The roaring was endless—twin waterfalls spaced a mile apart, endlessly plunging hundreds of feet to the river below—then they flowed together again, moving through Sairaag and finally out to sea.
Lina Inverse sat on the edge of the cliff, carelessly dangling her feet over the side and wearing a quiet smile that cut through her concerns like a hot knife through butter. This was a good place—a beautiful place. There were many fond memories here.
The sheer cliff face plunged straight down. A fall would certainly be lethal, but she had never been afraid. On the contrary, when she was here, she was fearless and felt if she could take flight. It was a silly idea—flight was an impossible dream, based on a child's belief in magic—but that made it no less appealing.
The view was breathtaking; at the base of the wall trees dotted the landscape and gradually gave way to farmland. Beyond lay the city itself, sprawling out until it touched the sea. This place—the memories, the landscape—never failed to leave her speechless. Well, at least for a few minutes. "These are the Tears of Ceiphied!" she explained to her laconic companion, almost shouting to be heard over the roar of falling water. "Twin waterfalls that supposedly represent the Flare Dragon's sympathy for humanity and its weakness. Quite a sight, huh?"
Contrary to what she had been hoping for, Gourry gave the spectacular scene before him a cursory look, acknowledged it with a terse little nod, and went back to his vigil without a word.
Gourry's reaction underscored the fact that he had changed; before, he probably would have grinned—she missed seeing him happy so much—and asked any number of stupid and inexplicably endearing questions. Instead, he was an impassive statue, constantly keeping watch. He loomed over her, just waiting for some excuse to snatch her up and spirit her away from danger; he had not strayed more than two feet from her side since their argument earlier.
It's like having an obsessive shadow, Lina thought glumly. "Hey," she said, patting a spot on the edge beside her, "Sit down. I wanna talk to you."
"I can talk from here," he replied, never taking his eyes off the surrounding trees.
"Sit down. Now." Lina jabbed the dirt beside her for emphasis.
Apparently, Gourry decided whatever unspeakable doom lurking in the woods was not quite as frightening as an irate Lina; He quickly scrambled to sit down beside her, almost overbalancing and taking what would have been a lethal tumble down the mountain.
Lina laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Hey, careful," she chided, a wry grin creeping onto her face. "Are you that desperate to get away from me?"
Gourry shot her a questioning look and the sunlight revealed exactly how dark and bloodshot his eyes were. Apparently, he was no less perceptive than normal, as he read the humor in his companion's face and chuckled.
In that instant, Lina saw the man she cared for; he might be hiding behind pain, sorrow, and hate, but he was still there. And that was immensely comforting. She scooted closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh of contentment.
Thankfully, Gourry did not put his arm around her. She enjoyed his touch of course (so long as nobody else was around to see), but sometimes it was nice to be able to enjoy his presence on her terms. He was far more physical, but she asserted her claim upon him with no less enthusiasm.
This place was full of happy memories of a time before darkness had fallen. A smile slowly spread across Lina's face as she eagerly plunged into treasured personal history. She could almost hear the joyful laughter of two girls. Yes, even Luna—strict, structured, and irritatingly logical—could laugh. Somehow, that fact managed to surprise Lina every time she remembered it.
"She brought me up here once; my sister, I mean," Lina quietly said. If Gourry could hear her, he gave no indication. She might have been drowned out by the roar of the waterfall a few feet away. It did not really matter, though. "We were both kids at the time, but she was already taking care of me. I was feeling kinda sad back then, you know?"
"Yeah?"
Lina glanced up and found Gourry looking back down at her. He was listening then. And aside from the dark smudges under his eyes from a lack of sleep, he was himself—sweet and kind Gourry Gabriev. He might not remember tomorrow what she was talking about, but that was part of what made it so easy to open up to him.
Her smile swelled and receded in the space of a few seconds. "Mom and Dad were gone, Sis was working to take care of us, and I was . . ." Lina swallowed hard. "I was pretty miserable. Feeling useless and helpless. I wanted to run away, because I thought I was a burden on Sis. I never got to see her, as much as she was working. I thought she hated me." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts and looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful day with nary a cloud to be seen.
"And . . .?" Gourry gently prodded her ribs with his elbow.
"Oh. Um, anyway, one day, she told me we were going on a trip. I don't know how she could afford to leave her job like that; we were living lean and spent ever copper we had on food. For her to take that much time, I think she must have had something stashed away for a rainy day."
"Why would anyone go on a trip when it was raining . . .?" Gourry mused.
"It's just an expression, bait for brains."
"Oh."
"Anyway, we ended up here. That day we spent together was one of the best of my life."
Gourry smiled warmly. "That's nice. What'd you do?"
"Absolutely nothing!" Lina replied with a chuckle. "Well, not really nothing, but nothing of any merit whatsoever. Which, if you knew my Sis, you'd know was a pretty big accomplishment for her."
"Oh." Gourry was unable to hide his bewilderment and grinned at her sheepishly.
"Well, what I mean is that we didn't do anything important," Lina replied in answer to his unspoken question. "We fished, picked flowers—she showed me a few plants that were edible—and best of all, just talked."
Gourry nodded in understanding. "Oh yeah, I know how much you like doing that." He shied away a bit when he caught the scowl on her face. "What?"
"I don't talk that much," Lina grumbled. After being so rudely interrupted, she paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. Thoughts about her sister led to memories best left buried—Luna's murder. Those memories blurred and bled into their most recent encounter. And then, her train of thought spiraled down to a terminus; the murky uncertainty of the future loomed before her, like a wall of darkness.
There was no real use in thinking too far ahead. She was very much a "Burn bridges when you come to them" sort of woman. And yet, she was going home to . . . what? Murder her sister? That was the obvious answer. Luna had become the very thing they had both fought to destroy.
Of course, it seemed so simple in theory. Kill a vampire? Pfft. All in a day's work for Slayer extraordinaire, Lina Inverse. Still, there was the minor quibble that said vampire had taught Lina every skill she possessed. And said skills had always been lacking in Luna's eyes.
She fetched a deep sigh; well, no sense in dwelling on it now.
"Two days to Sairaag, I'd guess," she coolly explained "assuming we try to avoid the main roads. I mean, we can't keep off of them forever. At the very least we've got to head upstream a bit and cross at the bridge, for instance." She glanced over at the river roaring along a few feet away and frowned. "No, we definitely can't ford it. That's for sure. I think we might want to—"
"Lina?"
"What?" Lina glared at Gourry, irked at the interruption.
Gourry easily deflected her glare by nodding at her hand. When she glanced down at it, she had the sudden sensation that she had been kicked in the stomach. Lying in her open palm, glinting in the midday sun, was the brooch Sis had given her. She stared at it for a moment before willing her fingers to close. She found herself praying that her hand would stay steady. It was a pointless effort; her expression must have revealed her feelings as plainly as if she had spoken them aloud.
"You don't have to be scared," Gourry gently explained. He reached over and took her hand with his good one, hiding the brooch from her view.
"Who's scared!" Lina demanded with a great deal of false bravado.
