Chapter 8: Broken Oaths, Twisted Loyalties

Amon stared out over the choppy grey water, waves that matched the cold grey of his eyes. His gaze settled on nothing, so lost in thought was he. The windy seascape passed by, but his mind saw only that dank room awash in flames…

- - - - -

He had blocked an orbo bullet without even knowing how he had done it. But even as he did the door had exploded off its hinges and the large and angry silhouettes of Juliano and Adrian came into view. The light had died then, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to come alive. And then fire erupted and filled the room with light and heat beyond anything he had experienced.

His next memory was of Juliano's face hovering above him, urging him to get up. He had done so on wobbly legs as the Master Hunter went to kneel over another figure sprawled on the floor. His head felt hollow and scoured from the inside, and he fought to comprehend the scene surrounding him. A look over his shoulder brought it all back. Father Adrian was on the floor with yet another casualty, a sight that made Amon's blood run cold.

The old man was cradling a woman's body in his arms, pressing her to his chest tightly, and unvoiced anguish carved his features into quiet despair. Amon moved towards them hesitantly, feeling like an intruder to a private moment as he knelt beside the old Hunter. Adrian acknowledged his presence then, turning eyes to him so full of suffering that Amon nearly cringed back. Instead he reached out and brushed the hair from Morgan's face, revealing dark blood streaked on chalk white skin. Her eyes were closed.

Adrian was rocking slightly, shallow intakes of breath replacing the howls and tears he was forbidden to give voice to. "I'm sorry," Amon whispered to the man, who gave no indication of having heard him. Adrian laid Morgan's body back on the cement, staring at her still face, raising a hand to cover his mouth.

Amon looked at her sleeping countenance. She was dead, and he had let her die. More innocent blood on his hands. He had followed her last wishes, but that thought brought no consolation whatsoever. Instead he felt as though he had utterly betrayed her. Though he knew it was futile to apologize to her now, he still felt compelled to lean over her and bring his parched lips close to her ear. "Morgan, I'm sorry," he whispered to her, letting his eyes close to better reign in the emotions that were choking him.

And then he froze, his eyes popping open in surprise.

His long black hair had ruffled almost imperceptively, and he held his breath, waiting. Just when he thought it had been his imagination it occurred again, a puff of air that moved his hair ever so slightly. Springing to action, he reached for a pulse. And there it was, though erratic at best and very faint.

Morgan was alive.

- - - - -

The clouds overhead were a solid ceiling of grey and the strong wind whipped his hair mercilessly across his face. He pushed it aside for the thousandth time, leaning against the cold railing of the ship as it ploughed through heavy seas. Winter was fast approaching, and bringing with it inhospitable sailing weather on a current the locals called Scirocco; a strong, sometimes gale force wind that pounded the coast of Italy from October to May. Currently it was lashing his body, and he wrestled his long black coat which flapped madly.

He snuck a glance from the corner of his eye to the figures sheltering on a bench in the lee of the cabin wall – a much bundled Morgan and a very protective Adrian close beside her. He sat with her now as he had sat with her then, when the intensive care doctors had merely shrugged when asked what her chances of survival were.

- - - - -

"It's impossible to say with any certainty," the doctor had told them wearily, fresh from the surgery to repair Morgan's internal damage. "She is stable at the moment, but the real test will be if she regains consciousness."

And so Adrian had waited patiently at her bedside, impervious to suggestions of rest or food. Amon had not been able to sit still and so he had wandered the hospital after a cursory inspection of his own wounds. He had allowed them to bandage the lacerations to his wrists and forearms, but pushed them impatiently away when they sought to treat him further.

Juliano had taken him then to a safe house set up for his use, leaving him there with the order to rest and to stay put. Stay he did, but he couldn't rest. There were too many puzzle pieces in his mind, and the sharp edges were poking him. He found a convenient glass and bottle of scotch in a cupboard and set the table with them, deciding to medicate his mind with something antiseptic somewhere in the ballpark of eighty proof.

Above all else was the haunting feeling of the waking dragon in his blood, the power he had sought to suppress for ten long years. He had used his Craft, and in doing so had broken an oath to himself.

On the day his mother died, his world had sunk into darkness that deepened with every passing breath. His Air Craft had been the cause of her death. If he hadn't possessed that unnatural power then the STNJ wouldn't have come to collect him. If he hadn't been in danger then his mother's power wouldn't have awakened, sentencing her to death.

