A GHOST IN A STRANGE LAND

CHAPTER 2

For a long second that somehow felt like a lifetime, Mash Kyrielight could only stare. Somehow, impossibly, she had been spared for the second time in as many hours.

Her savior was simply massive – easily the tallest person she had ever seen in her life, and it wasn't just his height, which was considerable. No, he was frankly covered in muscle, and not the pretty muscles of a bodybuilder. This was the hard muscle that came from continual use in a life that called for near-daily physical labor, and it was on display given the somewhat minimal covering he had for his upper body, the only piece of armor he was wearing was a leather shoulder guard, edged with a trim of fur, on his right side, the strap that wrapped around his body providing the only other coverage on his chest. He wasn't otherwise unarmored, leather bracers protected his arms, and a wrap that put her somewhat in the mind of a kilt girded his waist, and leggings, also leather, and thick boots contained his lower half. Overall, it seemed like flimsy armor, but Mash was in no position to comment given the armor she had been gifted with was similarly questionable in the gaps it left exposed.

As she was still facing his back, she could make no guess as to his features, all that she could see for the moment was that he was bald, but thickly bearded. A red tattoo climbed its way up his back, wending across his pale skin to the top of his head, where she assumed it continued down to his face. A pouch, and a device she didn't recognize dangled from his waist, and some other metal device was attached to his left arm.

He clutched at a massive axe with both hands, and Mash could feel the power in the weapon – it was similar to her shield, a clearly magical object, something obvious to anyone with the capacity to detect such things, and as a Demi-Servant, she qualified.

His axe wasn't the only thing that she could feel power from – the man himself seemed to practically radiate power, and not that of a Servant, nor was it the same feeling Mash got from a powerful Mage like the members of Team A, or the Director's confidante Lev Lainur. Whatever her savior was, he wasn't anything Mash had experience with.

Gravel and rubble shifted as the Servant pushed itself up from the ground, its form moving almost unnaturally as it bent itself up to its feet. For a long moment, there was only the crackle of the flames in the background, and then, it spoke.

"Now…..where was something like you hiding?" The voice that came from it was a guttural croak, as if the throat making the words was only just remembering how. The skull mask tilted, in an almost quizzical manner as took in the man standing between itself and its prey. "Can't have been here all along, no, no. We'd have felt a trove of power like yours, and none of us would have wanted to pass that up. Maybe even the King would have come for you herself, let you die by her sword. Maybe if she was in a good mood, let some of us have a bite at that wonderful power that makes up your soul…Shaytan says that it's been a long, long time since such as you has walked this world…..and that he's never tasted the soul of your ilk before…." The long fingers on the grotesque right arm of the servant began to twitch spasmodically, rending the air in anticipation.

The bulky form in front of Mash stiffened, and she could hear his grip tighten on his axe, as the Servant's words hit him. "I know not what you are, Spirit, but you will not be tasting my soul today." The voice that answered the Servant was deep, cavernous even, but his words were spoken with an almost unnerving calm. "I would tell you that I have no quarrel with you and yours, would say that you do not want this fight, but my words would mean nothing to such as you. I know this. There is only one thing you will understand from me." The man's head flicked back, for a second. "Girl!" he barked. "Your comrade yet lives, bind her wounds, maybe she can be saved."

When neither she nor the Director moved, the man looked back again, for a longer moment this time, his gaze firmly fixed on Olga. In that brief second, Mash got the impression of a weathered face and a dark expression, and a tattoo that curled around an eye, before he returned his attention to the enemy before him.

"Wait….are you talking to ME?" shrieked the Director, and from the tone of her voice, Mash could tell she was winding herself up into one of her characteristic rants. If the man who was now the focus of her ire noticed, then he didn't seem to care.

"Shield-Maiden!" he barked, voice drowning out the Director's complaints, silencing her momentarily.

It took Mash longer than she cared to admit to realize the man was addressing her. "Y….yes?" she squeaked, face flushing.