Normally, Gourry would have said something foolish to escalate the tension; Lina found herself fervently hoping that he might mention how much she was shaking or—Ceiphied take her for admitting it, even to herself—how she was on the verge of tears. She glared into his eyes, silently pleading with him to challenge her. She wanted so badly to pound him, to feign indignance at his gall in suggesting that the beautiful and powerful Lina Inverse might actually be frightened.
Infuriatingly, the moron did something entirely unexpected: instead of putting his foot in his mouth and giving her an easy out, he offered a solution; somewhere in hell, she imagined that Shabranigdo must have shivered as the temperature dropped a few degrees.
"We don't have to go back. We could just leave."
"Leave!" Lina incredulously parroted. "No." She shook her head, slowly at first, but with increasing surety as she thought things through. "No, I can't do that, Gourry. I have to . . ."
"To what?" he prodded. He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.
At the moment, she really needed the support. The sensation of being kicked in the stomach had turned to something else. Now she just felt weak—sickeningly weak. The feeling spread from her center until her entire body felt like lead.
She had opened her mouth, meaning to give Gourry a perfectly logical and well thought out answer, but nothing was there. She closed her mouth with a near audible snap as she realized the frightening truth: she didn't know what she hoped to accomplish by going back. All she knew was that something refused to let her go. Hellmaster, Gourry, Zelgadis, Rezo, Jillas, and her sister—everything started and ended in Sairaag.
She gazed down on the city below, seeing it in a totally new light—the way it just seemed to sprawl across the land like a growing malignance. Although there was no way to tell from this distance, Lina remembered how ramshackle a lot of the homes were; even the high-class homes tended to be in need of repairs. It was an old and dark place. She had just been seeing it through rose tinted lenses before—happy memories from a childhood long spoiled by time and pain.
"We're going . . . to sort things out," she finally replied. Her response felt so weak and stupid, and she knew even before he shook his head that Gourry was having none of it.
"I'd be happier if we left."
"Just up and leave, huh? Where would we go?"
"Away," Gourry hastily replied.
"Away, huh?" Lina sighed. "Away's a long ways off—outside the empire I think. How would we survive?"
The glint of happiness in Gourry's eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by the flint that had become so familiar lately. "I'll protect you," he said with a terse nod. "Nobody's gonna hurt you, Lina."
Lina frowned and barely resisted the urge to shy away from the swordsman. She hated that look—could almost hate him when he wore it. "Yeah, about that . . ." She fetched another deep sigh and scooted away from Gourry. It was time to go; the view had become a lot less pleasant and happy memories, dark.
She stood and stretched, grimacing at the faint nagging of old injuries—some days she just felt so tired—before turning to look down at her companion. Gentle Gourry was gone again, replaced by the cold swordsman.
"Gourry, I think it's time you heard how Rezo the Red's story ended."
A voice in the dark cackled with glee as it exclaimed, "You will be my greatest creation!" The creator—a stout man—almost as wide as he was tall, with a bushy beard—hovered somewhere in the dark. It was always dark here, in memories. And darkness was often associated with pain.
Such was the case at the moment. The creator rummaged around for a moment in the shadows; the horribly musical sound of metal on metal conflicted with his off tune humming to create a mad cacaphony.
Always, it hoped that the creator would be disappointed—that whatever cruel implement he searched for would elude him. And as always, it was disappointed. A mad laugh invariably sounded, followed by cruel metal held aloft in triumph. And a few eternal moments later, agony.
The cloaked figure came back to itself with a noise that was somewhere between a gurgle and a shriek. It was still in agony, but it was different; the very state of life was pain. With every rattling breath it drew, an invisible hand cruelly squeezed its heart. This was due to the creator's "improvements", but it had no knowledge of that fact. Nor would it have cared. All that mattered was that it hurt—and with the pain came fury.
That anger had led to the death of the creator, yet the pain remained. Knowing nothing except torment, it had gone deep into its own dim memories, beyond the time of its birth, in an attempt to find the source of the pain. Its efforts had yielded a childish face harried by years of pain, framed in a wild mane the color of blood. The hate flowed, eliciting a burbling hiss from dry lips. There was more.
Further reflection brought a second image, a more painful one. Two women, just past the cusp of childhood, who shared the same face, the same flowing amethyst tresses, and the same pale complexion of the dead. Red fury was replaced by cold pain, dimmer than their lifeless purple eyes and deep down, the beast died a little more. And it knew the redhead had taken them—the ones it had cared for.
It had searched its thoughts for something more: some scrap of information that might direct its fury. The irritating scratch of a quill on parchment was the first hint that it had found something new. Eventually, the haze of the past had parted to reveal a name scrawled in crimson—the same color of the tormentor's hair.
Eagerly seizing this new piece of the puzzle, it had searched for her ceaselessly. It had picked up her trail, more by animalistic instinct than any skill, and had tracked her from the city to the wild. It had overtaken her twice now, and twice it had been wounded—brought to the brink of death by a sword: the Sword of Light, although it was unaware of how it knew that.
And yet, both times it had come back from the edge of the abyss, stronger than before. The creator had been more correct in his boasts than he could have ever known; his creation was adapting and growing more powerful with each passing day.
A brilliant blue eye turned and regarded the corpses it had collected thus far: a farmer and a pair of Sairaag guards. How it knew that they were from Sairaag was another mystery. The markings on their tabards caused some long forgotten memories to stir. It mattered not, however. All that mattered was Lina Inverse. Lina Inverse was the source of its pain; Lina Inverse had wronged it in some vital way; Lina Inverse would die, and take the pain and anger with her. Lina Inverse . . .
Its lips moved endlessly, mouthing the Slayer's name as it began to work on becoming more than what it was.
"Captain, what in Ceiphied's name are we doing?"
The petulance and utter whininess in Inquisitor Lemner's voice brought a genuine smile to Gaav's face. His tone full of feigned surprise, he said, "Miss Lemner, I thought you knew. We're in the process of apprehending a group of fugitives." He pointed off in the distance at a small wooden bridge. "The river is deep and swift, Miss Inquisitor, and this is the only place to cross for miles. You'll further note, that the trail we were following led in this direction. Rather then spend hours picking through the wilderness for our wayward fugitives, I would prefer to wait at their obvious destination." He smirked sardonically and added, "It's called 'efficiency', Inquisitor. We're getting our job done as well as possible with a minimum of wasted effort."
"I am well aware of that, Captain," she waspishly replied. "I am referring to the fact that we're skulking in the brush like common criminals." Her lips curled in distaste at the comparison. Obviously, she was so far above reproach that the very idea of her and criminals having something in common was incomprehensible.
Gaav amused himself for a moment just watching her fret. She pawed the brambles that seemed to cling to her violet hair, doing more harm than good; in her impatience, she was making herself look even more disheveled than before. Her robes fared little better. Loose threads and rips abound in the formerly opulent uniform. Her cheeks were flushed and the look in her eyes—oh, he could only imagine the hateful thoughts running through her skull.
Hastily composing his expression, lest she see exactly how much he was enjoying her discomfort, Gaav cleared his throat and nodded at something on the ground near Lemner's feet. "Snake."
Lemner half jumped, half crawled closer to him, glaring darkly.
