Chapter Forty-Three: Waiting Hands
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…Their courage
Was great but all wasted: they could hack at Grendel
From every side, trying to open
A path for his evil soul, but their points
Could not hurt him, the sharpest and hardest iron
Could not scratch at his skin, for that sin-stained demon
Had bewitched all men's weapons, laid spells
That blunted every mortal man's blade.And yet his time had come, his days
Were over, his death near; down
To hell he would go, swept groaning and helpless
To the waiting hands of still worse fiends.
~ "The Battle with Grendel," Beowulf – author unknown; translated by Burton Raffel
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Dejah fought for freedom. The best and the worst of her home collided now; death surrounded her, and so did her sisters. And Teigra—Teigra was right behind her, almost back-to-back with her as they fought.
There was blood—so much blood—but Dejah had to believe that it was worth it. That they were fighting because this could change for the better. (Dejah already knew it could change for the worse.)
Dejah fought for their souls.
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Braun knew immediately that they had walked into more than expected. The spy's information had suggested there would only be a small retinue of Holy Brothers, along with Gantik, Rafintair and the High Priest. Barely enough for MR's party of seven to share. Instead, Braun estimated the Holy Brother's number to be at least fifty.
When they first entered the enormous chamber, the Na'Lein emperor and his goons were focused on the form of one Gantik Whilem. It took Braun half a second to even recognize the man—standing tall in front of a fresh corpse, Gantik looked terrified and defiant…almost, bizarrely heroic.
Pucijir's concentration quickly shifted onto the intruders. Rafintair's lips curled in a smug snarl. "I was beginning to think you would be too late to put up a decent fight, Kavishka. As you can see, I have been ready for some time now."
Kyp's expression was stony. "It appears so."
Rafintair laughed outright. "My, Klis certainly picked a confident one, didn't he?" The emperor visibly took notice of Sanar standing next to the Kavishka. "Well, at least you managed that part in time. She's still as bloody as ever, though, isn't she? But perhaps easier with selling her services—you are the one who killed her father, are you not? Before, that might have been a deterrent."
Sanar looked ready to tear Rafintair apart. Braun tightened his grip on his borrowed sword. Including Gantik, they had eight fighters against the fifty or sixty Holy Brothers. Oh, at best, they also had the sacrifices—so fifteen—but four of those were little more than children, and the other three (teenagers, really) had the dead-crazy eyes of beings who couldn't be trusted to do anything but cause death. They would kill others, and then kill themselves in a very short time span. Braun made a note of their faces, and then set his sights on getting the children out first.
"I'm afraid your father looked far more convincing, niftyax." Rafintair spoke to Sanar for the first time. "You have a little less than two hours to prove me wrong. You do know about your midnight deadline, don't you?"
The Holy Brothers charged.
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Krista and Miko weren't the only ones aiming for the temple. It was a popular destination of destructive choice. Hundreds of women were obvious in their intent to charge on the Pirese priests. The palace would take forever, with its thousands of rooms and more or less harmless—sometimes relatively innocent—servants. The main temple, though….
Miko fancied the ones at the front of this attack group were the dead-eyed vow girls. Quatroc women, whose hatred was most directed at the insult on top of the injuries of an unjust system.
When a crack formed in the temple's defences, these women split it wide open. Krista and Miko went along for the bloody ride. Miko lost sight of first Veras and then Dejah in the chaos. He made even more of an effort to stay close to Krista, just in case. She reciprocated.
Other than these observations and decisions, very few conscious thoughts made their way through Miko Reglia's mind. There was only instinct and strike, duck, thrust, parry and the Force.
As blood flowed.
A lifetime ago, this violence could just as easily have become a blood rage as Miko let the Dark side use him to unleash suffering. There had been skirmishes and small battles since then, but as part of Intel he had avoided bloodbaths such as these.
The temptation remained, and even a careless moment might push him closer, but Miko stayed strong. That part of him had been firmly banished.
(It helped that this was a cause Miko could fight without railing against the Light's hypocrisy. Thick, black lines between right and wrong, here.)
Krista fought beside him; he enjoyed the new constant. But he was still fighting, and Krista wasn't the only one there. There were all the fighters—women and men—and there were the soldiers, priests, adepts, and Holy Brothers. Miko fought through them all. It all came down to instinct now, and more so every minute.
When they poured through the temple doors en masse, the triumph every Na'Lein woman felt became part of the very oxygen. He breathed it in, shared and revelled in it. Miko fought with them.