His mother's Craft… The terrible realization had shaped the young boy into the hardened man he was today. His demonic gift had not been a fluke as he had always supposed. She had given it to him through her witch's blood. He would never forgive her for it – for giving him the blood that would forever separate him into a world of darkness. He would never forgive her for dying because of it. He would never forgive himself for letting it happen. For being the cause. For hating the blood in his veins that cursed him. And he had sworn on that day he would never again give in to the dangerous power that allowed him to control the very air around him.

They had given a choice to the frightened boy ten years ago – Hunt or be Hunted. And even though his self loathing had made him recklessly consider ending it all in that moment, he had chosen to Hunt. Other people possessed this curse. It was his duty to eliminate them all. And the final enticement to that end had been the strong figure of Zaizen, promising the grief stricken teenager that he would help him repress his Craft in exchange for loyal service. The deal was made. Amon learned to Hunt.

And then in that terrible room he had let loose the monster of his nightmares.

Amon longed to break the glass he held and drag the jagged edge over his wrists to let the damned beast out forever, to free his mother's cursed blood from him once and for all. To join her… Amon let his face fall into his hands, allowing grief to play across his face in the safety of solitude. He could hate her with every breath and still long to see her again. He could eliminate one witch after another and still see his own face. Tears had died for him ten years ago, but the dry ache still burned in his throat. The damned killing the damned.

He poured himself another drink.

- - - - -

Amon turned his face to the wind to wipe the memory away, letting the salty spray scour his unprotected skin. Behind him the two Solomon agents were silent, but Amon knew the lack of speech didn't indicate lack of conversation. For all he knew Morgan and Adrian were talking about him through Morgan's telepathic Craft, and the thought stiffened his spine somewhat. No, more likely Morgan was staring at the damp boards of the deck, trying to block out the thoughts of everyone around her. When she had awakened from her surgery they had discovered an increase of her Craft, as though the volume in her head was set much too high. Now, instead of searching for a connection, Morgan had to fight to block it out. The strain of a Craft so powerful was taking its toll on the young woman, both physically and mentally. Struggling with a Craft – that at least Amon could understand.

- - - - -

Once it was clear that Morgan would live, Juliano called Adrian and Amon to him. It had been several days since the incident, days that blurred together in Amon's mind. He had been left rattling around the safe house, his tormented mind his only company. While he was wary of the purpose for this meeting, he was equally grateful to be thinking of something beside the unanswered questions that plagued him. He was taken to Juliano's residence, and the Master Hunter received them in the private sculpture garden situated behind his home.

The three Hunters sat on comfortable chairs beneath the splotchy shade of a large tree, as though avoiding the watery sunlight of the late fall day. Away from the sun's warmth the breeze had a bite to it, and Amon shrugged his coat a little higher on his shoulders.

After the polite offers of refreshment had been rejected, Juliano got down to business. "We need to look ahead," he said with a look to both Hunters before him. "The situation is volatile, and while I have been asserting my influence in what areas I can, there are still unresolved issues."

That's putting it mildly, Amon thought sarcastically to himself. Rather than speak it, he said instead, "What has become of Koushon and Ivan?"

Juliano nodded gravely. "A good question," he confirmed. "Both were injured in the incident, though Koushon was largely protected by the orbo." The mention of the heretical green liquid made the Master Hunter scowl, and the look was mirrored by Father Adrian. "Ivan was injured much more grievously, though he will live I am told."

"That's too bad," Amon grumbled, which produced a wry smile from Juliano.

"You have much cause to hold a grudge, Amon," Juliano conceded, "but rest assured that Ivan got as good as he gave. Let revenge rest for now."

Amon opened his mouth to protest, but Juliano continued speaking. "Believe me, they will be dealt with. Leave it to me. Koushon will answer for his actions, as will Ivan, as will Zaizen."

The young Hunter's thoughts of revenge were interrupted by the mention of his boss. "Zaizen?"

The Father now rested the considerable weight of his gaze on Amon. "Yes, and that brings me to a very important matter which we must discuss. Zaizen is the administrator of the STNJ, and thereby you have worked for him. But what I need to know from you, Amon, is where your loyalty will lay in the future."

Amon's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Juliano studied Amon gravely. "Well you already know that it was Zaizen who called Koushon to Japan." Amon confirmed this with a nod. "They are working together, or at least they were, to defy Solomon." The Master Hunter's lip curled somewhat. "It seems that the friendship was fickle. Still, Zaizen continues to stand in opposition to Solomon and he will answer for his actions, make no mistake." His words held the gravity in his eyes. "Zaizen will not be in power much longer."