He sensed she was on the verge of exploding. The color in her cheeks had gone from a bright red to almost purple. Such a brat, he mused. The way she looked at him, one might have thought he had put the snake at her feet. "If you hadn't insisted on wearing that dress, we wouldn't be in this situation."
"It's not a dress," she hissed through gritted teeth. She glanced downwards, her brow furrowed in thought and he could almost read the thoughts on her face; stay seated uncomfortably close to the serpent or move even closer to Gaav. He imagined that it must have been a difficult choice to make. Finally, with her shoulders slumped in defeat, she crawled a few inches closer to her tormentor. "These are the holy vestments of—"
"The point is," Gaav interrupted, "your shiny little dress can be seen from a mile away. A blind man could track you, Miss Lemner; and our targets are anything but."
"Still, I fail to see why I have to put up with this. This isn't how it's supposed to work, Captain." Lemner reached down and absentmindedly scratched her leg as she spoke.
"Work?" Gaav echoed with a cocked eyebrow.
"Work," she repeated. "When the criminals show up, they're going to turn themselves in, because it's the right thing to do."
"I see," Gaav said with a nod. He refrained from mentioning the less than submissive circus performers they had executed yesterday. Apparently, Lemner had a very selective memory when it came to things that conflicted with her outlook on things.
Gaav nodded at the leg she was attacking with gusto; she had hiked the hem of her robe up to a scandalous mid thigh level. She had nice legs, or rather, she would have, had they not been covered with angry red splotches. "How much experience do you have in the field, Inquisitor?"
Lemner's irritation seemed to scale back a few notches and her chest swelled with pride. "Captain Gaav, I will have you know that I have been involved in dozens of apprehensions in my years as a servant of Ceiphied. Those who have committed crimes against the church tremble at the mention of my name!"
"And that's all very impressive, Inquisitor." Gaav said with an utterly insincere smile. Naturally, she returned it. "But, field work." He gestured at their surroundings. "The great outdoors, I mean."
"Oh, well, I must confess a certain lack of experience when it comes to these sorts of situations."
"That would explain why you're sitting in poison ivy."
Lemner shifted her position slightly and muttered, "Poison what, now?"
"Poison ivy," Gaav repeated with a nod at the crushed plant she had just moved away from. "You know, the stuff you've been using as a cushion for the last few days, because it was more 'comfortable' than brambles."
"You could have said something," Lemner muttered as she scratched the blotches on her legs.
"Oh, I wouldn't step on your toes like that, Inquisitor. You've just done such an amazing job with our mission so far, I assumed there was some very good reason you were parking your rear in a highly irritating bit of flora." Before she had a chance to spew any more venom at him, he added, "I'm guessing you don't know how to treat a poison ivy infection?"
"No," she begrudgingly admitted as she continued to scratch.
"Well, normally, we would have had Baker whip something up; the guy was a walking apothecary. However, since he's no longer with us . . ." Gaav had to bite back a growl as he spoke; Baker had been one of the first casualties in yesterday's operation. "I guess I may as well share a home remedy that's helped me in the past."
"Any suggestions would be appreciated, Captain."
Gaav cocked his head, feigning the air of a man with deep and insightful thoughts. "Well . . . the harder you scratch that stuff, the quicker it goes away." With near impossible effort, he managed to keep a straight face as she intensified her efforts.
Lina and Gourry had been walking side by side for a while. Neither of them had spoken for a few minutes—not since she had finished the tale of Rezo the Red. When her last desperate words had faded away, an unpleasant silence had fallen.
Several times, Lina had looked up, meaning to explain the parallels between Rezo and Gourry, but the look on his face had stopped her short every time. Gourry was thinking hard—meticulously picking through the words for meaning. And she understood that telling him her fears would not have the same impact as his learning it for himself.
Watching his mind work was exhausting; his expression was intense, like the sun beating down on a hot summer day. And since Lina hated the heat with a passion (a fear of the dark was far from the only reason she slept during the day), she turned her attention to a cooler target: the river flowing nearby.
The water was deep, but flowed swiftly; crossing before the bridge was not an option. Not unless they wanted to take a trip over the falls, in any case. She fetched a deep sigh of annoyance. Everything had gone so wrong lately: Gourry's troubles, Zel leaving, and now Amelia and Jillas were missing. She had been so caught up with her troubles with Gourry that Amelia's whereabouts had barely even registered as a concern.
But now that she was deliberately avoiding thinking about Gourry, Amelia naturally came to the forefront of her mind. Lina was very fond of the girl. There was no point in even trying to deny it. She had taught Amelia some rudimentary techniques and even gone so far as to give her Luna's medallion. If anyone had told her three months ago that she would be handing off her most prized possession to someone she had not even met yet, she probably would have laughed at them . . . and probably hurt them for good measure.
Their relationship had developed with frightening speed—even more startling in the sense that she had never wanted to care about any of these people. She had been alone for so long—had thought that Gourry, Amelia, and Zel were just passing through her life like all the others—that she lacked the first inkling of how to take care of them.
Lina understood that she was responsible for all of them. Gourry might be with Sylphiel now, living a happy life in Sairaag. Zel would have been . . . well, he might still be human, or at least as human as he was—the answer to that enigma still eluded her. Amelia would still be doing her shows. And the fuzz face . . . She grimaced. Well, there was no telling where Jillas would be right now. Maybe he would have blown himself up or something.
Of course, she also wondered where she would be if she had never met them—possibly dead (more of a near certainty to be honest). Well, that was far from a cheerful idea, so she hastily abandoned that train of thought.
Still, she was the experienced one here; these people were her charges. She was responsible for them. And boy, haven't I done a bang up job in watching out for them, she thought. Zel's run off, Amelia and fuzz face are missing and in who knows what kinda trouble, and Gourry . . .
She was jolted out of her thoughts as they came upon the bridge. For some inexplicable reason, she felt fear at the sight of the structure. It was nothing elaborate—a simple wooden construction, wide enough for a horse and cart and well worn; however, it felt like a sign. It was the first indicator of real civilization that they had seen in weeks and somehow she had the impression that it was an ending of sorts. Once they crossed, they would be on the road to Sairaag. And there was no going back.
Gourry must have sensed something; he paused at the same moment she did and eyed the bridge suspiciously. She was tempted to ask him if he had gotten the same impression as her, but closed her mouth before the words came out. He would think her silly for suggesting such a thing and, worse, would likely seize it as an opportunity to turn her away from home. And as much as she wanted to run, she had to see things through.
Without warning, he turned to her and yelled, "Run!"
Even as Gourry struggled to reason through what Lina had told him—an incredibly difficult struggle, as he was far more perceptive than logical—he never wavered in his duty: constant vigilance to keep her safe.
It was the road that set him on edge, first; it was well worn—cart tracks had cut deep ruts in the dirt path. It was obviously fairly heavily trafficked for its location. And yet, there was no sign of . . . well, anything in either direction as far as he could see. No carts, travelers, hunters—it could have been a coincidence, but something in his gut told him otherwise.
Secondly, there was the eerie hush that had fallen over the entire area. Not just between him and Lina either. No, aside from the faint roar of the falls a mile or so back, the area was deathly silent. Something had spooked the animals.
