previous day's work by second guessing his orders and marching them into a sloppy ambush.
"Well," Lemner said with an infuriating huff, "I'll be sure to report this insubordination to my superiors when we return!" Her face split in a wicked grin, revealing two rows of crooked teeth. Gaav imagined that a shark smelling blood in the water might grin like that; it seemed that there was something likeable about her after all.
"You're holding up my pursuit, captain," she continued, her smile widening if that was possible.
The headache that had been a whisper before was quickly whipping itself into something more. Gaav felt a steady throbbing in his temples and snarled, "Better to take it slow than have any more mistakes like yesterday, I think."
"Sir, if I may," Walters chimed in, "I don't think this is something Davis should investigate on his—"
"Don't second guess me," Gaav snapped. He turned his attention back to the infuriating woman before him and added, "That goes for you too. If you think you're in charge here, you're sorely mistaken. Your pretty little dress and rules don't mean a goddamn thing out here."
"Dress!" she sputtered indignantly. "These are the vestments of an Inquisitor!"
"They look like wet rags to me," Gaav pointed out with no small amount of satisfaction. The robes were almost certainly ruined by the rough treatment they had received over the past few days and this stupid little woman still clung to them as if they meant something. Had his skull not been pounding, it would have been laughable.
Lemner drew herself up to her full imposing height of four feet and eleven inches and explained, "Mister Gaav, I will have you know that the robes of an Inquisitor of the Holy Church of Ceiphied are one of the most prestigious—"
"Shut up!" he roared in response. That had the blissful effect of momentarily cowing her. Before she could find her voice and launch into another tirade, he snapped his gaze around to Walters. The smaller man cowered and took a step back, but luckily for him, Gaav was more interested in work than punishment. "Move them out! The sooner we get this garbage over with, the sooner we all get to go home!"
"Rezo the Red was one of the more visible High Priests in our history; most of them have been rather reclusive—the current one more than most, but that's not important right now.
"Back in the days of Rezo the Red, things were a lot stricter than they are even now. Citizens were required to attend multiple prayer services a day and were even denied the right to carry weapons. I guess you could say they were like cattle in a way, constantly being shuffled here and there on the whim of the church."
"That's rough."
"Yeah, but it was a very peaceful time in the empire. It kinda makes me wonder sometimes. Would we all be better off if someone like that was still in charge? There wouldn't be as much corruption in the church; that much is certain. And maybe some things would be different." Lina fetched a deep sigh as she thought about Luna. Would things be different now if her sister had the open support of the church instead of having to work from the shadows? Would the Eternal Twilight have even taken place if the church had been more vigilant? Her hand slipped into her pocket to find the crest that Luna had left her. She traced the familiar outline etched in the gold with her thumb as she slipped deeper into her thoughts.
"Lina?" Gourry whispered.
Lina shook her head and smiled at her companion. "It's nothing." Before he had time to question further, she launched back into her lecture. "Rezo the Red's reign wasn't uneventful though. The empire was at peace, but there were those who frowned on such things. The Serpent, for one. One of Deep Sea Dolphin's servants."
"Like . . . the fish!" Gourry asked, a bit of incredulity creeping into his voice.
"She's utterly mad, Gourry—one of the four servants of Shabranigdo. Hellmaster was the greatest of these, but he had three younger siblings: Dynast Grausherra, who preys on humanity's greed and envy. Zelas, whose domain covers . . . baser instincts." Lina shuddered at the memory of her encounter with Zelas. She was a bit surprised to note that she was feeling a bit of guilt. Even if it had been under duress, she had betrayed Gourry.
Davis envied his comrades, in spite of the fact that they were running with the captain snapping at their heels. He would have much preferred to be out there doing something useful. Anything to distract him from the stinking corpse a few feet away. Not to mention the yell. Something was happening.
Uttering a vulgar epithet under his breath, Davis stomped irately to the edge of clearing. If he focused on being angry, it kept his mind off how nervous he was. His hands trembled and he started at every small noise in the forest. He was a city boy, no doubt about it. Born and raised in Sairaag, he suspected that the captain had chosen him for this job because he had a mean streak a mile wide and a modicum of skill with a sword. He was a rare one.
