Chapter 4: Unholy Alliance

The stench of smoke and burning rubble permeated the prairie that surrounded Darene. As the battle between the spectres of seven years ago and the mighty force of the Western Gate continued to rage amidst the city gates, a man and a woman crossed swords. One was a towering giant, who wielded a gargantuan broadsword with but one hand. The other swung her Claymore, undaunted by the man who had led his entire force of Knights against the city, in the name of eradicating her and the nine women she had taken under her wing. The man blocked her blade with his massive gauntlet and roared, hurling her back. She grunted in frustration. She had never fought such a strong human in her life – that is, assuming that he had not undergone some alteration to his physical body. She regathered herself quickly and pre-empted his counterattack, bringing her sword up in a classical overhead guard and swung downwards from her right. He anticipated her attack and rolled forward, dragging his sword along the ground and roughly clanging it against hers. Her eyes narrowed further as she swore to herself. "I didn't expect less from a general of the Army," she acknowledged, as she evaded a brutal swipe of his blade.

"The naivety of this land's denizens is amusing, although necessary," growled the Marshal, parrying another aggressive thrust from her. "In order to fight off the Dragon Tribes, we possess abilities that the humans of this laboratory are not even aware they are capable of. Can you not see how well I stand up against unnatural strength like yours?" he forced her back, and his metal greave found her stomach, flinging her several yards away. She managed to to land on her feet, although she tasted blood.

No time to worry about that. Miria somersaulted back and slashed down at him, her New Mirage unable to fool his sharp eyes. When she dashed through and attempted a finishing slash, he simply rolled past her and their blades met again. His gauntleted fist connected with her face and she felt the cartilage in her nasal region crumple. Blood spurting from her nose and dribbling down her mouth, she forced him back by striking his exposed stomach with the end of her pommel, pushing him down as she danced away.

He is truly formidable. Even with my New Mirage, he fights me as an equal.

She managed to slip past his punch and swing her sword again. This time he pushed down, forcing her on one knee, and pressing down, the edge of his blade an inch away from her forehead. But she did not budge. "Your people, and the Organization, created Yoma. Yoma were the experiment to which Awakened Beings would be produced and controlled; to be sent against the Dragon Kin. Then isn't it amazing that you are now fighting against the very thing you created? It's almost like…" her eyes flashed. "It's almost like you've got a revolution on your hands."

He raised his other hand. "Precisely." Miria's eyes widened as he grabbed her arm and yanked, pulling her forward. Her reflexive twist saved her from his knee, but she took the full force of his thrusting sword with the flat of her Claymore. Taking advantage of her momentary imbalance, he slammed his fist into her again and hurled her back several yards. He lunged, preparing for a final stab into her exposed body. Winded, dazed and unable to sidestep, Miria braced for impact –

The sword never came. A loud impact of metal against metal resounded on the battlefield, so loudly that the spectres and Knights seemed to pause in their fighting. Then, as if a zephyr had passed through the blood-scorched heavens, the slaughter resumed.

Long, pale hair fluttered in the wind as the Marshal stepped back in renewed apprehension. His attack had bounced clumsily off a new Claymore held in front of Miria. The former Number Six gathered herself.

"God-Eye. You took your time."

"Don't lecture me, Phantom," drawled Galatea, as they surged forward as one, slashing at the Marshal diagonally. "Helping the common people is a skill, as I'm sure you would understand." Galatea pivoted and parried the Marshal's counterattack who was forced to leap away from Miria's horizontal swing. Her New Mirage struck through his guard, and she barely scraped his moustache as he staggered away. Another bold charge, and he had lost all the ground he had gained in less than a few seconds, as the two veteran spectres hacked and cut at his tottering defences, forcing him to dodge more than he had done before. It was only a matter of time…

He growled in frustration. "If only the blind whore hadn't intervened…" he glanced at the city gates. The spectres had forced back the remainder of the Knights; of the five hundred he had led to the city, he suspected around three hundred and fifty remained behind the mountain of corpses that piled higher and higher with every surge the Knights attempted. Compared to our nine enemies, our losses are astronomical. And we have not even advanced past the gates of this damned city.

Anymore, and we will not be able to hold back the Dragons at the western border. Our Gate will fall, and we cannot allow that to happen.

"Forsaken silver-eyed witches," he snarled. He brought his hand above his head and moved his fingers in a curious gesture. From the distance, the blaring of trumpets could be heard, and the roaring throng of Knights suddenly turned. Then, as one, they began to gallop away from the city, fleeing from the spectres. Beneath the city gates, Helen and Clare blinked in surprise as the pikemen they had been dueling also began to back away, before turning and breaking into a full sprint, despite their heavy armour.