And finally, the intuition that had saved him many times in the past spoke up. Worse, it did more than just whisper that something was wrong. It positively screamed at him that this was a trap. They were out in the open, and heavy cover on both sides of the road could be concealing anything. The road twisted off into the woods in one direction and towards the river and the bridge in the other.
After that, things had gone from bad to worse in a matter of seconds. He had turned to Lina and told her to "run", but what he had actually meant was, "Gee, you know, I think we might want to turn around and head back the way we came, because I'm not really comfortable with our going into a chokepoint."
Apparently, Lina had misunderstood him; she bolted without a moment's hesitation, but instead of heading back the way they had come, she darted out into the open, onto the bridge.
The second after she lunged, Gourry followed. He wondered briefly at her lack of tactical discretion for a moment before coming to the obvious conclusion: whereas he had received military training—squad tactics and whatnot—she had been taught to deal with a single foe at a time. He supposed it made sense; after all, how often did people run across multiple werewolves and vampires? And if that was the case, why not charge out into the open and expose them both to attacks from all sides? Understanding her motives changed nothing, however. Either way, she had pretty much gotten them both killed, he darkly mused. She was throwing her life away.
That thought sent a strange heat coursing through his limbs, invigorating him even as it sapped his ability to reason. The flame within him became an inferno when he saw the first soldiers erupt from cover to block their exodus from the bridge. He knew even before he turned that a similar scene was playing out behind him.
Without thinking, he reached for the Sword of Light, meaning to kill every man who so much as considered the notion of trying to take his Lina away. Oddly enough, his sword hand moved freely towards his weapon; the numbness had been washed away in the face of his anger. He wanted to hold the sword—to use it to dispense justice to the men before him. They wanted to upset the delicate order of his world? Well, by Ceiphied, he would cut them down to the last man. Never mind that they were his former comrades, clad in the colors of Sairaag. Never mind that he recognized some of them, albeit more by stance and appearance than name.
He took a step forward—would have taken another and drawn deadly light, had he not been stopped cold by the only force greater than his fury: Lina Inverse. She flung her arm out to block his path. "Take it easy, Jellyfish," she hissed between clenched teeth. "We're not in trouble yet."
She sounded so confident—annoyed but no less capable—that Gourry found himself daring to believe her. Lina had not led them wrong yet; granted there had been some close calls, but they had always managed to scrape through somehow, right?
Gourry took a deep, shaky breath and forced himself to relax. A voice in his head whispered—told him that Lina could die if he refused to take action. In that instant, he saw her writhing on the end of a spear, just before she had been ripped nearly in half. That had happened! the voice whispered. It could happen again!
He shook his head in a vain attempt to escape his own fears. Her death had not been real; she had told him so. None of those events had been real. He took another breath, deep and incredibly cleansing, and hardened his resolve. If they were going to die today, he would go first. It was as simple as that.
Anger receded to a point just below a boil. And, unnoticed by the swordsman, with the temptation of violence denied, the strength drained out of his hand, leaving it as dead and useless as before.
"We're not in trouble yet," Lina sarcastically repeated under her breath. "Yeah, right." Well, that was about as bald a lie as she had ever made, but it had the desired effect: Gourry seemed to be a bit calmer, if not as solid as he usually was. But, hey, she would take what she could get at this point. On her list of things that she wanted to get done today, picking a fight when they were outnumbered four to one was right near the bottom. It might still come to that, but it would certainly be nice to have a plan before they waded in with swords swinging.
She turned to face the near end of the bridge, a mask of bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she quietly asked, "is there some sort of problem? We're just simple travelers on our way to . . . oh hell." Lina dropped her sweet and innocent façade as soon as she laid eyes on the leader of the soldiers. "It's you."
"It's me," the Captain replied with a terse nod.
"You're the guy who killed Xellos." Lina quashed her anger before it had a chance to take hold; she was the only one with any sense here at the moment and if she lost her temper, she and Gourry would both end up dead.
"Xellos?" the grizzled soldier repeated thoughtfully. "Xellos . . ." He shrugged dismissively. "I've killed a lot of people in my time; you can't expect me to remember them all. I assume, though, that you're referring to the priest?" Lina's expression must have spoken for her, because he grinned wickedly a moment later. "I thought so."
"I hope you're proud. It takes a tough guy to kill an unarmed old man," Lina said with a sneer. "By the way, I don't think I caught your name last time," she added. "We were sort of in a hurry." Her eyes darted left, then right. She and Gourry might be able to make it over the railing into the water; the problem with that was that they really had nowhere to go from there.
"Gaav, SCG. And feel free to jump. My men could use the practice." The captain signaled with a flick of his wrist and half a dozen crossbows were raised in unison.
Lina frowned as she eyed the deadly weapons. "Sharpshooters, huh?"
Gaav fetched a deep sigh. "No. No, not really. I wasn't being sarcastic when I said they needed the practice."
That was when Lina noted that none of the men seemed terribly comfortable with the weapons they were cradling and, if she wasn't mistaken, one of them was trying to load a bolt in his weapon backwards. She was unable to suppress a giggle in spite of their dire situation.
The captain scowled and motioned for the soldiers to lower their weapons. "Put those things away before you hurt yourselves." He fixed a glare on Lina and growled, "I hope you're not entertaining thoughts of escape; I happen to be an excellent marksman, and could put a shot in any of several sensitive spots in your anatomy before you made it ten feet."
Almost lost amidst the gurgling of the water, Lina heard a hiss—the sharp intake of breath from Gourry. She resisted turning, but even so, she could sense that he was absolutely furious; Gaav's suggestion that he would do her harm got under Gourry's skin like nothing else could.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever!" Lina raised her voice, not so subtly reminding Gourry that she was here and still in command of the situation. "Well, I guess this isn't a social call, so do you wanna tell me how you found us?"
Gaav snorted in amusement. "You and Gabriev have all the subtlety of bulls in a china shop. It's hard to slip through the cracks when you're leaving a trail of mangled corpses behind you. Did you really think we weren't going to catch up?"
"Mangled corpses . . .?" Lina quizzically muttered. She shot Gourry a suspicious look. Had he . . .? She shook her head. No, she had been with him every step of the way. There was no way he could have—or would have, she amended—snuck off to do anything like that. Despite what had happened with the farmer, he was no serial murderer.
Before she could respond to Gaav's charges, something odd caught her eye. She cocked an eyebrow and nodded at the bedraggled . . . thing shambling up behind Gaav. "What . . . um, is that a scarecrow?"
Rachel Lemner had seen better days. Her robes were undeniably a shamble—torn, soaked, wrinkled, and mangled by days of miserable travel. Even she begrudgingly admitted that. There was barely enough left to keep her decent. And where she was exposed, angry red blotches mottled her pale skin. The captain's remedy took some time to kick in, apparently.
She impatiently shoved purple bangs out of her eyes and huffed indignantly. "I am Inquisitor Lemner," she spat, sounding authoritative only in her own ears. She shouldered Gaav aside and stepped onto the bridge. "And you," she said, jabbing a finger in the redhead's direction accusingly, "are heretics, guilty of crimes against the holy Church of Cephied. Pardon me for one moment, please. I have the official writ here somewhere."