Most of the guards were too young to remember the last war, with the notable exception of Gaav and a few others. The captain, now approaching fifty, had been in his early twenties when the fighting ended. Although his skill was said to be legendary, there had been little reason or opportunity to test his ability in recent years.
For that matter, no guard had much reason to be proficient. Since violence erupted in the fair city of Sairaag so rarely, most of their knowledge of swordsmanship could be summed up with, "Try to put the pointy end in the opponent and deny him the opportunity to do the same to you."
Snorting derisively at the thought of the more untalented members of his company, Davis unsheathed his blade. "Martin?" His voice came back to him, sounding almost as if it were mocking him. However, Martin did not answer.
He took another step away from the corpse and paused, a scowl fixed on his face. The camp was just under the trees. Beyond the forest, a strip of waist high grass waved quietly in the breeze—and then, the corn. Davis found himself hesitant to leave the forest. It was incredibly open out there under the blue sky.
"Martin!" he called again, irritation slipping into his voice this time. That little bastard was probably in the farmhouse shooting the breeze with that boy. It was an easy excuse and somehow, it never occurred to him that neither Martin nor the kid were likely to be terribly chatty at the news of a death.
Davis's lips curled in a cruel snarl. Here he was hollering like a fool while Martin was taking it easy. Muttering all sorts of dark things under his breath, he strode headlong into the field. As he walked, he ran through the ass chewing he was going to give the rookie. The little slacker was in a great deal of trouble. A mean grin split his face, revealing ugly yellow teeth; the thought of punishing Martin made him feel a bit better.
It was nigh impossible to see the ground; the grass seemed to cling to his body as he waded through it. He was still surprised when he stumbled though. Davis felt a sharp pain in his thigh as he put weight on his leg. He overbalanced and toppled to the ground. His sword flew free of his fingers; an instant later, it was eagerly devoured by the rustling grass.
Davis lay there for a moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His leg was on fire with one bastard of a charley horse and it hurt like hell. Hissing through gritted teeth, he reached down to massage feeling back into the protesting muscle. He fumbled around for a moment finding nothing but air. Reaching a little higher, his hand found pulsating warmth.
"The . . . hell . . .?" Davis muttered as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He looked down at himself. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he squeezed his eyes shut. No, there was no way that could be right . . . he was just seeing things. He came back to himself long enough to take a second look. His initial impression had been correct: his right leg from just above his knee on down was just gone.
It took him a moment to react and then only because the pain jolted him back to himself. He clapped a hand over the wound even as his mind raced. He was bleeding to death. Unable to think of anything else to do, he pressed down hard on the injury and barked in pain as a fresh jolt of agony shot up his leg.
How had this happened? If he was going to die, he wanted to know why at least. Blinking through the haze that had begun to cloud his vision, he studied the wound. Not a sword stroke, he concluded after a moment. The cut would have been . . .
Davis woke up again an indeterminable amount of time later. It could have been five seconds or five years. Judging by the fact that he was still bleeding, it was probably closer to the first guesstimate.
But, really, did it matter? Davis was tired and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that legs were overrated. Legs were not really necessary to lie down and enjoy a nice day, were they? He could find no flaw in his logic, so he released his grip on his leg and lay back. It was pretty chilly out; he was shaking like a leaf. He gazed up at the sun overhead, his eyes glazing over. The sky was a lovely shade of blue and the sun was high. Then why was it so cold? If he could just lie here a moment, he was sure that he would warm up. Then he could go for help. Yes, that was what he would do. Just rest a bit. It made perfect sense . . .
Davis came to one last time to hear the rustling of corn and feel dry plant matter beneath his back. His vision was almost gone, but he got the merest glimpse of something in front of him, dragging him through the rows.
"They split off, sir. See?" Chase, one of the more eager men on this mission, practically hopped from foot to foot as he pointed to the tracks in the mud. He was an infuriating little man, and it angered Gaav more than a bit that the little mongrel was so excited about finding a complication in their pursuit.