A moment passed in silence, and Amon let this sink in. Zaizen was going down. Zaizen, the man who had originally helped Amon suppress his power and given him a purpose in his empty life was going to fall. However, this was the same man who had ordered him to perform cold blooded acts against his own co-workers, all for the sake of his precious orbo. He had been the man to order the Hunt for Robin. Amon's frown deepened. He had sacrificed his own daughter for Robin's Hunt. It wasn't too difficult to believe that the man had a larger, darker objective than simply administrating the STNJ.

Juliano was still looking to the dark Hunter. "What I am asking, Amon, is this – are you loyal to Solomon, or to Zaizen?"

Loyalty. The word stuck in his mind and he turned it over like a pebble in his hand. He had pledged his loyalty to Zaizen, and that meant something to him. However, to be sworn to a dishonest or unmoral man was to reflect that upon one's own soul. And in that moment Juliano's words to Robin in his undelivered letter danced before Amon's eyes. To wield power as Juliano did and yet still have depth of feeling such as was displayed in that note was telling of the man's character, at least in Amon's opinion.

And while he had sworn loyalty to Zaizen, he now no longer knew to what purpose his actions would be used. He had answered to the man, but he still believed in the ideals upon which Solomon operated – A witch must always be Hunted. There was only one glaring exception to this rule in Amon's mind, and he batted it away. Robin was not a witch, no matter what Zaizen said.

He looked up at the Master Hunter, his charcoal eyes resolute. "I am loyal to Solomon."

Juliano and Adrian both smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," the Premier Master Hunter replied. "And I have your first assignment. In the name of Solomon, I am sending you to a facility to train your Craft."

The blood rushed out of Amon's face. "What?"

The look now in Juliano's eyes was shrewd. "I will not have a Hunter in my employ who does not have control of his Craft."

Amon could not hold the Master's gaze to tell the lie. "I have no Craft."

Adrian was looking warily between the two men, but Juliano's good temper seemed to be holding. "You are foolish if you think I don't know your history," the man said quietly. "Even if I did not, however, one look to the destruction in that room would tell me. I saw Ivan's injuries." The tone was soft, but his eyes were hard. "Your Craft has returned."

Amon wasn't ready to give up his pretense. "You mean awakened."

Juliano sighed, a sign that his patience was waning. "No, I did not misspeak. Returned."

The word felt like a punch to the stomach, and the air refused to enter his lungs. "How can you know that?" Amon choked.

"In your short time here you must have realized that Solomon is an organization that feeds itself on secrets," Juliano said cryptically. "And there is not a single Hunter in my program whom I don't know everything about." Juliano sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "It could even be said that I know more about you than you do yourself."

"I doubt it," Amon growled, his unease funneling into anger.

Juliano was unthreatened. "Doubt me if you like," he said lightly, "but I know that your Craft first awakened more than ten years ago, and I know that you have suppressed it with the power of the orbo." Amon's hands clenched into fists. Juliano continued. "But understand me now – to work for Solomon as a Hunter is to work for me. And I will not have a Hunter who is untrained in their Craft. You will master it."

Amon's rush of emotions lifted him to his feet. "And if I refuse?"

At Amon's movement Adrian had stood as well, taking a protective step toward his master. Juliano waved him aside and looked calmly at the fuming young man before him. "Then you should understand the consequences of that refusal. To deny your power will destroy you. I do not doubt your strength of will, I am merely stating fact. And what I offer is help, help so that you can control your Craft. Don't run from the inevitable, Amon."

This raised Amon's hackles as Juliano doubtlessly intended. "I run from nothing."

"Good. Then train your Craft."

Amon stood his ground and shook his head stubbornly. Juliano's light handed approach had ended along with his patience, and it reflected in the lines of his stern face. "Could it be," he questioned with baited breath, "that you're simply afraid? That without Zaizen's heretical orbo to hide behind you are a man who cowers from his very nature?"

The heat of Amon's anger was fanned by the strong wind which suddenly erupted beneath the tree, lashing the three men and toppling Amon's empty chair. Adrian's eyes narrowed as they looked around, but Juliano's never left Amon's face. "You disappoint me, Amon," he intoned sadly. "You give your loyalty in one breath only to disobey with another? I thought more of you."

This statement bit at Amon's principled psyche, calming the winds somewhat. "I am a man of this organization, I meant what I said." His fists clenched tighter.