The girl shared a confused look with her companion before shrugging. "Um, alright . . . take your time."
Lemner nodded at her appreciatively as reached down to her left hip, looking for her satchel. Instead she found only bare skin. She glanced down and blushed a bit.
Apparently, Lemner's satchel and its contents had been a casualty of the trip. A long gash in the gold hued fabric was the only evidence that anything had ever been there. Her personal effects: medallion of Ceiphied, prayer book, and most tragically, her speeches—they were all gone.
This was an unmitigated disaster! Honestly, was she supposed to cite the penalties from memory? As much as it pained her to admit it, Lemner had not yet memorized every nuance and phrasing of the law. She would one day, of course—was already working on it, in fact, and had the gist of most of the religious code. But how did that help her now? How in Ceiphied's name was she supposed to pronounce sentence and preside over an execution without her carefully prepared notes?
A sudden surge in irritation had her digging at her neck with ragged fingernails (Like everything else about her, they had been so neatly groomed before this awful trip) as she considered the horrible wrongness of everything that had happened. This was not how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to catch the criminals, see them taken care of, and go back to the city to receive her well-deserved accolades. The unfairness of it all overwhelmed her and Lemner momentarily forgot where she was. She stomped angrily, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides and her face screwed up in a pouting scowl—her resemblance to a petulant child was striking.
Lemner heard mocking laughter and her pout instantly became a snarl. She glared at the peasant standing defiantly before her. The heretic was laughing—laughing at her. The idiotic child should have been on her knees pleading for mercy. She obviously lacked the slightest inkling of how much trouble she was in. Or maybe it was hysterical laughter; yes, that had to be it.
"Young lady," Lemner said haughtily, "I think you'll find that this is hardly a laughing matter. You are Amelia Seyruun, I presume?"
For all her bluster and arrogance, Rachel had not been appointed a Holy Inquisitor without reason; she had a knack for reading people, and what she saw now gave her the irritating sense that she had made a mistake. The girl's fiery eyes widened slightly in surprise at the mention of Amelia's name—that was true—but it was more from concern than any sense of self preservation.
This was not Amelia Wil Tesla Seyruun.
Even as Lemner and Inverse dueled with words, another more serious battle was raging. Not blade to blade combat, although there was no shortage of thrusts and parries in the conflict. No, this was a test of wills between Gaav and Gabriev.
While the women traded barbs—neither of them was terribly pleased judging from their tones—Gaav probed the deserter for a weak point. He allowed himself the luxury of wasting a single moment to admire; it was a rare thing, finding someone as skilled as Gabriev obviously was.
The swordsman's legs were slightly bent; to the untrained eye, he would have appeared to be utterly relaxed, although in truth, he was ready to spring at a second's notice. He was muscular, but not bulky and Gaav had no doubt that he was quick and could close the distance between himself and any man surrounding the bridge within seconds. His left hand rested lightly on his scabbard, his thumb pressed against the crossguard of his sword.
Gaav had seen the technique before; in his younger days he had lived on the battlefield and witnessed every style under the sun. It was an old form, with a name in a language he did not know—surely conceived in a long dead kingdom. It was based on the idea of efficiency; ideally, Gabriev could kill his foe with the simple action of drawing his sword. By subtly loosening the sword in its sheath with his thumb, Gabriev could have an inch—maybe two—of steel drawn before his opponent knew the fight had started. Seemingly, a miniscule advantage, but swordplay was decided in instants, not seconds.
All in all, Gabriev's stance was a marvelous structure, and Gaav drank it in as an art critic might appreciate a fine sculpture. It was a shame that so much talent had been wasted on a worthless deserter. Oh well. Gaav heaved a mental sigh as he shifted his focus from appreciation to deconstruction.
As if by magic, cracks appeared in the sculpture. Gabriev's breaths were quick—not the least bit unusual for someone under duress, but a soldier should know better; wasted energy rolled off him in almost palpable waves. Secondly, the subtleties of his stance were anything but; Gaav had discerned his drawing technique with no effort. The former guard's hand was injured as well. It hung uselessly at his side, and should he fight, it would almost certainly be with his off hand. Finally, there was an intense fury in his blue eyes that even made Gaav's grin falter slightly; this was a man who was looking for a chance to die. Granted, he would probably try to take as many people with him as possible, but . . .
"Captain Gaav!" Lemner huffily squeaked.
Gaav sighed wearily. Lemner had reached the end of his patience. Time and again she had tested him, second-guessing him on every decision he had made. And it had cost lives. If not for the damnable pile of paperwork he would almost certainly have to deal with, he would have removed her from the mission long ago.
"Captain, I am addressing you!"
Gaav flicked his gaze downward as his lips curled back in a fierce snarl. He looked down on her without making the slightest effort to hide his utter loathing. Displaying a remarkable amount of willpower, he slipped his hand into his coat and wrapped his fingers around a cigar, instead of around Lemner's throat. Even after taking the first puff—something that normally softened his vilest moods—he was still furious.
Shabranigdo take this spoiled brat, who had caused him nothing but headaches.
As she gazed up at Gaav, Lemner was suddenly hit by an epiphany so obvious that she winced as if she had been struck: she was no longer in control of the situation. Somewhere along the way—perhaps when Gaav's silly underlings had gotten themselves killed, although that could hardly have been blamed on her—she had lost control of the situation.
A memory of her childhood leapt to mind; one of her instructors, Madame Grusella (a dreadful woman with a ridiculous penchant for altruism) had once told Lemner, "To tug on a dragon's tail is to invite his wrath."
At the time, she had dismissed Madame Grusella's admonishment with a smug grin and a snort of derision. After all, Rachel Lemner had been a special child—a daughter of one of the most influential and wealthy families in the city. And the notion that she might be held accountable for her actions was, quite frankly, laughable.
And yet, as Gaav drew himself up to his full terrifying height (Ceiphied preserve her; had he always been so tall?) she felt a horrible chill creep up her spine. She had researched the man; he had been a highly decorated soldier in the last great war before "retiring" to the quiet life of an officer of the SCG. Dismissing him as a tired old curmudgeon—a relic of the past—she had assumed his sense of duty and loyalty would make him easy to control.
And now she was finally coming to understand how wrong she had been. Madame Grusella's warning rang terribly true: Lemner had teased the dragon one time too many and its dreadful gaze was fixed upon her.
Lemner shuffled back a step and almost tripped over her own feet. Her moment of weakness shocked her back to reality; everyone was watching her back down to a subordinate.
Any sense of self-preservation was overwhelmed by faith in bureaucracy. She was Rachel Lemner—Inquisitor Rachel Lemner, she mentally corrected—and she would not be bullied by some dullard of a soldier with a chip on his shoulder.
So, she squared her shoulders, harrumphed loudly, and mustered all the dignity a half dressed woman with a maddening compulsion to scratch could muster—quite a surprising amount, all things considered. "Mister Gaav," she haughtily uttered, intentionally foregoing the use of his rank. Oh, she would put him in his place!