The crimson haired giant nodded once, silently commanding Chase to step back and shut up. Thankfully, the tracker got the hint and retreated to the relative safety of his compatriots' company. Gaav knelt down with a grunt of discomfort; his left knee popped irritatingly. He absentmindedly kneaded the protesting joint as he took in the seemingly random pattern of tracks in the mud before him.
Upon first glance, this appeared to be an animal trail; a wide assemblage of tracks crossed and re-crossed one another leading to the river a few hundred yards back. But, hidden amidst the marks of deer and other assorted beasts, human tracks could be discerned. And that was where things got intriguing.
Gaav made a disgusted little noise in the back of his throat and withdrew one of his innumerable cigars from within his coat; he hated intriguing. It's usually a lot of extra work for the same payoff, he groused.
The group had split, as Chase had noted. If he really was following Gabriev (and he had no reason to doubt that fact), his were the heaviest prints—spaced widely apart and sort of listing from side to side. Another smaller set followed these; he had been moving with great haste and dragging someone behind him—the redhead, if he had to make a guess. Gabriev had been quite protective of her in their last encounter.
But, why the haste? Gaav's scrunched up his brow in irritation. They had several hours lead on him, which meant that they probably had no idea they were being pursued. Something else had spooked them, then. The farmer? No, Gabriev could have taken that man apart with little effort, if he were so inclined.
Two sets of smaller footprints—Gabriev's other companions, no doubt—branched off to the left; unlike Gabriev and his companion, these two seemed to have no quarrel; both sets were widely spaced, as if they had been running together.
"Damn it," Gaav snarled, almost biting through his cigar. His orders were clear: the dark haired young lady was his first priority, even at the loss of Gabriev and the others. Far from being happy with his clear-cut orders, he was furious. Gabriev was a deserter, a traitor, and just a massive pain in the ass in general; he could not even count the number of migraines the guard had given him during his short tenure. The very idea of letting him go in favor of chasing down some little girl made him see red.
He stood and stretched, popping his back before turning to regard the troops. Lemner glared at him silently, but he easily ignored her. People had done much worse than glare at him in his time. As long as she remained silent, she was tolerable.
Infuriatingly, the number of his handpicked squad had dwindled from fourteen to eight in the last forty-eight hours. Four had been lost in the previous day's operation. Martin and Davis were currently incommunicado and, he assumed, gone; they should have caught up by now. If Gaav had access to his entire department, as he was accustomed, he would have sent a squad back to check on his wayward troops. He was a stern and cruel man at times, but a good soldier was a good soldier and he hated losing them.
The sad fact of the matter was that he could only count on the men he saw before him. And although his instincts screamed that further division of the group was ill advised, his orders were clear: the circus girl was the top priority. However, his duty to Sairaag demanded that Gabriev and his cohort be brought to justice as well. A lot of innocents had been endangered in their little coup attempt.
"Chase!" he bellowed, "take two men and follow them." He pointed in the direction that the acrobat had fled. "Catch up after you've finished." The part of his order that was clearest was the part left unsaid: there would be no arrests made. This entire mission was about sweeping the undesirable element under the rug.
He watched as Chase nodded at the two men closest to him before darting off, intent as a hound on the hunt. They would be back shortly with any luck at all.
"Walters," he growled, nodding down the alternate trail.
Walters glanced at the retreating backs of Chase and the others and then turned his puzzled gaze back to his commanding officer. Judging by his expression, he had been thinking the same thing about splitting their group.
"Captain's prerogative," Gaav said with a grin. "Let's go. The day's wasting."
Gourry had been relieved when Lina started talking. For the life of him, he could not follow her; she was listing off names left and right—names of people he would probably never meet. Why would he need to know these people if they were going to have no impact on his life? Still, he listened all the same. Listening to his Lina talk was soothing. He gazed at her intently—reading her emotions, marveling at the hue the rising sun cast on her face, and most importantly, forgetting what he had done that night.