"Keep the girl safe while she attends to your wounded. I will handle this." With that dismissal, his focus appeared to return fully to the blackened Servant. Mash pulled back to Gudako's still form, and now that she wasn't in direct combat, was able to stabilize her Servant Origin somewhat. The Director was doing what she could with her limited knowledge of the healing mysteries (though still muttering under her breath about their mysterious savior), but it seemed to at least have eased the girl's shock – the mana supply from her Master was still thready, but it had stabilized enough that Mash was able to keep her armor manifested with only a slight bit of effort. Combat would still be dicey, but she had enough to at least defend herself for a bit, if it came to that.

If the enemy Servant had even noticed anything she or the Director had done since the giant of a man had appeared, it had made no sign of it. All it had eyes for now was the 'meal' that was standing between itself and them. It gave an almost childish giggle, as the dagger in its left hand danced between its fingers. "Oh yes…this WILL be fun, we think…." Mid-sentence, that same left arm flashed up, and the dagger that had been spinning between its fingers flew towards the man, screaming through the air.

His feet planted, the man swayed out of the dagger's path, moving just enough to let it pass by his head. He held still for a moment, as if considering something, then gave a low grunt. "On your head, then, Spirit," he muttered, then sprang forward, axe cutting through the air, and battle was joined.

Unlike with Mash, the Servant didn't even consider attempting to match its strength against the man's, every cut and chop of the axe was dodged, the Servant weaving around the man's attacks as it had with Mash's, taking the measure of the man as it had with her at first – even a novice to combat such as she could tell neither was fully serious yet, both were testing the other, learning an unknown opponent's capabilities. Just like so many of the stories the Doctor had read to her.

The huge man was making effective use of the length of his axe, and the strength of his blows, forcing the Servant onto the defensive, making it dance to his tune for the time being. Once or twice, when the opportunity would present itself, the Servant would attempt a poke or a slice with the dagger, but the man deftly slid out of the way each time. For the moment, it was a stalemate – the big man couldn't hit the Servant, and the Servant was largely being prevented from counter-attacking, and what counters he had tried were easily avoided.

The first change of pace came as the Servant slid back from an attempt to bury the axe into its ribs. Where before, it had merely allowed the axe to pass, this time it moved like a striking snake, leaping forward, left arm surging ahead with greater speed than it had been displaying, point of the dagger jabbing into the head of the axe, pushing it down. Against a two-handed grip, the Servant probably wouldn't have been able to move the man, but this swing had been delivered one-handed, and using the greater whole of its body weight, was able to force the axe down at an angle, the blade digging into the pavement. Not deeply – the man would easily be able to rip the axe free in an instant, but in that instant, he was off-balance, stumbling forward as his momentum was redirected, and the Servant had created the opening it had been biding its time for. Using the point of the dagger as a vaulting point, it threw itself forward, right arm uncoiling, and reaching for the man's face.

Mash's heart leapt into her throat. He'd never be able to get the axe up in time, not with the Servant effectively trapping it with his full weight, and he'd never be able to fall back quickly enough to escape that arm, not as freakishly long as it was. Desperately, she watched as the man threw his left arm up, in what appeared to be a futile attempt to guard his face from those claws.

Then, suddenly, the metal device on his bracer clicked, and unfurled, metal springing forth from nothing, forming a round shield that stopped those claws in their tracks.

Once, Kratos would have left the women to their fates.

Not three years ago, when his son had first seen the conflict between the two factions of elves in Alfheim, Kratos had advised his son to take no part in their squabble – they did not know the reasons for this war, and they were not a part of it. Words that had proven correct, the more they had learned about the forever war for the Light that the elves had been fighting for generations – but words that Kratos could not find it in himself to apply here.