"Excuse me," the redhead piped up, interrupting just when she was about to launch into a brilliant dressing down of the captain. "I hate to interrupt—you two look like you have a lot to talk about—but what do you want with Amelia?" The look on the girl's face betrayed the fact that she already knew.
But, never one to miss a chance to educate, elaborate, and enumerate, Lemner spun on heel to face the redhead. "Your friend, has been convicted of heresy, conspiring against the Holy Empire, attempted murder of the High Priest of Ceiphied, and . . ." She paused and scrunched up her nose as if smelling something unappealing. In truth, she was struggling to recall the rest of the charges—accursed luck; how could she not have noticed her satchel was gone? "Cruelty to animals!" she blurted out triumphantly.
There was a long silence in which everyone—fugitive and soldier alike—stared at her as if she had snakes slithering out of her ears. She cleared her throat and fidgeted uncomfortably under the ocular onslaught. Oh, for goodness sake! What was wrong with these people? A crime was a crime, no matter how small, and they all carried a price. She finally huffed indignantly and explained, "She scattered the High Priest's prize charger over an area approximately ten yards in diameter. If that's not cruelty, I'd be interested to hear what you call it." She quickly shifted topics before the girl could answer. Just from simple observation—smug look and hands planted firmly on her hips—Lemner could tell she was a sarcastic one. And she could definitely do without any cheek at the moment.
"I am not totally without mercy," she stated with a grand gesticulation. The collar of her robe threatened to surrender the last vestiges of form or purpose and Lemner found herself scrabbling to keep it on her shoulders. "If you cooperate in my investigation, I can guarantee you and your companion leniency; we can forgo the Rites of Purification—you would be absolved of any guilt with the Flare Dragon—and dispense with your sentence immediately."
Inquisitor Lemner's grin widened and her breath quickened at the mention of the Rites. The Rites of Purification; they were exquisite in their simplicity and agony—designed to purge darkness from the soul in the most literal sense possible: through bloodletting—and for particularly heinous crimes, amputation.
In the face of such a dire threat, she had expected many things: begging and pleading would have been the most likely response. A slightly quavering voice, rich with fear, as the accused confessed their crimes was another common response. But, never in her career had Lemner heard a criminal laugh at the promise of torture.
It just was not done. She felt as if the smile was frozen on her face and she had sudden urge to join in on the laughter. The entire situation was so incredulous, it seemed almost right to laugh at it. She stood there, lost somewhere between mirth and hatred of the woman who had the nerve to belittle her and not be Amelia Seyruun.
Lina shook her head in bemusement. The more the Inquisitor talked, the more it became apparent that she had more than a few screws loose. Maybe it was her utterly bedraggled appearance or her speech. It might have been her smile—Lina had the distinct impression that she was observing a vampire on the prowl when Lemner grinned.
"Hold on a second. Let me make sure I understand the deal here," Lina said with a snort of amusement. There might not be a way out of this, but she would sooner die than grovel before Lemner. "You're offering to kill us if I betray our friend, instead of torturing and killing us if I refuse. Um, gee, I need to think about that for a second." She made a show of rubbing her chin as if pondering deep and terribly important matters. "Hmm, I'm not very keen on that idea. How about this? You and your goon squad walk away and I might let you live."
Gaav threw his head back and laughed boisterously. "I like that! You've got verve, Inverse! But as much fun as this has been . . ." He stepped forward onto the bridge, his heavy boots echoing ominously on the planks underfoot—not more than ten feet from her now. " . . .It's time to get down to business." There was a flash of light on steel and a loud crack; the wood at his feet splintered under the impact of his blade. Its length nearly matched his height and she could only imagine how heavy it was. And yet, he had moved it in the space of an instant, as if it had all the heft of a feather. This guy was good.
Lina grimaced as Gaav casually leaned on the hilt of his enormous weapon. As if they actually needed more trouble; now they had a swordsman who probably rivaled Gourry in skill on their butts. Oh, this was going to be fun. "So," she said, with a nod at Gaav's formidable blade, "compensating much?"
"Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?" Gaav snorted, belching a plume of smoke. "It's not going to work. You and Gabriev aren't getting away and you're not buying time for your friend. Three of my best are on her trail, even as we speak. I expect she's already dead, just like those other circus freaks."
"Circus freaks . . .?" Lina quizzically repeated. She was not so dense that she misunderstood Gaav's meaning. Rather, she was having trouble making herself believe what she had just heard. "All of them?" she asked. Her temper flared when he nodded, and she snarled "They were innocent! Is that how you get your jollies? Killing helpless people?"
"Hardly helpless," Gaav corrected with a shake of his head. "They put up quite a fight. I was impressed."
"You were impressed," Lina repeated darkly. "Well, I'm glad you were entertained." She shot a glance at Gourry. If he was listening to their conversation, he gave no indication. His eyes burned with a quiet fury; his gaze never wavered from Gaav. She felt an agonizing pang of pity. If Gourry had been so deeply affected by the loss of his family, how would Amelia react to the news?
She fixed her glare on Lemner and spat a single word. "Why?"
Gaav was silent, his face an impassive mask behind the smoke of his cigar. For her part, Lemner's arrogant grin had faltered somewhat and she looked almost confused.
Lina shook her head and laughed derisively. "You don't even know why, do you?"
Lemner recovered from her moment of confusion and proudly exclaimed, "Heretics!" as if the word was the answer to all of life's problems.
"Bull!" Lina snarled. The soldiers surrounding them uttered a collective gasp at her insolence and she thought for a second that even Gaav had raised an eyebrow. Even the most hardened of criminals feared the reprisals involved in defying an Inquisitor. The horrors of the Rites of Purification were all too real.
Lina was beyond caring about such trivial matters though. She had a death sentence; what was the point in mincing words now? At the very least, she intended to see things set right before she died. Somehow.
"Why were they heretics?" Lina barely resisted the urge to draw her sword as she continued. She would have enjoyed nothing more at this point than making Lemner pay. "Somehow, I doubt they collectively decided to turn their backs on the church. Why did they have to die?"
"Because, they were heretics," Lemner replied in a cool tone. Her expression belied her true feelings, however. Her cheeks had taken on a bright red flush that had nothing to do with the rash.
"Yeah, say that enough and it might be true, right? By Ceiphied, you're pathetic. Can you do anything besides parrot what your superiors throw at you?" In her mind's eye, Lina could see this woman smiling—could hear the dim echo of her laughing—as dozens of innocents were slaughtered.
Lina was not so arrogant that she thought they were all guilt free; the only firsthand knowledge she had of the performers was that, in a small way, they had contributed to one of the happiest days of her life. If that had been the only thing she knew, she might not have reacted so strongly, but there was more to it: they had been Amelia's people. And Amelia had been one of the kindest individuals Lina had ever known. That spoke volumes about those who had raised her, loved her, and called her a friend.
And for this . . . this spineless bitch to speak of them like vermin, to call them "heretics" and expect it to make what she had done okay . . .