He was in the ideal position to watch her; laying back and using her lap as a pillow, there was no reason not to look. She was right there. And because of that, he caught the slight furrowing of her brow—the half frown that indicated doubt more than thought. He reached up and clumsily stroked her cheek with numb fingers. He almost poked her in the eye, but instead of getting mad, Lina grinned. She grabbed his wrist and gave him a playful little peck on the back of his hand before releasing him.
Gourry grinned momentarily in the instant before reality hit home. Sensation below the wrist still eluded him. What good was a warrior whose sword hand was dead?
That was enough of that though. "The dolphin lady?" he gently prodded. Even if comprehension currently eluded him, Lina seemed to have some inkling of what was wrong with him. He just hoped that she would get around to it before he nodded off. He was so tired lately.
"Oh. Right. Where was I . . .?" Lina muttered, momentarily taken aback. Her face suddenly lit up with comprehension and she exclaimed, "Oh yeah! Anyway, the youngest was Dolphin. And, as I said, she's just mad. That's not her true name, but it's how she introduced herself the one time she came into contact with mortals. That's a story for another day though."
"Oh. Okay. What's today's story again?"
"Rezo the Red and the Serpent!"
Gourry grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah."
"Rezo was tireless in his efforts to better the empire. Whenever the first murmurs of unrest could be heard, he'd be there within days to cool the populace's ire. He was a brilliant diplomat—very zealous, very inspiring. He's the only reason that the people tolerated the strict edicts passed by the church in those days."
"So what happened?"
"The Serpent happened. Nobody knows how it came about, but the Serpent somehow found a way to our world. The forces of Shabranigdo live only to usurp Ceiphied's influence. And the Serpent was obsessed with unmaking all that Rezo had done. It hounded him day and night, harrying him and undoing all the good that he'd worked for. Every pocket of unrest that the High Priest soothed redoubled in its unrest a few days after his passing."
"How?" Gourry interjected. "You said the priest guy was really popular, right?"
Lina fetched a sigh. "I don't know, Gourry. I wasn't there, but according to the story, the Serpent had these . . . these . . ."
Gourry watched as Lina struggled to find the word she wanted. She gesticulated in frustration, her hands opening and closing a few inches in front of her breasts. He lost himself momentarily and found himself on the verge of reaching up to caress them. His keen sense of self-preservation saved him, however; Lina was in lecture mode right now, and such actions might not go over very well.
Lina snapped her fingers and blurted, "Assets!"
"Assets?" Gourry dubiously echoed.
"Assets," Lina repeated more confidently. "The Serpent had great assets. You know, powers. Like the mysterious ability to twist human will, for instance. The very sound of its voice was said to drive men mad."
"That's pretty scary."
"And it got worse, Gourry. While Rezo had been strict before, it was nothing compared to what he did in the wake of the Serpent's manipulations. He tightened his grip on the populace, even going so far as to execute people hapless enough to be out after curfew. He performed a lot of the executions himself." She nodded at the Sword of Light. "Using that. And that's when people started noticing the change. The Sword of Light had always been a symbol of divinity and purity. But, after he started the executions, people noticed a change—a taint in the sword. It took on a bloody hue, as if reminding Rezo of the innocent lives he'd ended."
Gourry realized that he was holding his breath and exhaled loudly. The farmer from before, was he innocent too? Gourry had spent his life helping people and derived no pleasure from killing. Thinking back on the situation, there were at least a dozen ways he could have resolved it without bloodshed. Even in the dark, he could have incapacitated instead of killing. But, the thought of losing Lina . . . in some dark part of his mind, he had wanted to make the farmer suffer for forcing him to consider that possibility.
He shook his head. No, his actions had just been a bad judgment on his part. Split second decisions had to be made sometimes, and it was better to err on the side of caution.
And Lina was still here, wasn't she? So, the right choice had been made. Admittedly she was a little bloody and battered, but when was she not? Gourry felt a sudden urge to kiss her. Seeing no need to deny that urge (and honestly, not that eager to find one), he rolled up to a sitting position. A moment later, he had slipped his arm around Lina and dipped her back.
