THE COMING OF WINTER
Part 2 of 4 Section 1 written by Victar, e-mail
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Part 2 Section 1
My retreat from the target's dwelling was anything but silent. Fisherman's blood moistened my hands. I made no effort to conceal my departure. Howls and wailing rose from the hut I left behind.
A puppy. The bastard had owned a stinking flat-faced puppy, smaller than the fish he netted, but with a bark loud enough to wake the hosts of Hell. He must have acquired it within the past week, or it would have been mentioned in his file. I would have known anyway if he'd let the blasted thing outdoors; gods alone know why he didn't. The damn creature slept outside his bedroom, and its keen nose smelled me before mine could smell him.
What is it now, Pom-Pom? the fisherman had yawned, shuffling out of his bedroom. His movements weren't right; he was far too careless, not even holding a light or a weapon. I faltered. He followed the little animal's gaze and glimpsed my outline against the window starlight. Who are you?
It took one last burst of resolve to quell my hesitation and carry out my task. The black-painted dagger was already in my hand; he didn't move as I brought it toward his throat. That threw me off. I'd expected him to flinch away, with automatic reflexes even the lowliest enforcer must develop to survive, and he didn't. Instead of cleanly severing his jugular, I only carved a deep gash on the side of his neck. Sloppy.
What do you want? he'd cried out, staggering back. I have little, but if you want to steal something take it! Just don't hurt my wife and child! A gangster would have reached for a gun, a knife, anything that could be used as a weapon, but he merely stared at me when I stepped forward and inserted the dagger between his fourth and fifth ribs, angled up.
Why...? He didn't seem to realize that his heart had stopped, until suddenly his legs bent like reeds. He slid down, and the blade withdrew from his chest cavity with a wet, sucking sound. That was when his wife's screams joined the puppy's barking. A child's cry could also be heard, blending into the cacophony. I dashed for the nearest exit, still holding the dagger. The little dog sank its teeth into my shin. Instead of stabbing it, I merely kicked it away. I kill people, not animals.
The noise seemed to follow me forever. Sprinting away from the village, I did not slow my pace till dawn. Only then did the truth of what I'd done sink into me, along with the first rays of morning sunlight. I stopped and sank to my knees, not unlike the man I'd killed. Time must have passed, for the sun was at its zenith when someone snickered.
"Pathetic. Truly pathetic." I'd never heard the voice before, but I recognized the deep aura of fiery Power. Of course Pyre had sent someone to monitor me; it just didn't happen to be Sektor. Ember had been watching all this time. "You're lucky those peasants are too frightened to mount a search party. A blind ox could follow your trail. You are unfit to be called Lin Kuei. I ought to execute you on the spot for your ineptitude. You'd be dead right now if not for your Power. I'd have a hard time telling Lord Pyre that I destroyed the clan's only Ice 'master' in over two decades, without the Hierarchy's approval."
My legs were numb from hours of kneeling, and protested my slow turn around. "The target was no Tong. He was nothing but a common villager."
"How long did it take you to figure that out?"
"Why did Lord Pyre lie to me?" I snapped, stepping forward. "Why did he want that man dead?"
"Don't question orders from your superior."
I struck him. He never saw it coming. Neither did I. It wasn't until he choked and spat out one of his teeth that I was aware of taking the action.
"On second thought, I'm sure Grandfather will understand," Ember growled, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. The ambience of Power coating his hands intensified, shining like a solar flare.
Light glinted a kilometer past the bend.
A bridge stretched across Blood River. For all I could tell, it was the only bridge in the whole of Limbo. Its thick, black posts thrust deep into the river's shores of clay. A second set of posts rose out of the murky blood-waters to support the next section, followed by another pair, and another, the rest of its length hidden in the drifting mist. The posts were composed of no earthly substance - not wood, steel, stone, nor paint of any texture. They were so polished as to reflect what little light found its way into this deep valley, and the ones in the river never lost their shine no matter how often bloody geysers splashed over them. As for the bridge itself, it consisted of planks joined by cables anchored to the posts, all made of tarnished metal. Halfway between sets of the widely spaced posts, the walkway dipped and swayed alternately left and right. There were no ropes or guards to keep one from falling off.