Something in Lina's furious gaze must have touched Lemner, but instead of cowing her, it seemed to embolden her. She savagely raked her matted purple hair from her face took a step forward. "I will not be judged by a common girl like yourself. I am an Inquisitor of Church of—"
"What you are," Lina snarled, "is a worthless coward who's too stupid to think for herself. Take your Ceiphied garbage and shove it!" She understood that she was talking—recognized her own voice in her ears—but could not believe what she was saying. She really was a heretic; had she really called the teachings of Ceiphied garbage? Even as she raged against Lemner, she cringed on the inside. Was she moments away from being stricken dead for her blasphemy? Worse, what would Sis say if she ever found out? The last fraying remnants of her faith screamed at her to stop—she was digging herself in farther and farther—but a flame deep within egged her on. The woman she was looking at epitomized everything she had sworn to fight. Evil was not exclusive to demons or vampires, it seemed. Sometimes it hid in broad daylight, in the faces of base people like Lemner.
A moment or an eternity passed—she knew not which. All she understood was that she was suddenly moving—rushing at Lemner; or was Lemner charging her? It was irrelevant. Either way, the time for talk was over. She reached for her sword—it would be so satisfying to drive the point into the Inquisitor's heart—but her fingers closed on empty air.
"Huh," she muttered to herself. Well that was certainly distressing. She only had an instant to ponder the turn of events before the flash of sun on steel drew her attention back to Lemner.
The Inquisitor's eyes were filled with crazed fury and her lips were pulled back in that awful shark grin. "Heretic!" she triumphantly shrieked before driving her raised dirk down towards Lina's heart.
Gourry had started forward at the same moment Lina had. More by coincidence than anything, as his attention was fixed squarely upon Gaav. More than any of the others who had closed in around them, his former captain was a threat. Even more so, given the fact that he was all but maimed; his right hand still hung uselessly at his side.
Although incapable of retaining details at times, Gourry was as quick witted as they came. And even though he was unable to use his sword (and was honestly frightened of trying; it seemed to stir . . . unpleasant thoughts) he was far from helpless. In the split second that he drew even with Lina, he reached over and drew her sword. Even though he was using his off hand, his actions were so fluid that even Lina had not noticed her loss.
Now adequately armed, he moved to parry Gaav's initial strike—a vicious overhead blow that would have cloven Lina in two. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Lina's sword swept out to meet Gaav's. Not to block, of course; it was a credit to Gourry's years of training that he understood that even in his anger—when he felt strong enough to take on the world—he could not overpower his opponent. Instead he absorbed the blow, allowing his blade to dance along Gaav's, directing it away from Lina's skull. The swing terminated with a crunch as Gaav's sword lodged in the bridge's handrail.
The exchange had brought both combatants face to face; had they been so inclined they could have kissed. Gaav wore an expression of utter hatred. His lips were pulled back in a vicious snarl. Had Gourry been able to see his own face, he might have been surprised to see he wore the same look.
It lasted but a moment, however. Gourry grinned confidently, relishing the fact that he had won the fight in a single blow. Gaav's weapon was immobilized and it would be a simple thing to finish him off.
Gaav roared in fury and Gourry could smell a hint of smoke and feel the heat of the Dragon's breath. There was power in the aging soldier—more power than Gourry could have possibly anticipated. He saw his former superior's shoulders quiver with exertion, then there was a sound like thunder and his blade flew free of its confinement.
If Gourry had not been concentrating on saving his own life—he desperately flung himself backwards to escape the murderous arc of Gaav's blade—he would have been stricken stupid with awe: Gaav had dislodged his sword, not by pulling it free of the post, but by pushing it through the last few inches of wood. The man was strong, not to mention skilled. This could be bad.
Gourry felt the rough planks of the bridge beneath his back and instinctively rolled backwards. The instant his feet were beneath him again, he sprung forward, launching himself back at Gaav. And then the battle was on in earnest.
Lina stepped back in the nick of time. Lemner's blade came whistling down and rent the air where she had been standing an instant before. She heard Gaav bellow behind her and instinctively dropped.
Not quickly enough, this time. A sheet of crimson fanned out where Lina had stood a moment before. The breeze caught the color and eagerly swept it downstream.
Despite the fact that she was on hands and knees at the feet of two extremely agitated swordsmen and she had lost sight of Lemner, Lina allowed herself a bit of vanity. She tentatively reached up and rubbed the back of her head, grimacing at what she found there: her hair had been neatly clipped, leaving a scant few inches.
Oh well, she thought, it'll grow back. He head would have been an entirely different matter. She shot Gaav a venomous glare and lashed out with a kick. There was little power to it—it was sort of hard to get much force when one was prone—but still, it was the principle of the thing. Trying to kill her was one thing; it had become routine as of late. However, almost taking her head off with the follow through on a swing . . . well, that was just insulting.
Her foot made contact with Gaav's leg about mid calf and she grimaced at the sensation of impact. It was like kicking a piece of iron, with the notable exception that iron was incapable of communicating a threat of murder with a single glance. Thankfully, Gourry had most of Gaav's attention at the moment, making him unable to carry out his threat.
"Oookay, Lina," she muttered under her breath, "now would probably be a good time to be somewhere else." Deciding that was the most brilliant idea she had come up with in a long while, Lina scurried along the bridge, trying to avoid being trampled, skewered, or otherwise injured by the melee going on overhead. She shot a glance upward, but averted her gaze after only a second. The flash of silver on steel was dizzying and even if the light had not disoriented her, she suspected that the battle was far too swift for her to follow. And she considered herself a decent swordswoman.
"Well, this is humbling," she muttered to herself. She had faced down things that preyed on humanity like so much cattle. She had done so without batting an eye. However, sometimes, she decided, the human monsters could be worse than the demons. She was startled out of her musing a moment later, as she yelped and rolled to the side to avoid being trampled by Gaav when he surged forward against Gourry. "Hey, watch it, you overgrown—"
Impact.
Lina grunted as she was driven down and tasted copper when her chin hit the boards. Fingers snaked through her hair (well, what was left of it) and tugged her head back at an agonizing angle. Apparently, Lemner had survived Gourry and Gaav's clash as well. Just her luck.
She threw her arm up, blunting the impact of Lemner's knife. Instead of lodging in Lina's throat, she felt it lightly kiss her cheek and—in one unique instant of utter lucidity amidst the chaos—saw her eyes reflected in the blade as it glided by. Her face felt hot and crimson spots appeared on the splintered wood. And even as she moved to block the dagger's return, she thought—with an eerie calm born of disbelief—she had almost lost her eyes.
Scars were one thing; scars healed and, thanks to Gourry, she understood that they were meaningless—stories of battles forever immortalized in her skin. To lose something as vital as her vision though . . . to be trapped in the dark forever and unable to protect herself . . . to be utterly helpless . . .
Terror and outrage vied for control within as Lina turned and sank her teeth into Lemner's forearm. She snarled and tugged, clamping down even tighter; if taking a chunk out of the evil woman convinced her to get off, so be it. Her efforts were rewarded with a cry of mingled pain and outrage. The weight on her back shifted and she sensed Lemner trying to pull away.
Bucking her hips forward, she felt a wonderful sense of freedom as Lemner's body tumbled free of her back. She hustled forward and was on top of the Inquisitor almost as soon as she had hit the ground. The knife; she had to get the knife away from her.