Her expression quickly turned from one of surprise to quiet contemplation as she looked up at him.
"What?" he asked, suddenly uncomfortable. Her gaze was intense and he had the strange notion that she was searching his face for something.
"You," she said quietly as she extended her hand towards his face, "are going to have such a time getting all this stuff out of your hair." She reached past his cheek and plucked an errant leaf from somewhere behind his ear. Gourry was not the least bit surprised to see that it was red. "That's what you get for laying down, Jellyfish."
"Yeah, well, coming from a girl with blood in her hair, that doesn't mean much," he replied with a grin. Before she could protest, he leaned in and kissed her needily.
Chase shook his head in wonderment, took a second look at the scene before him, and groaned. "What in the hell happened here?"
The trail had been easy enough to follow and he had been quick in his pursuit. His two companions—Jones and Cain—had been able to keep up with little difficulty, which was another welcome bonus. But, just when he thought things were going to be easy, it started getting weird.
The two fugitives had been running full speed through the forest and making no attempt to conceal their movements. The odd part was that a third set of tracks fell into pursuit of the first pair about a quarter mile back. That in itself was strange. Chase could not imagine who would already be in pursuit. He briefly considered the possibility that another of the fugitives' group was trying to catch up with them, but quickly discarded that theory; he had been on the trail since the pursuit had begun. And all false modesty aside, he was an excellent tracker. It was highly improbable that he could have missed a fifth group member. He ruled out any members of his unit as well; the odds of another SCG patrol picking up the trail this soon was negligible at best.
If that had been the most vexing part, Chase would have shrugged it off and kept going without a second thought. But, the simple truth of the matter was that this new set of tracks was just wrong. They made no sense. As an experiment, had tried to put his feet in their place. After taking a few steps, he had stumbled, unable to mimic the bizarre and twisted gait of the tracks.
The way the right print was twisted indicated a pretty serious deformity, but at the same time, the spacing indicated long strides. The image that came to mind was strange, to say the least—an old man with a bad leg hobbling along the path, but at the pace of a youth sprinting at full speed.
The day had been one puzzle after another, and now this . . .
The narrow path had finally opened up a bit into a small clearing of sorts, revealing a new scene of carnage. Not bloody, thankfully enough, although the scraps of maroon cloth scattered about the area momentarily gave that impression. No, this used to be a pack of gear, but something had been in it. The contents were now carelessly strewn about.
"Ah reckon ah know," Jones drawled.
Chase and Cain looked over at him, hopeful expressions on their faces.
"These fellas was chicken thieves, right?" Jones said with a nod. He knelt down and picked up a scrap of burgundy cloth. "Yep, ah reckon ah kin tell what happened. They stole too many chickens, doncha think?"
"You . . . um . . ." Chase shook his head and barely suppressed a chuckle. "Jones, are you suggesting that their bag exploded because it was overfilled . . . with chickens?" He wondered if the statement sounded as stupid to hear as it felt to say.
Apparently not to Jones, as he grinned crookedly and nodded. "Ah reckon."
"You know, he might actually be right," Cain chimed in with a mischievous grin.
"Really?" Jones's chest puffed out ever so slightly at the compliment.
"Yeah, man! I heard about something like this up near Atlas City. The damn chicken thieves never read the warning labels on the bags! They get greedy, overfill, and bam!" Cain slammed his fist into his palm for emphasis. "That's all she wrote!"
Normally Chase was a fairly easygoing guy, but the entire situation had set him on edge. "Cain, knock it off! Jones, he's just screwing with you," he snapped.
"Oh," Jones flatly replied. He seemed to deflate a bit and stared down at the scrap of cloth in his hand for a long moment. His head suddenly shot up and he asked, "If it didn't pop, why do ya reckon everythin's all tore up then?"
"Not everything, buddy," Cain corrected with a wolfish grin as he rummaged through the pack. "Have a look at this! I'd like to meet the gal who filled this baby out!" He produced a bright green, and totally undamaged, chemise with a flourish. Judging by the bright color and cut of the material, it was designed to draw attention to the wearer; the wearer in this case must have been a rather chesty girl—a circus performer, perhaps.