When he had first seen the Spirit, he had been struck by a wrongness, a stench unlike anything he had seen in his long years. Spirits, in his experience, wanted things done for them by the living, complained endlessly about their lives, and were difficult at the best of times, but were, in the end, people. Some were deceitful, some were honest, some were merely sad – but labels like 'good' or 'evil' didn't apply to them at first glance. One needed to see their actions before one could make a judgment. Odin and…..Zeus had been tyrants, power mad and cruel in their own unique ways. Ares had been a petty monster who had exploited a younger Kratos' reckless desire for victory, and then had gleefully enslaved the Spartan, and used him as his tool for years. Baldur had been warped by his mother's well-intentioned but fatally flawed attempts to spare him his destined fate, and then had been twisted by Odin into a loyal dog – something that could also be applied to Thor, who Odin had made into his monster, letting Thor off his chains to slaughter the Giants, and anyone else who threatened the All-Father's reign. All of them were monsters – as was Kratos himself – but to call any of them fully, unredeemably evil…Thor had turned from his path, at the end. The final mural Faye had left behind had shown a future where Kratos was beloved. In the months since Ragnarök, Kratos had thought long and hard on 'monsters', and 'evil'. He had come to no conclusions yet, but they had been on his mind in recent days.

This spirit, whatever it was, practically oozed pure evil. Kratos could feel it in his bones, and thus, felt somewhat certain in his belief that the three women – girls practically - were not the aggressors in this fight – nor had they anything to do with the ruin that had come to this strange city. Nor were they warriors – two of them made no attempt to battle the spirit, instead relying on the girl carrying the massive shield to be their defense, and while she seemed to at least have some experience, she was clearly no soldier. Her movements were stiff and sloppy, almost out of sync with her body, though to her credit, from what he had seen, she had quickly grasped the disparity in strength between herself and the spirit, and was trying to leverage that advantage as much as she could, at least until the spirit broke off and forced her into an impossible choice.

The white-haired girl might not have been a fighter, but her instincts had been honed by something, and she had taken refuge behind her champion. The other girl had not been so fortunate and had been struck down – and this had had some sort of effect on the girl with the shield, for her armor and weapon had begun flickering, as if unstable.

Once, Kratos would have left them to their fates. But in the bitter cold of Helheim, he and his son had made a promise. His son's voice in his head was telling him that whatever this thing was, it was wrong, that these girls shouldn't die.

These girls, of an age with Calliope – one with red hair that reminded him of his son. One who was crying out in pain as the spirit's daggers dug into her flesh.

No, if Kratos left these girls to die, he would never be able to face his son on the day Atreus returned from his journey.

So, he intervened.

And he fought.

Whatever the thing was, it was fast. Not Hermes-fast, even the Nine Realms hadn't had anything that had rivaled the speed of the Messenger of the Gods, but the spirit was at least as fast and as agile as the elves of Alfheim, if not faster. It was dodging his attacks with contemptuous ease, for all that Kratos was merely taking the thing's measure, he was fairly certain the speed it had shown was not its maximum. Nor did he like the look of that right arm – he had the advantage of reach for the moment, but that advantage would be lost once the spirit began taking the fight seriously and began using both dagger and warped arm together to press his defenses.

So it was that the spirit managed to get him off his guard with the trick with the dagger that forced his axe into the ground, and Kratos was forced to block that arm with his shield, revealing the first of his hidden tricks. The shield his wife had gifted him blended in well enough to his bracers that many foes had been completely taken off their guard when he had produced a full shield from a thin strip of metal, and so it was the case here. With its body suspended in the air, the position that had allowed the spirit to trap Kratos' axe was suddenly reversed, as he was now able to bring the full brunt of his strength to bear for the first time in this fight.

It was stronger than its thin frame appeared to be, certainly stronger than any mortal, but Kratos was no mortal. And furthermore, the spirit had no base to dig its heels in and set its strength against his. Trapped in the air like it was, Kratos was easily able to surge forward, axe ripping from the ground, shield pushing the twisted arm back until the metal contacted the spirit's shoulder.

And Kratos lowered his head and surged forward.

The building he rammed the spirit into held, but just barely, as he crushed the thing between his massive frame and the structure, he could feel something crunch in the body of the creature. The dagger in its hand went spinning away as the shock of the impact caused it to lose its grip on the weapon, and Kratos brought his axe to bear, the cut awkward at such close quarters, but aiming to take the thing's head off.