The Marshal had ordered a retreat.

He held up his sword as he backed away from Miria and Galatea. "You have this one, for now," he said, as the thundering hooves passed them by. "You'll have another rematch the next time we meet – and I will not lose."

"Quite audacious talk, for a man who murders his own people in a cowardly surprise attack," said Miria, not bothering to wipe the blood from her broken nose. "You're not even worth our disgust. Before you go hunting for dead warriors like us again, understand that the heads of spectres are the most difficult of targets."

The Marshal whistled for his own horse, and as it stopped beside him and whinnied, he shot Miria a dirty glance, his lesson unlearnt. He spurred it on, and the duststorm that it kicked up obscured his retreating back as the Western Gate division pulled back from Darene.

It took at least several minutes for the withdrawing Army to disappear entirely, only clouds of dust remaining on the horizon of the prairie.

"Thank you for your timely aid, Galatea," thanked Miria.

"My pleasure," replied the veteran. She looked back to her comrades. They stood amidst a mass, open grave. Corpses littered the entrance to the burning city, wherein lay more bodies of innocents. It would take several days to cremate all the bodies of their human attackers and horses. The mayor of Darene, hopefully, had managed to escape and hide somewhere without being crushed by a boulder or shot by an arrow.

Neither were the spectres unscathed. Yuma and Tabitha had been wounded, Yuma severely. They were sitting beside each other, and Tabitha was desperately trying to help pull the arrow out of her body which was dripping green liquid – it was poisoned. Helen and Deneve stood beside each other, sweat and blood pouring down their faces as they panted out their exhaustion. Miata had protected Clarice from the attacks of the Knights at the cost of a broken and bleeding arm. And Clare's face was blank, although it was evident that her mind was racing, pounding in her head as she blinked away the gore trailing down her head. Despite having escaped this battle with relatively light injuries, her inner core was in turmoil.

"Raki…" she murmured.

But what concerned Galatea more was the distressed Yoki of Cynthia. She brushed passed Miria and hurried to the younger warrior, who had lowered herself on one knee, propping her weight on her sword. She noticed Galatea watching her, and she attempted to smile, but Galatea was not fooled.

Not since her near-death at the hands of Dante had she felt such misery emanating from her lover. It was guilt-ridden, anguished, confused. It crippled its victim far more severely than any broken bone or sword wound could.

Galatea glanced back at Miria. "I'll leave it to you to clean up this mess." Miria nodded, and as she began giving orders to Clare, Helen and Deneve, Galatea turned back to the trembling Cynthia and placed one hand on her shoulder and another on her arm. "Come on, little kitten," she soothed, urging her back up on her feet. "I'll take you back to your room at the inn. Hold on, just for a little while longer. You can rest very soon."

Despite having suffered only a slash across her thigh and a cut across her back, Cynthia could only clutch at Galatea wordlessly as the nun gently scooped her up and carried her back to the inn that had been spared the Army's onslaught.

*

In a virgin woodland, unspoiled by the machinations of humanity, two hooded men made their way to a quiet, tranquil grove. Within the sanctum of nature, a large Claymore lay beside a cloak and a hood, discarded for the brief moment. The grove was beside a small, sighing waterfall, where a woman was drinking thirstily, quietly lapping at the springwater that had flowed in from rivers that caught the glaciers up north.

She did not notice the men until one of them spoke.

"Is this her?" muttered one of them, his voice that of a young man's.

"Yes, it is." His older counterpart stepped forward. "Greetings, Raphaela. Do you remember me?"

The woman started, and turned, raising her scarred face to look at the new arrivals. She sneered at the shorter man, whose rude, blinkless gaze remained on her. "… You're Ermita, of course. How could I forget an ugly face like yours? And who are you?" she asked, eyeing the other cloaked man. "How did you find me?"

"My apologies, but I will be asking the questions today," said the anonymous companion. His aura was gentle, almost melodic, but at the same time, mildly authoritative, like that of a stern teacher who could not help being lenient with his disobedient students. "Ermita is merely my guide. It is I who is turning the wheel of events in this land now."

Raphaela's eyes narrowed. "Why should I comply? I'm not with the Organization anymore."

"I suspected so. For you to have hidden your Yoki from the men of black robes, you would most certainly have fled their spheres of detection. I suppose, being forced to participate in an experiment that cost you your sister's humanity, and having to kill her many years afterwards, must take a toll on your trust in… men."