Which, conveniently enough, was who they were searching for, Chase realized. He was unable to shake the feeling, however, that they had stumbled into something bigger. Their mission had been unpleasant—wholesale slaughter was never enjoyable—but it should have been fairly cut and dried. The fact that they were still losing men and had lost a few of their targets was troubling.
"Ah wonder why only the boy's clothes got tore up," Jones mused aloud.
Startled out of his thoughts, Chase shot his companion a questioning look. "Boy?"
"Ah reckon," Jones replied with a nod. He held up the tattered remains of a burgundy top—half a sleeve and the shredded body of the garment. "Too small to be that gal's, doncha think?"
"Yeah . . ." Chase muttered in response. As he looked around the clearing, he was suddenly struck by how much shredded red clung to the foliage. Red, and only red.
"Gourry," Lina managed to blurt between insistent and needy kisses, "hold up." He mumbled something vaguely negative in response and kissed her again. Working her arms between their bodies, she managed to push him back, slightly. "Hang on, bait for brains!" she chided. A few moments of fumbling and twisting later and she was on her feet looking down at him.
The swordsman looked hurt to have his affections spurned in such a manner and Lina thought she saw the slightest hint of anger darken his features. It might have been a trick of the light though, because a moment later it was gone. Her imagination or something more sinister, she could not say, but it made her uneasy. One thing she knew for certain was she had better have a good explanation for him. And "You're making me really uncomfortable" might not be the best way to justify her actions.
"Look," she sighed, "we really need to keep going. Amelia's out there somewhere, and she's probably scared out of her mind. I didn't really give much explanation when I sent her off last night." She blushed a bit as she added, "Besides, what if she wandered in while we were . . . um . . . 'busy'?"
"Well, I'd hate for her to feel left out, I guess . . ."
Lina shot Gourry a smoldering glare before catching the sad half smile on his face. It had been a joke, even if his dour demeanor and flat tone had made it sound otherwise. At least he was making an effort to lighten the mood. Still . . .
She pounced on him with all the ferocity of a mountain cat, and an instant later had him trapped in what she knew had to be a painful headlock. "What's that supposed to mean!" she demanded, adding a bit more torque to her technique.
Gourry flailed helplessly in her grip. "Ow! Nothing!" his muffled voice responded.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," she grumbled. She begrudgingly loosened her grip on him ever so slightly, allowing her companion a modicum of oxygen. "No more talk about that," she chided. "I'm not in the mood, we need to find Amelia, and . . ." Her face lit up and she unconsciously gave Gourry's neck a painful little twist. "I haven't finished my story yet! You wanna hear the rest of that, right? Of course you do!"
Her protector retorted with a dry, "Yay," and what might have been a halfhearted attempt at a thumbs up. His fingers were immobile and lifeless and his thumb pointed upwards only by virtue of the fact that his hand was turned that way.
Lina stared at his fingers for a moment, feeling her momentary spurt of enthusiasm drain out of her. Sighing heavily, she released her grip on him. "Gourry, why did you do it?"
Gourry winced in pain as he rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. "Do what?"
"Kill that guy."
Gourry froze at her question, his hand still resting on the back of his neck. Well, not totally—he surreptitiously slipped his right hand behind his back, as if concealing evidence of a crime.
Lina saw it though, and she recognized a momentary flash of anger in Gourry's eyes; her scrutiny had not gone unnoticed.
"I . . . didn't have a choice," he protested after a long moment of hesitation.
"What?"
"He was going to kill you, Lina."
Gourry stood and Lina was suddenly struck by how tall and imposing he was. His height and muscular frame had been comforting to her before; there was something reassuring about being in his arms—not that she needed protecting or anything like that, she hastily clarified. But now . . .
She uttered a surprised little noise as he suddenly leaned forward and embraced her. His normally gentle touch had given way to desperate desire and he crushed her to himself. "You're all I have left," Gourry explained, fear slipping into his voice. "If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe."