With my first, tentative step upon the bridge, I felt dizzy. My head hurt. The temperature had soared beyond sweltering. I'd endured the backbreaking desert heat all the way down; now, I had reached its source. I'd had only a short time to rebuild my psychic reserves since escaping the quicksand pit, but I needed to expend a steady output of the Power simply to remain conscious. My heart was pounding to keep up with the strain. My ice bandages melted and dripped away; when I tried to muster the effort to replace them, the thought darted like a confused fish, wriggling from my grasp. One thing was clear: if I didn't cross this devil's river quickly, I would pass out and never wake up.
Trust your instincts, not Lord Pyre.
I was only partially aware of the journey back. Each day, I ran until the moon set; only then would I allow myself a few, fitful hours of sleep before jolting awake at dawn. It took three days to return, instead of five.
Just don't hurt my wife and child!
When I stormed onto Lin Kuei grounds, a blind slave cleaning the windows was not fast enough to get out of my way. I shoved him on the floor without breaking stride. I sent no notice of my coming as I plowed toward Pyre's audience chamber. He'd be there. He had to be there. If he weren't, I'd take the damn place apart brick by brick until I found him.
How long did it take you to figure that out?
"Lord Pyre!" I roared, slamming the unlocked doors to his audience chamber open. He was there, all right. Sektor was to his left; two more black-clad members shadowed his either side. In front of him kneeled a half-dozen lesser Hierarchy members, and Smoke. A twitching irritation curled within me, the closest thing to anger I am capable of feeling. It was directed at Smoke and Pyre, but even more so at myself. I had broken my own code. Instead of stalking a hunter, I'd killed a common fisherman. The balance had to be repaid.
Now.
I held out my dagger so that its flat side, tainted with bloodstains, faced the others. "You have insulted me, Lord Pyre, offending my dignity." I bit off each word as an acrid sore. "You have lied to me, offending my trust. You have enjoined me to hunt a common man, offending my honor."
I turned my right forearm supine and touched the dagger's tip to the brink of my inner elbow, away from the brachial artery, and brought pressure down to bear. Holding the knife rigid, I slowly drew it along the edge the ulna bone down to the wrist. Thick red fluid welled in the blade's wake. Transferring the dagger from left hand to right, I clenched it in my fist and pressed my gashed forearm against my chest so that it crossed diagonally from my side to my opposite clavicle. A moist streak remained on my garments after I'd removed my arm and tossed the dagger before Pyre. It skittered across the polished stone, coming to rest by his feet. He did not glance at it.
"No," Sektor whispered. His grandfather motioned for him to be silent.
The old man chuckled. "A challenge? From you? If I wanted to waste my time roasting waterfowl, I'd turn the spits in the kitchen.
"Ember sent a report of your progress. Piteous. You wasted a whole day; far from being invisible you raised a ruckus that alerted the entire town; neglected to cover your tracks; and most appalling of all, you left living witnesses behind. Perhaps I share some blame for overestimating your capability to carry out a simple task," he sighed, with a brief shrug. "Ember was slated to send another message yesterday. Pray that it speaks more favorably of you when it arrives."
"It will not arrive." Slowly, without taking my eyes off him, I reached within my uniform's folds and drew out a floppy sack of dark cloth, loosely tied with a sash.
"Don't play games," Pyre warned, his mood abruptly changing from disdainful to suspicious. "What are you talking about?"
"Why did you order me to kill the fisherman?"
"You are rapidly depleting my patience." The air shifted slightly, and I did not have to move my head to know that more of his agents had the drop on me. "It had come to my attention that you were getting into disputes with other clan members, refusing to accept assignments unless they had a certain, shall we say, prestige? A truly loyal clansman must be willing to carry out any elimination, no matter how lowly, even if the target's lifestyle conflicts with what he is told."
"So it was nothing but a test," I hissed, "a test of my loyalty. For that, I cannot forgive you." I cast the sack next to the dagger. The soft slap of its landing spread the flat sash, like the drawstring belt it was. The sack's dark material flopped open, though its further half remained creased like the flattened hood it was. Inside lay a short length of reddish hair attached to a patch of human scalp.