They charged through the entrance; at least sixty men waited in the enormous hall. The addition of MR fighters and Pirese soldiers soon made the hall crowded, a place that seemed too small for the events it now housed. Miko and Krista shared a look, and continued forward with purpose rather than allowing themselves to be caught up in the immediate battle. There were more priests and Holy Brothers than this, not to mention the women who doubtlessly required help before they could join the fight.
Miko fought to give justice for those ready to take it.
(But he also kept an eye on Krista. If push came to shove…the immediate choice would be obvious.)
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As midnight approached, the Sildar paused—and Prophecy began its long-awaited, secret twist.
Everything has an equal and opposite reaction.
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Arelyk sat next to Lera as if he was approaching not his best friend, but rather a planet on the brink of destruction. "I heard," he told her. His face was solemn, and his eyes unusually grave.
Lera had been picking at her lunch while Jolesp and Hasi haggled over the execution of the holo-film's final scene. Nichyn, sitting across the dinner table from Lera and Arelyk, raised his eyebrows in apparent ignorance. Well, at least he hadn't told Arelyk anything about Devnos in an unexpected burst of male loyalty.
"About?" Lera asked. Immediately after, a suspicion wormed its way into her mind. She really hoped this wasn't about—
"Your parents." Arelyk squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Lera's mind went blank. "O-oh." Her fork clattered free of her numb fingers. She scrambled to pick it up again. "Um. Oh. Um. Y-yeah. Y-y-you h-heard?"
Under the table, Nichyn gently knocked her foot with his. A quieter apology. I'm here. She nudged his foot back. It helped her regain some of her mental faculties.
"Mom left. That's what you heard?" she asked. She said it very fast, more like Mumlefty'heard than real words, because she had been doing a very good job of not thinking about any of it. Surrounding herself with thoughts of doom, gloom, and manipulative Prophecy had its benefits.
Arelyk nodded. Friendship and the warmth of a home fire embraced her through the Force. She flushed, and then wondered if he could sense the difference that Devnos and Prophecy had inspired. She wondered if he could sense Devnos, or if the ghost had retreated far enough back to stay hidden.
"She isn't coming back this time," Lera confessed. It hurt on a physical level. She couldn't quite meet Arelyk's eyes.
A familiar, foreign feeling in her mind—Devnos, reaching out in comfort this time, rather than in their camaraderie against Prophecy. Lera shuffled her foot against Nichyn's.
"Why did you change your mind about the holo-film's ending?" Nichyn asked. His intent was transparent, but Arelyk and Lera allowed it with relief. No one wanted to talk about the inevitable D-word.
"It's a lot darker than the original," Arelyk agreed. "From a happy ending to a character death?"
"A hero's death," Lera corrected. "I-I know. It just—just felt right. More…real." All too real. And familiar, though the stakes were still higher in life.
Nichyn's eyes turned stormy. Arelyk, still in the dark, frowned. "Not always."
Lear smiled genuinely for the first time that day. "N-no, not always. Force willing."
She could hear Devnos' echoing prayer in her head.
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The temple was a madhouse; Krista knew blood, and battle cries (screams), and Miko, and little else. The tide pushed her forward and to the side, though, so Krista grabbed Miko's bloody hand in hers and pulled him with her. They fought together through the maelstrom of revolution.
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(Do you remember when the messen—your brother scribed the Kavishka prophecy? You adored it, and professed your love for the hero. You even wanted Devnos to write you into the story.)
Sanar had dreamed of this night every moment since her father's death. She hasn't expected her father's killer to be here, she hadn't expected Durron to be the Kavishka, and she certainly hadn't expected to fall in love with him.
(You were written into Prophecy. You must love him, or he will be judged unworthy of the Sildar.)
And of course, she hadn't expected a little girl to write to her in Devnos' handwriting, either. But Sanar made sure to shield that thought with everything her father had left her. She didn't even dare think about LeraDevnos' message unless the unbelievable came true.
Right, so stop thinking about it. Better things to worry about. Like: duck.
Sanar fell to a crouch, feeling a sick lurch as she only just missed a dagger thrown at her head. Bad enough she had four Holy Brothers crowding her; now they were throwing daggers? Okay, definitely better things to worry about.
Far more definite, more immediate things. So Sanar kept her eyes and mind on her own opponents. She didn't even watch Durron. No time for that.
Durron's lightsaber swirled faster in her hands than she had ever expected. Swirled—quicker, more accurately, more like a dance than her butcher's job on Horaire all those years ago. (Niftyax, he called her.) She moved quickly—but the Holy Brothers weren't dying at the same speed, and there were so many of them around Rafintair.
