A/N: Hey guys! I'm not sure what's up right now with the email notifications and reviews. I hope it's been dealt with. Either way, I'm still posting chapters!
Chapter 48: The Trail of Blood
The icy wind whipped snow around them in swirls. Two figures, trudging through an ankle-deep sea of white. Their identities hidden by the thick coats, hoods, and face-masks they wore to fend off the ungodly cold. Their breaths puffed out from the fabric of their masks to be immediately picked up by the wind.
Silhouettes of buildings stood out against the backdrop of white. It was their destination. A village of indigenous people—people accustomed to living in the frigid environment. People who hid deeply in their homes when they saw the strangers approaching.
One of the figures fished in a pocket with a gloved hand to withdraw a golden pocketwatch. He opened it and watched the needles spin rapidly under the glass. "This must be it, dear me," he said, voice muffled.
The other figure pulled down his hood to reveal dual-colored black and white hair. His red eyes gleamed against the white snow as he gazed at their surroundings.
Jezran and Macbeth had been traveling for three days in the country of Iceberg. Their tracking had led them here, to a village that was supposedly once where the original Diamant Blanc had gathered. High in the northern mountains of iceberg.
Macbeth wasted no time. Since there were no villagers wandering on the icy paths, he went to the first door he saw and knocked heavily. There was shuffling from inside, but no one answered.
"It seems unlikely these villagers will be very hospitable, dear me," Jezran said.
"Your compass won't point toward the device?" Macbeth asked as he shook snow from his coat.
"No, the interference is too strong. His magical energy seems to be everywhere."
Macbeth furrowed his brow as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He knelt to pick up an object sitting beside the door to this home. It was an idol of some sort, a symbol that showed a figure in a hood.
It was made entirely from black diamond.
Jezran examined the strange torches that were scattered along the sides of the path. Fire burned inside of cages, somehow untouched by the wind or snow. Perhaps because of the thin, black diamond lacrima material surrounding them.
These weren't the only indicators that their target had been here. When Macbeth kicked the snow away from the path and re-examined the black ice that had formed on the stone, he realized it wasn't black ice at all. It was, of course, diamond.
He pounded on the door again. "Tell us where he is! The King of Diamonds!"
No response.
Jezran sighed and tapped his watch before securing it back in his pocket. "Resmond's magical energy is in every diamond here. I will not be able to track him beyond this village." The old man approached another door and knocked, far softer than Macbeth had. "Please, we do not wish you harm, dear me. We are simply looking for information. Give it to us and we will be on our way at once."
A woman's eyes peered nervously at him from between the cracks in the wood.
"Dear me, do trust us." Jezran pulled down the fabric covering his mouth and gave her a mustached smile. The woman quickly darted from the door. From across the small building, her muffled voice could be heard.
"Respondeat superior!"
Macbeth had moved on to the next house, where he was issuing threats of endless nightmares to someone locked inside. A man's voice echoed what the woman had said.
"Respondeat superior!"
Macbeth cursed and joined Jezran back in the center of the path. Frustration was evident in his eyes. Jezran pulled the mask back up over his own face to stop avoid developing a frozen mustache. He sighed heavily, breath coming out like a cloud.
"Respondeat superior," he said, meaningfully.
"What does that mean?" Macbeth snapped.
"It means, 'let the master answer.'" The old man explained. He closed his eyes and thought. "It means, they will not answer us."
"We'll see about that." Macbeth trudged further up the path, dead-set and determined. There was a slightly larger building at the end of the path. Maybe a church or the residence of the leader of this village. He chose this building and, instead of knocking, kicked the door in with the heel of his boot.
A man, who must have been leaning against the door, stumbled and fell backward at Macbeth's feet. He was an old man with long hair and a collection of necklaces around his neck—all of them sporting black diamond charms. He held his hands up defensively.
Dark magic whirred around Macbeth's hand. He tried to tighten the necklaces around the man's neck, but cursed when his magic refused to work anywhere near the black charms. He opted instead for clutching the man by the collar and hoisting him to his feet.
If Jezran had a problem with this tactic, he didn't show it. He stood a few feet behind Macbeth with his arms folded across his chest.
"We're looking for someone," Macbeth said, his voice low and threatening. "The man who gave you those diamonds. The same one who has been directing slave transport through your village."
The man's eyes were beady and terrified. "Respondeat superior, respondeat superior!" he squeaked, hands grasping at his collar.
"Let the master answer," Macbeth said. His eyes flashed dangerously. "Tell us where your master is, so that we can get our answers."
The man gasped, gurgling because of the painful tightness around his throat. He pointed a shaking finger to the north-east and uttered something in a language Macbeth didn't understand. He looked over his shoulder at Jezran.
"He says there is a cave not far from here. Follow the riverbed to find the master."
Macbeth smirked but did not release the man. His fingers twitched as pinched the collar a bit tighter. His heart jumped as he watched the man struggled for breath.
"Macbeth," Jezran called out from behind him. "Remember who you are, dear me."
The dual-haired mage scowled, but finally released the man, his eyes softening. Without another word, he started in the direction the man had pointed. Jezran was quick to follow.
The blizzard cleared as they walked. The sky remained a thick shade of gray, and snow continued to fall, but not with the ferocity that it had before. The two men walked at the bottom of an empty riverbed that twisted at the base of steep, craggy hills.
They were close, he could feel it. Close to the man who threatened to take away the only things that mattered to him anymore. The thought of making that man pay—making him writhe in agony—sped both Macbeth's heart and his pace.
"Dear me, stop for a moment!"
He stopped in his tracks and looked back at his teammate. Jezran had knelt in the snow and was examining something dark on the surface. His face tilted up, eyes continuing down the path they were following. Macbeth looked as well. His eyes widened.