Sektor screamed, "Murderer!" and tried to charge me, but two of Pyre's black-clad assistants restrained the furious youth. He fought against them, wresting one arm free. A thin jet of flame streamed from his fingertips; it didn't extend more than a meter before sputtering and dying out.
"Get him out of here," commanded the old man, calmly. It took another two assistants to coerce Sektor's departure without physically harming him. Smoke closed the black stone doors behind them, cutting off Sektor's outcries and curses.
In stark contrast, Pyre showed neither outrage nor grief. His air of authority remained firm. He did not address me again, but only stared pointedly, analyzing my every detail. At last he knelt to pick up the dagger lying near his feet, without taking his sharp, bright eyes off me. A couple drops of my blood hung from its tip, joining stains of fisherman's blood and Ember's blood. He grasped its hilt firmly and made a similar incision along the edge of his left ulna, adding his sanguine fluid to the mix, then pressed his cut forearm across his chest.
In that moment, I think, I came to truly respect him.
Keep moving.
The narrow metal underfoot creaked and swayed with each uncertain step. Heat weighed me down like a millstone around my neck. To travel faster than a brisk walk could invite a fall. There were times when I thought the river's blood shaped itself into demons and ghosts from my past. Fool! they called. Hypocrite! Incompetent!
Keep moving.
My psychic reserves were gone; to survive, I had to call upon stored energy from within my physical body to feed the Power. The resulting toll was akin to maintaining a dead run, even though I took one, slow step at a time. I could feel the Power's protection ebbing away. My skin, already flushed deep red, began to itch and burn from the scalding steam. I tucked both arms inside my vest for protection.
Slow to adapt, Smoke criticized.
Truly pathetic, sneered Ember.
Piteous, Pyre sniffed.
Murderer! yelled Sektor.
Keep moving, into the flame and past the geyser. Ignore the voices, forget the strain, pay no attention to the burns. Keep moving. Nothing matters save to keep moving.
Was that the shadow of the other side? Probably not, just like the last three times I thought I saw the bridge's end. Yet the shadow seemed to get darker and firmer the closer I approached it...
"HURR! AN INSECT! DOES IT WANT TO CROSS?"
A painfully loud, deep bass voice boomed from directly ahead. The sound carried a peculiar dual resonance. Mist and sweat impeded my vision, so that I could not perceive more than a single great mass in front of me. The bridge was too narrow to move around him. His heavy, panting breath came in paired gasps.
"WELL? DON'T BE RUDE TO US, INSECT! DO YOU WANT TO CROSS OR NOT?"
"Yes," I answered. Then as an afterthought, "Please."
"OH? SOMEHOW, WE DON'T THINK SO!"
That and the whistle of rushing air were my only warnings. Automatically, I turned aside, freeing my arms and stepping back into guard position. A heavy object with wide, dull spikes cracked my torso. Vibrations from the impact reached my head, spinning it. I staggered and turned my momentum into a backward flip before I could lose my balance. My attacker followed, his great weight rocking the bridge from side to side. The mists thinned to reveal an ogre.
He towered nearly twice my height. Two hideous heads bobbed upon a single body. Each head had a short, conical horn protruding from the skull, a single green-gold eye with elliptical pupils, and a mouth so wide it stretched through the cheeks. Cracked lips drew against double rows of serrated, backward-pointing shark's teeth. His skin gleamed jaundiced yellow-green, the color of vomit mixed with bile. While his torso distantly resembled a man's, his sleek black legs were crooked and had horse hooves instead of feet. His elongated arms were thickly muscled, and each hand bore claws as long as their fingers. The right hand, claws and all, curled about the base of a huge wooden club studded with tetrapod iron spikes. The weapon was roughly the size of a person and must have weighed hundreds of kilograms; he waved it about as if it were a toy.
"HURR! COME BACK HERE, INSECT! WE'RE NOT FINISHED WITH YOU YET!"
The hell you say.
As the challenged party, Pyre had the right of dictating terms for the death-duel. Predictably, he chose a weaponless match. Only attacks with the physical body or the Power would be permitted. The confrontation would take place at midnight tomorrow, in an underground stone chamber reserved exclusively for the purpose.