"You know the human heart well," said Raphaela, her voice sarcastic. "Then leave. I do not take orders from the Organization's men anymore."

"Ah yes. That. Here's the small catch – " the man shifted forwards slightly. "Ermita might be of the Organization, but I am not."

Raphaela suppressed her Yoki from leaping in shock. "What?"

"I come from across the Continents, where I have witnessed a great war between two nations. Of the two nations, one has remained on the constant advantage, and that is the nation whose citizens tower over us, whose denizens are not human. They tear us apart like wet tissue. They are fundamentally superior to our armies, for the simple fact that they are so powerful. Why? Because they are the Dragon Kin; they are the distant relations of Dragons. That they should possess such superior physique and power even after their ancestors have departed this world is simply… terrifying." He paused. "For many years, the gentlemen of Ermita's Organization has been selecting, training and arming magnificent warriors like you to become the ultimate counter against the so-called Dragon Tribes."

"Why have I not heard of these Dragon Tribes?"

"It was not yet in your place to know," said the man gravely. "In order to forge your powers in the experiment that is this realm that you live in, you and your comrades were sent by the Organization against so-called Yoma, creatures that, while nowhere near the level of the Dragon Kin, would provide a sufficient simulation. And better yet, there are always Awakened Beings. Warriors that go… wrong." The hooded man paused, as if he had determined not to reveal any more. "Your purpose is a grand one," he continued. "Whether or not you wish to remain with the Organization, you are this land's greatest warriors; the anathema against the Dragons who threaten our survival. And for that, I beg of you to defeat the traitors who threaten the Organization's endeavour."

Raphaela's eyes narrowed. "Who might they be?"

"The primary guilty are the former Number Six, Miria, and the former Number Three, Galatea. It is Galatea, however, whose powers are a great threat to the peace of the land. Recently, she joined forces with Miria, creating a faction unto themselves that rivals that of the Organization's resources as well as the blocs of the remaining Abyssal Ones. In other words, their movements threaten to tear this nation apart, jeopardizing its very survival," declared the hooded visitor. "If you will not find peace with yourself, then at least, I suggest, bring peace and stability to this land. Know that I am not asking on behalf of the Organization, but on behalf of a people weary from fighting an enemy far stronger than themselves."

Raphaela hesitated. "So… you are asking me to kill Galatea…"

The man tossed a large bag of gold pieces on the grass before her. "As insulting as this might seem, this is, for now, the least I could do to recompensate you for your sister's death, and thank you for your troubles. I will bestow far greater boons upon you, should you return with Galatea's head and fight for this nation as a true heroine."

Raphaela stared at him. "Who are you? How do you know so much about this land and the Abyssal Ones… and Lucielia?"

"Time grows short. With every passing moment, Galatea is planning to topple the institutions that protect this great land," insisted the raven-garbed benefactor. "We must not delay; we must act."

After several moments of thought, she finally turned away, taking the bag of gold. "… I'll set off tomorrow."

The hooded man bowed low before Raphaela, but Ermita hesitated before nodding uncomfortably to her. He beat a hasty retreat as the younger man wordlessly turned away and left the sun-dappled canopy of the forest grove.

"That went quite well, Your Eminence," muttered Ermita, once he believed that she could not hear them. They continued to stroll through the woods, past the old, gentle trees that obscured the morning sky. "But why did you personally come to persuade her? Even Rimuto was not expecting such drastic measures."

The other man smiled under his hood. "You should look beyond the present moment for a short time, my friend," he said. "It is as according to plan. Very soon, we shall be able to fight toe-to-toe against the Dragon Kin.

"I will now return to camp. Baudelio should be reporting to me about the outcome of the battle his commander has been fighting. I doubt this move bore fruit, but I will let the Western Gate Marshal have his fun. My overriding concern is the ultimate defeat of the Dragon Tribes. Nothing else compares in priority nor imperative."

*

The sun was setting on a weary, frightened city.

It had been two days since the Massacre of Darene.

While its citizens had suffered great casualties, the city itself had not been completely destroyed by the brutal pre-emptive attack by the Western Gate Army. In fact, apart from the obliterated marketplace, city plaza and outlying streets and buildings, damage to the rest of the urban regions had been random and scattered. After the initial shock of losing so much of its community had worn off slightly, work had begun to dispose of the many bodies that lay at the gates of Darene.

The population was in mourning.