Impossibly, it bent its head at an angle no living thing should have been able to duplicate, and his axe bit deeply into the side of the building, narrowly missing the spirit's blackened flesh. Desperately, it raked at him with the talons of its right arm, and Kratos was forced to duck in order to preserve his eyes. A freshly produced dagger in the left hand then came in low, and Kratos was then forced to fully disengage, leaving the axe stuck in the building.

First blood to him, but he had been disarmed, at least as far as the spirit knew. And last blood counted for more.

The thing wheezed as it regained its footing, the noises coming from its throat alien enough without the telltale signs of broken ribs added on top. Kratos had hurt it, but it was far from finished, and moreover, it was mad. "Hurts…," it rasped. "HURTS."

The husk of the man who had once held the title of Hassan was furious. This man, this godling had tricked him, HIM, he of the class of dirty tricks and underhanded tactics, and had cracked – or broken – several of his ribs. The constant channel of mana from the Grail would see him mended in time, but it wouldn't be soon enough to affect this fight. Whoever this was, they were more than a match to him in a straight up fight, and while he could draw this out, it meant possibly sharing the bounty of a god's soul with the others.

He had given of himself for his people in his life, had given his name away to be a title, had bartered his very soul for the power to carry that title. He was done with giving and would not be sharing the feast in front of him with any of the others he had been forced to fight alongside. Once-Hassan would defeat him and share nothing.

How unfortunate for the man that his axe was stuck in this building, and all the once-Hassan would need is a touch to drink his soul.

With a hiss of effort, once-Hassan tapped deeper into the well of energy the tainted Grail was feeding him. His arm bulged as he channeled the energy into it, loosing the bindings on the demon bound into his flesh, and the cloth bindings fell away from the arm that had given him his title, revealing it in all its horrible glory.

The pavement beneath his feet cracked as he dug his heels in, preparing to spring. The godling took a step back, angling himself away from the man, wary, but not afraid. He still thought he could win this.

How foolish of him. The former Hassan would enjoy devouring his heart, then his soul.

The Servant crouched low, feeling his mana peak, his arm tensing as Shaytan prepared to fully slip its leash. "Noble Phantasm….." hissed the man, hearing his demon keening its joy in his mind. He rocketed forward at his true speed, knowing that even if the godling managed to react in time, he'd still only need a touch for his Noble Phantasm to do its work, to win. To FEED. To his credit, the massive man's instincts were good, already pulling the shield to intercept his arm, but too slowly, far too slowly. "ZABIN…"

The impact took him in the back, ripping through him, combining with his momentum to throw him to the ground. His mana went haywire, then leaked from him like a sieve, his Noble Phantasm guttering out, as he found himself unable to speak the True Name, to complete its release, through the blood that was suddenly filling his mouth.

A roaring shadow loomed over him.

Once-Hassan forced his head up, uncomprehending.

The man's axe was in his hands, and it was wet with the Servant's polluted blood. Then it came down, and there was only blackness.

Kratos watched as the spirit broke apart into a shower of lights, the vile miasma that had radiated from the thing vanishing as it did. Reasonably certain the spirit had been banished to wherever such as it would go, Kratos turned to check on the women he had battled this creature for.

The one with the white hair was still bent over the wounded one, working some kind of healing magics on her – at least by his best guess. That she was doing magic of some ilk was obvious, and there were enough similarities to the times he had seen Freya using her healing spells to lead him to believe that that is what she was doing, though the bright light that had sprouted from her wrist was wholly new to him, as was the small, tinny voice that was coming from it. A familiar or sprite, maybe. The one with the shield was watching him carefully, still wary.

Wise of her. A sudden ally was not necessarily an ally once the battle was over. And Kratos was, as he had been told by his son on more than one occasion, kind of 'scary looking', particularly after a fight.

It hadn't helped that the head had taken Atreus' side.