Death-duels are not the same as assassinations. Though both have the intent of killing, in an ideal assassination the target dies before he is aware of being attacked. It is not always possible to surprise the target in this manner, but it is preferable. In a Lin Kuei death-duel, the contest must begin on equal terms. Enforcing these rules are a single Overseer and four Watchers, those who have mastered the Power of Invisibility. The Watchers observe, and if either contestant attacks before the Overseer's beckon or uses an unsanctioned weapon, they kill him. While there is no dishonor in losing a duel, an ignominious death at the hands of the Watchers inevitably brings shame and slaughter to the rulebreaker's family.
I had survived six previous death-duels by adhering to two general tenets. Rule One: Preparation. Study your opponent. Know him well. Internalize his strengths, weaknesses, and how they compare against your own. Rehearse in body and mind tactics to counter those you expect him to use, and be ready to improvise if he uses unexpected tactics. Have some idea of what you will actually do before you are thrust in a closed ring with someone determined to end your life.
Rule Two: Never forget Rule One.
I found Smoke at his personal practice grounds, sparring with one of his pupils. The student carried wooden mock-daggers; Smoke was unarmed. The initiate had a solid grasp of the basics, but could not change his tactics quickly enough to keep up with Smoke's constantly shifting attacks. Smoke's velocity inspires awe. When he wants to, he can glide across ground as if carried by wind spirits; yet his movements are not rushed. He masters every turn, thrust, parry and dodge with consummate grace. Sometimes I wonder if his perfectly-controlled acceleration is fueled by his Power.
At one point Smoke's rhythm skipped a beat. He stopped short and skidded on one knee. To the casual eye, he appeared to have stumbled. I knew better. His stance was too relaxed and alert for someone preoccupied with resuming his equilibrium; furthermore, I'd seen him act that way before, back when I was holding the wooden daggers. Smoke's adversary faced him full forward and covered the distance between them in two long steps. He thrust in the middle of the second step, aiming for the neck. Braced on hands and knees, Smoke kicked his pupil's shin out from under him, before he could put his full weight on it. The student's attack went wide, and he fell on his face.
"Do not surrender your balance," Smoke instructed, "because with it, you surrender control. Keep your center of your gravity low to the ground at all times, especially when you close in on a seemingly weakened foe." The pupil looked at the floor, shamefaced. "One more thing. Never lower your eyes to an enemy!"
Smoke's hand seemed barely to graze the student's forehead. The initiate's body sagged and went limp in his arms. He set his unconscious pupil down gently.
"Tell me about Pyre," I demanded.
Smoke did not make eye contact. "You and I should not be seen together. Is there no one you can trust to discreetly carry a message?"
"I did not come to discuss trust. I charge you to tell me all you know about Pyre, right here, right now."
"And if I decline?" Smoke mused. His face was expressionless, but his body turned to the side, knees slightly bent, at once both at ease and ready to snap into action.
"Then once I am done with Pyre, I shall challenge you next." He did not appear intimidated. That was to be expected; Lin Kuei do not let fear hinder their countenance.
The teacher inclined his head and spoke. "Pyre is the direct descendent of one of the Lin Kuei's founding members. He has earned the rank of honored Second Tier veteran, and is the oldest Hierarchy member currently living. In his younger days, his temper matched his name. Time changed that. He is no longer as quick to destroy those who offend him. Some think this means he had grown weak. They are wrong. Pyre crushes his enemies as thoroughly as ever, but age has given him the wisdom to hold back until he is certain he has no other use for them." Smoke went on to describe Pyre's personality, habits, history, and most importantly, his fighting tactics.
Concentrating upon the information, I listened until he had nothing more to say. Then I bowed, without taking my eyes off him. "I shall see you again, after the duel."
"Assuming you survive," he returned dryly, with a similar bow.
"I will."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I'll see you in Hell."
As I retreated, I twisted the guards on the backs of my hands around. The ogre swung his club again; I dodged with a handspring. Thick guard-pads shielded my hands, though my fingertips came in contact with the heated metal bridge. Tiny, searing needles punctured each digit. I turned my next flip into a fully aerial somersault, with a half-twist in the middle to land facing the other way. Touching down in a crouch, I accelerated into a sprint.