It would not be an easy feat to recover from the suffering the people had endured.

Galatea had more pressing concerns. Although she had done her part in the counselling and succour of the survivors of the initial bombardment, the one image that remained in her mind was the lifeless face of a distraught Cynthia.

It had been slightly difficult to talk about the events of that day. On the night of the massacre, as she remained awake, staring into the blackness that was her sightlessness, she could hear Cynthia crying in her sleep beside her. Yet the next morning, she was forced to leave early, abandoning Cynthia to her work of providing sacred counsel to the survivors and bereaved of the battle.

The next day, after she had fulfilled her obligations, she made her way back from the hospices to the inn. She quietly passed by the kindly innkeeper. She walked slowly upstairs, past Clare's room and into hers. For days Cynthia had remained inside, sharing her room and bed, her own largely forgotten. Usually, their time had been spent in exchanging words of love and laughter.

But not today. As usual, Cynthia was sitting on her bed. And as Galatea entered and closed the door behind her, Cynthia smiled, though it was a weak mockery of her usual cheerfulness.

"Hi, Galatea," she mumbled. "Do I look less pale now?"

"I'm not sure, my little kitten." Galatea loosened her cloak and placed it in her small wardrobe, before sitting on her bed as well. "You… haven't changed. For two days now. Your wounds have long healed, yet you still keep your distress within. You're not guilty, if you're thinking about that," she added gently. "It is certainly a tragedy that we had to kill humans to protect ourselves and other humans, but it is most certainly not your responsibility."

"You're probably right." Cynthia tried to laugh, but what came out was a gurgle. "I… I guess it's only been two days… I suppose we all go through this sometime, right? I mean… realistically, killing Yoma and humans shouldn't feel different… as long as both remain our enemies.

"But… but… I still… I still feel… horrible." Cynthia's feeble smile disappeared, and she buried her face in her hands. "It's not how I saw them. It's how they saw us, and the innocents of Darene," she said, blinking away tears. "We might have been in great danger two days ago. But the way they so happily murdered their own people in the name of winning a war most don't even know of… and… the way they flung themselves at us as if we were the Dragon Kin…" She choked back a sob. "They hate us, and we have to stop them – to kill them – if we're to survive. If we're to follow Miria. It's not just us. It's the soldiers too. We're all being hurt, murdered, slaughtered by the Organization and the Army, and that's all we know. That's all we can do, us spectres and soldiers." She breathed heavily, wiping back the tears that now ran freely down her face. "I hate this. I hate this stupid façade of an insane nation. I hate what the Army and Organization have done; to hurl men at Dragons they can never beat and at women who are despised through no fault of their own. I just wish – "

Galatea wrapped her arms around Cynthia, quietening her slightly. "I understand your torment," she murmured, her voice low, calm, and consoling. "It is a dilemma of the gravest order." Galatea felt Cynthia clutch at her tighter, and she closed her sightless eyes, kissing her forehead. "But for once, I feel relieved I cannot see your tears. It would only break my heart." She drew closer and gently licked at Cynthia's cheeks, removing her unhappiness along with her tears. She pressed her lips against her nose, and then on her mouth. "Your compassion has always remained an inspiration to me. I almost feel like my efforts to help my junior compatriots haven't been a complete waste of time.

"The suffering that you're feeling now because of your inherent kindness is a suffering I would gladly bear with you. It is not much, but for me to suffer with you is not only an honour for me, but the one thing I can do to ease your troubles somewhat." Tenderly, Galatea lifted Cynthia off herself and guided her into a resting position onto their bed, rising and pulling a blanket over her body. "Don't worry," she added, as Cynthia blinked anxiously. Galatea's gentle palm and fingers found her damp face. "I'm not going anywhere. Rest for now; doze away the pain. I will watch over you, and when you're awake, we will mourn together again; as long as you need to."

Cynthia sighed in loving gratitude, closing her eyes. Galatea smiled fondly as the other quickly fell silent in her comforting presence. Very soon, she was slumbering away, exhausted, but heartened all the same.

"My lovely kitten," were the only words Galatea could murmur as she watched Cynthia sleep.

*

Close to the inn, a woman in a sombre, grey cloak raised her head to look at the building's windows, ignoring the people that passed by her and the noises of the street.

She is nearby – very near. Her powerful Yoki is prominent amongst this human crowd. I wouldn't be surprised if she could sense me too.

"Former Number Three, is it?" murmured Raphaela. "So… you are here. Finding you was too easy.

"I have come for your head."