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps the aches and pains that had become all too prevalent of late—in any case, Lina heard words being spoken: harsh words. It was another moment before she understood that she was the one doing the talking. And by that point, she no longer cared.
"Yeah," Lina scathingly retorted, "including offing innocent farmers. Gee, Gourry, why don't you kill a couple kids while you're at it? You never know what they'll grow up to be like!" She winced when his grip tightened.
Gourry shook his head emphatically. "You don't understand."
"You could've disarmed him easily!"
"It was dark . . ."
"The Slayers credo forbids the killing of innocents!"
Gourry snorted quietly. "I'm not a Slayer. And how do you know he was innocent?"
"How do you know he wasn't! And you're a former guard, Gourry! How can you say those things!" Lina fired back. "You said you didn't like taking lives! What about that? This isn't like you at all!"
Lina felt Gourry's grip slacken slightly and for a moment, she thought that she might have gotten through to him. However, when he spoke again, his voice was like ice.
"Lina, you just don't get it." Gourry gently laid a hand on her chin and tilted it up until she was looking at him. "That guy, he wanted to take you away from me." His expression turned grim and he added, "I couldn't let that happen."
He said only one thing more, but it sent a chill down Lina's spine like nothing else her companion had uttered.
"Nobody will ever take anything from me again."
Next Chapter: Hindered in body and spirit, Gourry's seen better days. And with Lina facing a plight of her own, he's left alone to deal with his own demons, both external and internal.
Notes: This chapter has gone through several major revisions, most notably the writing in of Inquisitor Lemner after it was ready to post two weeks ago. What can I say? Kaitrin is a horrible person for making good suggestions at the most inconvenient times (I kid, Kait. You know I love your help!).
In any case, I enjoyed writing her. She added another facet to the motives of the pursuers, she's willful and talky (always fun), and maybe best of all, she gave Gaav some sorely lacking friction. I don't think he'd ever really been challenged before this chapter and it should be fun to see where it goes.
As always, thank you very much to my reviewer, Kaitrin. She's a far better author than I, and I strongly recommend you check out some of her works.
Reviewer Response:
How's the head, Sis? You don't have any lingering ill effects from its sudden collapse, I hope!
Kaitrin, thanks again for your help. You're totally right about this stuff being miles better than the previous junk. Although the setting and mystery element were fun, and I'd like to tackle them again one day . . .
Ichiban, thank you for your patience with the story (and everything else for that matter!). Hmm, to answer your question, Gaav's mission will be revealed in the next chapter. Hmm, that wasn't really an answer, was it? Oh well . . . And how much money will you be requiring to keep silent about my more humiliating blunders, anyway?
Miss Gabriev, I write as fast as I can, but usually end up going through multiple drafts of every chapter so it takes time. Which makes me wonder, has anyone noticed a significant difference in quality since I started working harder with each chapter? Anyways, don't be so quick to dismiss Lina as distrustful of Zel. What you saw was in Amelia's head and might not reflect reality at all . . .
Thank you very much for the praise, Raven. It's always a wonderful pick me up to hear that my work is "well written".
Brenda, I'd love to have more fanart for the story! If you'd like to drop me a line sometime to get the details on their looks, my e-mail is listed in my profile and, should you prefer, I can also be reached by AIM: Filing Sloth (aren't I the creative one?)
Stara, Lina actually mentioned the brooch in an early draft of the last chapter, but it didn't flow so well, as she had other things to think about, as you pointed out. In the next chapter, there's more light shed on Lina's thoughts about her sister though.
Masaki, thanks for the kind words! And yeah, it is getting darker, but I'm trying to keep the humor in it where I can. And, yes, Sylphiel will make her not so dramatic return two or three chapters down the road.
Always a pleasure to meet a new reader, Mr. Seeker! Well, in all honesty the story started out as a one-chapter idea—Lina vs. the vampire. Since then, it's grown, and although I have a general idea of where it's going, the twists surprise me as well. As for Zel, think of it less as Grou building himself a new body and more like him making himself at home in Zel's.
Thanks for reading, Rin Chan!
Until next time, everyone! Thanks for stopping by!