"Then obey me now." Juliano slowly rose to his feet, meeting Amon eye to eye. "Because defying Solomon has its consequences as well, and I don't need to tell you what those consequences are."

No, he didn't need to say it. To defy Solomon meant elimination. Amon's gaze did not waver, but he knew the rush of cold fear in his limbs was not without merit. Juliano could incinerate him where he stood with a single thought.

But to use his Craft when he had sworn not to… Amon felt his world restricting to tunnel vision. He had made an oath to himself as well. Did that not meaning something too? Yet Juliano's words had been true. Now that he could no longer repress his Craft, he stood upon the possibility of being destroyed by his own unfocused power. So his real choice was whether to become the uncontrolled menace he had spent his life Hunting or harness his curse in order to rid the world of that same menace.

He felt deflated, the howling wind that had filled him leaked away and he bowed his head deferentially. "I will obey," he whispered.

Juliano stepped forward and put a firm hand on Amon's shoulder. "You've made the right decision," the Father replied in a paternal, confidential tone. "You have strength, and your skills as a Hunter are already extraordinary. What I am proposing to you is an enhancement of those skills, along with a great honor."

He stepped back and resumed the authority of his office. "Amon, you will be sent to the Monte della Fortezza, the Cala Maestra, secret home of the Master Hunter training facility."

- - - - -

The Mountain of Fortitude, the Teacher's Cove. Amon remembered the surprise he felt mirrored in Father Adrian's widened eyes. The secret facility was foggy legend that Solomon agents whispered about over drinks in hushed voices. Most people within the organization were dubious that the place even existed. One thing was certain – individuals that were chosen to the Master program disappeared, sometimes for years, only to return as lithe and efficient killing machines unrivalled by any man made weapon.

One could not apply to the Master Hunter program. One was chosen. And apparently, Juliano had chosen Amon. An honor, as Juliano had said. A terrifying honor.

At least he was not going alone. Morgan and Adrian were with him, and this had been at Juliano's order as well. Morgan's newly enhanced Craft was destroying her, and it was the Father's opinion that the Cala Maestra would be the perfect place for her to recover and gain control. Adrian had insisted on joining her, though he was no stranger to their destination. He was a Master Hunter himself.

And so the three of them had flown from Rome to the island of Elba, one of seven islands of the Tuscan Archipelago in the Tyrrhenian Sea. From the port of Elba they had reported to the sleek, massive cutter that would complete the final leg of the journey. Setting to sea in foul weather, their trip had been uncomfortable at best. Amon's face felt numb from the wind and spray, and behind him Morgan miserably huddled even lower on her bench. But Adrian stood up, joining Amon at the rail and pointing a silent finger to the horizon.

Amon followed his gesture. Land had appeared as though rising from the ocean, a granite tooth jutting from the waves, looking as formidable as Amon had imagined it. Even at a distance and through a ghostly haze he could see mountains rising from the sharp cliffs of its coast with the dark shadow of trees sporadically covering the bare rock. Just off the coast a lighthouse was perched tenaciously on a rocky outcropping, and its light winked and pierced the gloom.

He looked upon the island, stronghold of the Solomon Master program. Legend and literature had pushed the island into the realm of fiction or fantasy for most, and its masters did nothing to dissuade the myth. Owned by Italian aristocracy from time immemorial, it had been the private hunting ground of kings. Hermits and monks had been the first to step upon its shores, and built a monastery there. Today it was strictly off limits to the world, labeled as a 'natural preserve.' No human was allowed within a mile of its coast, and to step foot upon it without retribution meant to possess a special permit from the Italian state, a grant as rare as summer snow. Most citizens of the world were unaware of its actual existence outside the stories, and none were allowed upon it. Yet here it was, a formidable citadel of secrecy. It seemed somehow fitting that this place was Solomon's fortress.

Amon looked upon the island and whispered the name the world knew it by. Montecristo. Mountain of Christ.

Author's Note: Yeah, that's right, I said Montecristo. And now you're thinking, "How can Amon visit a sandwich?" Or, "Viking Princess is now shamelessly cribbing off Dumas!" Well, the Count of Montecristo is a kick ass book, but I've found the real island to be much more intriguing. The information as I have relayed it to you is recorded fact. No one is allowed on this remote island, an interesting find that sparked my curiosity. So with a little creative license the island now belongs to Solomon. Meaningless factoid number two million and eight. :-)

And of course a gigantic thank you to my wonderful reviewers! It is great motivation to continue the story when I know there are at least a few people who are enjoying reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you!