Lemner shrieked incomprehensible fury and thrashed about beneath Lina like a landed fish. Amidst the thrashing purple and gold, deadly steel glinted. Disappeared. Reappeared. Caught.
"Drop it!" she snarled as she bent Lemner's wrist at what she knew had to be an extremely painful angle. "Drop the knife!" She added a bit more torque to the Inquisitor's arm, which served only to intensify her screaming. "Shut up!" Lina snapped. Before she realized what she was doing, her free arm was drawn back, fingers curling into a tight fist. She felt something give with the first blow. Lemner's nose, most likely. Still, she shrieked on.
Desperately, Lina slammed her fist into Lemner's face again. Hearing her yell, feeling her squirm sickeningly beneath her, it was too much. She would go mad if Lemner kept screaming. And so, her fist rose and fell with a disturbing rhythm. Draw back, strike, feel the ever-increasing degree of wetness beneath her knuckles, repeat.
The Inquisitor was an abomination—getting under Lina's skin in a way she had previously been unaware was possible. She had threatened and killed innocent people—Amelia's people. She wore robes symbolizing an ideal that Luna had pursued her entire life. And by single-mindedly clinging to that ideal, she had made a mockery of it. All while wearing that awful shark-like grin.
Lina would show her there was nothing to grin about.
"Drop the knife!" Lina repeated with every blow. It had become a test of wills. She said, "Drop the knife," but she meant something else entirely. She wanted an apology—an admission from Lemner that she was in the wrong. She may as well have been talking to a wall.
"Heretith!" Lina's blows must have driven some sort of sense back into Lemner. Insofar, at least, she was screaming words instead of gibberish. All in all, it was little improvement. "A'll kill you! A'll kill—"
Suddenly, Lina felt tired. Not just tired, but utter exhaustion. She could have laid down and slept for a week. Dealing with this woman just drained her, like working in the sun on a hot summer day. But, Shabranigdo take her if she would let Lemner win. Exhaustion be damned; she had a job to finish. So, she gritted her teeth and finished it.
Joint locks were Lina's forte—immobilization techniques to buy time to administer a coup de grace to a supernatural foe. There were more extreme techniques, however. And she had lost all patience with her enemy.
A twist and a grunt of exertion were followed by a snap and then, as if by magic, Lemner's right arm grew another joint between her elbow and wrist. It folded up beneath Lina's weight. Had she been so inclined she could have touched the inside of her elbow with her fingertips.
Only then did the knife clatter to the boards. It lay there for only an instant before Lina scooped it up and rolled away from Lemner. She knew it was stupid of her. Instincts berated her for surrendering a superior position, but the simple fact of the matter was, she could not endure another moment of contact with the Inquisitor. She scrambled to her feet, dagger held before her. She had entirely forgotten the battle that raged so dangerously close to her position.
Luckily, Gourry and Gaav seemed to have forgotten as well. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that they stood still as statues, their swords locked. They stared past her, seemingly mesmerized by the woman shambling to her feet.
Turning her attention back to Lemner, Lina was suddenly struck by one of Luna's lessons from so long ago. She had told a wide-eyed Lina that evil wore many masks, but in the end, it always found its true form.
She had seen Luna's lesson prove itself many times over, but never so clearly as it was now. Inquisitor Lemner, who had possibly been a beauty before today, resplendent in her robes of office had become something else entirely. She resembled nothing so much as a much-abused marionette: a frail frame clad in tattered, dirty rags, which might have once been a bright costume. She cradled a ruined arm that would never heal properly, and swayed back and forth, kept on her feet by fierce will and a stubborn refusal to lie down and die. In that trait, at least, she and Lina shared something in common. Her face was, for lack of a better word, a disaster. Her nose jutted at an unnatural angle and her face was smeared with crimson. The left side of her face was puffy, but looked positively normal compared to the opposite side; an ugly bruise marred her right cheek and her eye was swollen shut. In spite of all this, she was still grinning.
Her command almost went unheard over the background of her breathing; she whistled loudly with each exhalation. "Kill theb," she triumphantly wheezed.
Lina heard Gaav mutter, "What . . .?" from somewhere over her shoulder. Apparently, he had expected some sort of qualifier on Lemner's command. "Kill them all, except for the captain," perhaps.
Lemner made a wet gurgling noise and spat red. She turned to the soldiers standing behind her and shrieked, "Kill theb all!"
A half dozen crossbows were raised and Lina found herself staring at deadly steel. Skilled or not, there was no way they could miss at this range. She and Gourry were a heartbeat away from death.
Next Chapter: Violence, swordplay, and death as Lina and Gourry continue their struggles against Gaav and their enigmatic pursuer.
Notes: Eight months since I updated . . . I'm sure many of you thought I had given up. To be honest, I had, but recent events have opened up writing time, and more importantly, ambition, so we're rolling along again.
Revisions for this chapter were small, but huge at the same time. I had meant to post this two months ago when I first finished writing. Unfortunately, minor quibbles got in the way of continuity, so I had to scrap a big portion of the plot and rework. Lemner received more page time and even got a few POV sections, which I enjoyed writing. I don't believe I've written an original character's POV before, so it was an interesting experience, as I usually have tapes/manga/novels to help me along.
Reviewer Response:
Thank you for all your help, Kaitrin. You've stuck with me on this story for . . . what? Two years now? I really appreciate it. As for fleshing out Gaav, he took a bit of a backseat in this chapter, but I hope to give him more page time in the very near future.
Hi, Aniiksa! Thanks for reviewing! I'm glad that you're enjoying the story! Just wanted to say, you're an amazing artist and I love your work on FG.
Ame and Jillas didn't make it into this chapter, although they tried their hardest, Ichiban. In the end, I had to tell them to hush and let me work, but they'll be getting more page time very soon. Possibly their own chapter.
Wow, Iniko, high praise indeed! Thank you muchly, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update.
Hello, Rinchan! The Sarah/Marco scene at the end of the village arc is actually one of my favorite passages in the story. I'm glad to hear someone else thoroughly enjoyed it as well. As for taking in long volumes of fiction in a short period of time, I think I have you beaten: I read the entirety of IT in 36 hours. Go me!
Otaku girl! Thank you for the kind words! Like you said, better late than never, and I hope to be updating more regularly.
Miss Gabriev, I just want to tell you that you are never a bother and I always enjoy hearing from you. As for your comments on the chapter, things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. To be honest, Lina and Co. are on easy street compared to what they're going to experience before the end. As for Gourry's hand, it was burned when he used the SoL on the farmer. Gaav is not a servant of Shabby in this story, just as he is not in canon. He's just a guy trying to do his job with a minimum of headaches (unsuccessfully so for the most part).
Seeker, one thing I've wanted to do for a good while is knock Gaav off his high horse. He's never really been challenged as far as ET goes, but he will be in the very near future. He's not so much the pursued as he is an obstacle.
Razia, you're stalking . . . me? Or Gourry?
I'm glad to hear I scared you, Montrith. I try to make the horror scenes genuinely frightening and it's great to know that I achieve that now and again.
See you next time, readers! Sooner than later, I hope!