They had until midnight. When they had found Rafintair, it was with an hour and a half buffer. How little of that was left?
No time to think about the time limit, either, so Sanar fought even harder, trying to keep up with her opponents. Submersed in her fighting zone, she only just felt a dimming in the Force—one of the fighters had been killed.
No time for a prayer.
Sanar fought, and it was harder than she had dreamed as a child.
(This was better, in its own way. Sanar hoped the Sildar realized that.)
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When Krista couldn't make quips anymore, she knew it was bad. And maybe "bad" didn't quite cover it. She and Miko had left the entrance hall in search of one of the ignored fights—and they hit the mother load.
The temple had a prison inside. A prison full of long-term inmates, mad-eyed women who looked like they wanted death and not much else.
(Sanar killed the High Priest, didn't she? Had this been where they kept her? Or had they acted more quickly? More—and ironically—mercifully?)
There were guards, too, of course. Holy Brothers—an original dozen of them, and more coming all the time. And then there was Krista and Miko, standing on top of the powder keg. This was so very not the time for quips.
(Gallows humour, maybe. Did she have time for—)
The guards landed powerful blows every time. (Landed and powerful. Every. Starsdamned. Time.) No stamina jokes for this fight—and even cracks about steroids or eating breakfast wheaties didn't help. Krista wasn't good enough with a sword for this to be funny. She was quick—sometimes (a lot of the time) only just quick enough. She had to take her eye off Miko. On top of the two eyes she had, she needed ones in the back of her head, and every extra advantage that she had ever played off, or ignored in favour of traits helpful in Intel (look pretty, smile sweet, little liar-flirt-thief).
Another fighter found the cells. Another, soon after—but that one died as quickly as she had been shoved into the room. Then a third, fourth, fifth came, and someone killed the guard who had the cell keys, and the prisoners were loose and killing. They weren't women anymore; just insanity and hatred. They helped in their crazy, bloody way, but Krista watched them only a little less closely than she did the guards.
She and Miko were dancing in a pool of gasoline, and each of them had struck a match. No wonder—
(no wonder Niha and Sanar prophesied death)
No time. More Holy Brothers, and onetwothree prisoners died—one of the sane fighters, too. More of the latter came; so did a priest, and more men (many for Pucijir's Order; one for the Resistance). Death danced among them; Krista could almost smell gas as she pushed to fightsavesurvive—
A fighter (corpse) fell into her, and Krista was finally thrown too far off balance to be just barely quick enough and they struck that injured shoulder she had been trying to forget about, and she was fallingdownfalling and she lost her sword and a dagger wasn't really that much help and she couldn't find her blaster and oh gods she was going to die and—
Miko saved her life.
Only a moment later, he fell bleeding next to her.
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The Sildar, one should remember, shaped itself into a sword to be a useful, physical weapon. Its true form was that of millions of victims demanding vengeance. (Vengeance is not justice, recall. Vengeance is as selfish as a child thwarted.)
Many of these victims were women. Many of these women were stripped of their power by men. In accordance to Prophecy's strategy, these women agreed to a Kavishka: a man chosen to make up for other men's wrongdoings.
Kyp Durron was not the Kavishka they had been promised.
This is something to remember: the reality is never the same as the theory.
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"Alright, are we all ready?" Jolesp clapped his hands together gleefully. "I am so ready."
Lera stared at him from her spot at the dinner table. Her face was pale; the strength of her reaction confused her, when she thought of it. Her heart had lodged itself in her throat—pounding, swelling, keeping her breath captive as long as possible.
(Ready?
Yes.
Never.)
Jolesp swept his arms wide open. He always got excited before filming the climatic scenes of his holo-films. Lera usually enjoyed them, too, when Hasi and Zuleika got them right.
"We have a death scene to film!" Jolesp hadn't filmed one of Lera's protagonist deaths before; it had been an enormous piece missing from his happiness.
Lera felt sick. Arelyk's mother, who had dropped by to see the filming of this scene, watched her with concern. Nichyn had had all week to build up a worry level that made Shanya's look unaffected, and he displayed it now.
"Places, everyone!"
Oh, yes. Places. Lera moved into position, and thought of Prophecy. She followed Jolesp into the filming studio (Nichyn and Shanya and now even Arelyk didn't remove their eyes), and she thought of Sanar.
Devnos?
I'm right here.
Did Sanar get the message?
For a terrible moment, there was only the pounding of her heart.
Yes, she did.
Lera had always (only ever) wanted to do the right thing.
Lera Verili moved into position.