The Spartan made a small noise in the back of his throat. Introductions like this were always easier when his son was around. The boy was just so impossibly bright and open, people couldn't help but want to trust the child. He hoped that quality was aiding Atreus, wherever he was.

Carefully, Kratos set his axe into the catch on his back, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, before holding his hands up before him. "I mean you no harm," he stated, reaching for the least threatening tone he could manage. "Does your companion yet live?"

"For now," snapped the one with the white hair. "But she's fading fast, and what little healing I can do isn't much more than a stopgap." Her eyes glanced up to the Spartan. "I'm guessing that's not something you can help with?"

There was steel in her voice, brittle steel, but it was still holding back the panic that Kratos could see in her sharp, tense movements. This one was likely the leader of the little group, then. "No, I am no healer," he responded. "But I can tie bandages and keep pressure, if you would not turn away another pair of hands."

The huff the girl gave him was the sound of a person choosing between what they saw as two equally bad choices, but she chose quickly. "Get over here and don't make me regret this. Mash, keep an eye out, let us know if you sense another Servant coming."

"Yes, Director," said the girl – 'Mash', noted Kratos – as she watched Kratos approach, keeping one eye on him, wary for treachery from him still. The 'Director' had returned her focus entirely to her charge by the time Kratos knelt by her side, quickly running an eye over the injured girl.

It was worse than he had feared when he had seen the girl fall. None of the wounds were, on their own, fatal, but in combination…..

In one volley of knives, the spirit had managed to gut the girl, cut the tendon in her left leg, essentially crippling her, and worst of all, sever the artery high in the thigh that bled like a tide. To do such with one attack showed remarkable skill…..and impossible sadism. With that kind of accuracy, the thing could have easily killed the girl outright, but had instead chosen to incapacitate her, to make her a burden that had to be cared for, likely to prevent the Director from aiding in the fight. The wound in the right arm was almost forgettable, in the wake of the other injuries that had been done to the girl.

Kratos placed his hands on a wad of cloth that had been placed over the girl's stomach, applying pressure as Freya had shown him all those days past when they had first met her in her grove, when, like today, he had been an extra pair of hands while a witch attempted to save the life of a friend. "She is dying,"

"You think I don't KNOW that?!" raged the Director, her face almost as pale as her hair. "I can't do anything about the damage to her femoral artery, Assassin cut it too deeply for my healing magecraft to do anything about! Roman!" she yelled, directing her eyes to the familiar on her wrist. "Can't you send us ANYTHING?"

"No, and I AM trying, Director!" said the sprite, its voice equal parts frustration and sheer panic. Now that he was closer, Kratos could see that its form was that of a man, long hair tied into a ponytail, and wearing some sort of coat over what appeared to be an official uniform – likely whatever organization this 'Director' oversaw. "Everything's still too damaged from the explosion to Rayshift any supplies to you - we're barely managing to validate your existences as it is, and that's holding on by the skin of our teeth!" The injured girl whimpered, the keening of an animal in pain, and the sprite threaded his hands in his hair, face twisting in pain. "Da Vinci and the surviving crew are doing all we can but there's…..nothing we can do…"

"Doctor…there's got to be SOMETHING we can do….," pled Mash, barely holding back tears. "Senpai…..we can't lose senpai…"

"Mash…..," The voice, when it spoke, was almost pitifully weak, but the shieldmaiden heard it, and was by her comrade's side in an instant, her watch abandoned. Almost blindly, the girl's hand grasped at the air until Mash seized it with both of hers, holding it tight.

"Gudako…," sniffled Mash, the tears she had been holding back now starting in earnest. "It's going to be ok, the Director will figure something out, just…"

"S'ok, Mash…," murmured the girl, her eyes beginning to lose focus in a fashion Kratos was all too familiar with. "Screw up of a Master like me…was bound to happen. Least I was able to save you before I checked out…just live, Mash…don't let the one good thing I managed in all this be for nothing….."

And with that, her eyes slipped shut.