Every few feet, the snow was stained red.
"Blood."
"It is fresh," Jezran said. "The snow has not had time to cover it."
It was only then that Macbeth noticed the footsteps that accompanied the trail of blood. Footsteps that had been lightly dusted over with snow, but were still apparent.
"We must proceed with caution, dear me."
Macbeth nodded and the two of them decided to climb the slope to follow the riverbed from above, where they could be somewhat hidden in the case of an attack. They continued to travel, looking down at the trail of blood on the riverbed floor. The droplets appeared to be growing in frequency and size, staining large areas of snow a bright shade of red now.
Ahead of them, the mouth of a cave came into view. The riverbed led directly into its mouth, along with the trail of blood, which was so fresh now that steam still rose from the hot liquid.
Macbeth and Jezran shared a look. It didn't appear as though there were any other way to get inside this cave, and there was no telling what lie beyond. There could be slaves, an army, Resmond and the Nikolana Device…
In wordless agreement, the descended the slope and entered the dark mouth of the cave.
When they stepped inside, they were stunned by the walls of the tunnel around them. This cave shimmered, made entirely out of white, glowing diamond. There was no mistaking they were in the right place, the place where Diamant Blanc practiced their magic.
The trail of blood at their feet was no longer a collection of droplets. Now, it was a path itself, as if blood had poured at a steady torrent here. Macbeth frowned under his mask. The amount of blood they were finding no longer seemed reasonably human. He wasn't sure a single person could have lost this much blood and not be lying dead nearby.
Ahead of them, the cave opened into a massive cavern. They walked to the ledge of what appeared to be a crater in the floor. An empty crater. No sign of slaves, an army, diamonds, or a device.
"I don't understand..." Macbeth slid down the side of the crater toward its center, despite Jezran's protest. He knelt, took off a glove, and touched the ground. It was stirred dirt, unlike the walls of the diamond cavern. Hundreds of footprints were stamped in the soft earth, signs that someone had been here before.
He examined the strange crater. Its jagged slopes and scraped sides. His hand curled into a fist.
"He moved it." His voice shook with rage. "Resmond moved the Nikolana Device. It's not here anymore. He's not here."
"That would seem to be the case, dear me." Jezran said from the ledge.
Macbeth gritted his teeth and slammed his fists into the soil. "Dammit!" His voice was the broken cry of a child. "What are we supposed to do now? We don't have any other leads!" He trembled in the fury, in the fear.
He shook there for a moment, fighting tears. Something warm splashed on the back of his ungloved hand. He wiped his eyes, thinking that a stray tear had escaped, but they were dry. His gaze went to his hand, clutching soil in front of him. Another drop of something wet splattered on his knuckle.
Bright red on his pale skin. Thick, as it slid along his fingers into the soil.
Blood.
"Macbeth! MOVE!"
He rolled suddenly to the right, narrowly dodging something that had dropped from the ceiling of the cavern and now sizzled in the turned earth, sending steam rising in the cold air. Where Macbeth had been kneeling, there was now a pool of blood.
His gaze turned to the ceiling. There, hanging upside down like a bat, wrapped in a cloak of white, with matching white strands of hair and skin, was a man.
He dropped from the ceiling, white cloak fluttering as he fell and landed on his feet in front of Macbeth.
He was tall and slender, with skin the color of the snow. White, layered hair framed his face and hung to his shoulders, feathering around a slender neck. He had a regal air about him, posture straight, sharp chin tilted upward in an almost smug fashion. His lips were pale, and his eyes—were just as red and consuming as Macbeth's.
Under the white cloak he was dressed like a noble, with a black diamond broach centered on a white lapel. The nails at the end of his long fingers were red, dripping with blood.
"Good evening," the man said, in a voice that matched his regal appearance.
Macbeth stood, feet shoulder-width apart—facing his opponent. He narrowed his eyes and did not return the sentiment.
"You must be Macbeth," the man continued, politely, though his red eyes gleamed hungrily.
"You…" Macbeth scanned him over. "You're not Resmond." Whatever magic this man used was not the black-diamond ability that touched everywhere Resmond had been. There was something strange about the sense of energy surrounding this man.
"Astute observation," the man grinned, revealing two glimmering-white fangs. "Indeed, I am not the King. I am afraid you will not have an audience with him tonight." He held one arm outward, fingers toward the ground. "Hopefully you will not be too disappointed. I will do my best to keep you entertained in his absence." The blood from the pool at his feet suddenly began to rise at the beckon of his white fingers. It circled his outstretched hand.
There was a thud on the soil next to Macbeth as Jezran leapt to stand at his side.
"Beware, dear me. This man is not to be trifled with."
Without warning, the man leaped. His fingers were outstretched like claws, slashing forward with the added might of the blood that circled his hand.
"Blood-Dragon Claws!" He swept downward, leaving a trail of boiling blood in the wake. Macbeth reflected the blood back at the last minute, and watched it splatter back at the wizard, speckling his white cloak red. Jezran met the man's outstretched arm with a kick, protecting Macbeth from the strike. The man landed and immediately bounded up to the ledge of the crater. He stared down at them with a wicked smirk.
"Dragon-slayer magic," Jezran said in disbelief.
"You are not mistaken," he held his arms out and blood swirled around both of his hands. "I am Sânge, the Blood-Dragon Slayer."
A/N: Introducing the last major OC you will meet in this fic. Sânge! I hope the fact that I've introduced a dragon-slayer doesn't come off as cliche or unbelievable. I'm actually incredibly fond of this character, who was initially just meant to be around for this one battle, but, as you'll see, has much more of an impact on the story than a minor villain. I'm dying to know what you all think of him.
And Ori, I'm sorry about Pipe Dream, I know you shipped them. xD But come on, Canaper has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? ;)