"YOU WON'T GET AWAY THAT EASILY, INSECT!" The bridge whipped with the pounding clip-clop of hooves. He was pursuing me at full tilt. Good. I waited until I could feel the jangling hoof-tremors barely two meters behind my back, flipped forward to expend some of my own momentum, and pivoted about upon landing. If there'd been enough Power left within me to immobilize the ogre, I'd have done so, but my psyche was too exhausted to call more than a trickle. Instead, I thrust my heel out in a full-force side kick.
It should have worked.
Lured into high speed pursuit, the ogre should have run straight into an attack strong enough to shatter the joint of his right knee. His horse-legs already looked too frail and crooked to support the hulking mass of his torso. But my foot came into contact with an iron spike instead of skin and bone. Metal tore through the leather of my footwear and punctured my skin. A crackling shock of pain coursed through my leg, pain that had to be ignored. A clammy tingling followed. There was Power in that club; I'd have felt it sooner if I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the heat.
How could the ogre have reacted so quickly? His inertia was too great; at the speed he'd been moving, he couldn't have come to a dead halt in mid-stride. He appeared far too heavy and ungainly, yet his lengthy arms had swung down the club with instantaneous speed and grace that reminded me of Smoke. Perhaps I should have used a faster, snapping kick instead of going for the raw power of a full turn and thrust.
The ogre brought his elbow down toward my extended leg. He would have shattered my femur if I hadn't once more thrown myself into a back handspring. I collapsed to my knees when my injured foot touched the bridge, and its heat burned through the rent in my footwear. Some of my blood sizzled on the metal slats and dripped through its cracks, joining the contents of Blood River.
My enemy rushed forward and swung his deadly weapon before I could stand. The club's iron ribbing loomed before me; for one tiny, timeless moment I saw a close-up of one band embellished with the finely etched letters "UT." Then the weapon crashed into my face, neck, and midsection. Accompanying each hit was the thudding, internal vibrations of something cracking, tearing, or giving way. For the last strike, he held the club in both hands and brought it in an arc from down to up. Its spikes grabbed hold of me and scooped me into the air, hurling me like a flower kicked off its stem. Mist and river and metal bridge flew past my eyes. I landed on the bridge's edge.
The ogre roared and repeatedly pounded one hoof into the metal bridge, making it bounce violently. I felt my center of gravity roll over the side and flailed to keep from falling off. Agony wracked my frame. It was all I could do to seize hold of the bridge's supporting cables, medium-thick textured wires that ran underneath the metal plates and joined them. The handhold further burned my fingers; if not for my hand guards, I could never have hung on. The ogre's continuous stomping changed into the alternating rhythm of his walk, which still shook the bridge fiercely enough to threaten my grip.
I strained to lift myself; when the bridge's edge touched upon one of my broken ribs, a crippling jolt of pain ran through them. Slipping back, I seized cables once again and dangled precariously. Heat clouded my head. My hold was gradually sliding out of my sweat-soaked grasp.
A pair of dark, curved things - hooves, I realized - peeked over the bridge's rim. The rest of the hulking monster was one great shadow except for his eyes, twin green-gold stars nestled within a yawning galaxy of steam. The monster boomed, "IS THIS THE GNAT THAT TEAM ONE FAILED TO RETRIEVE? HA! IT'S NOT WORTH THE EFFORT TO SQUASH IT FLAT! YOU'VE ALREADY FAILED US ONCE, INSECT. YOU DON'T DESERVE A SECOND CHANCE!"
The swish of displaced air rushed to fill the void left when he raised his club, about to bring it down on my precarious handhold. What little strength remained in my arms would not be enough to withstand a direct hit.
end section one of part two
Disclaimer: Mortal Kombat belongs to the creation of Ed Boone and John Tobias and the Midway team. The characters from Killer Instinct, Primal Rage, and Morrigan from Darkstalkers are likewise not created by either me or Victar. No part of this story may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, without express permission by Victar. I did not write this story, but I had permission to post this, so if you want to talk to him about the fanfiction, go to Victar's website.