Well, here it is. The fourth and last chapter of this grand arc. This one was a challenging one to write, not gonna lie. But here we are, at last deep into a point of the story for which I've been eager to reach.
There was another pact, made with War itself. One to occur twice a century, once every fifty years. One of us, the strongest Hunter as of that moment, was to venture into the Frontier alone, with the sole company of their strength and courage, to face an impossible battle. All for the sake of the endless hunger for violence of a vile creature.
Out of the dozens Hunters who have taken part in this Pact throughout the centuries, none have yet returned.
Usman is special, I know. I have seen him grow into a fine and just man. Into a warrior like no other I have ever seen. Into a Hunter to embody all which our order truly means. And yet, I have no faith in him, as much as it pains me to admit this.
This is but a foolish, desperate act, borne out of fear, frustration and hopelessness. A solitary battle to prevent a war. No, to prevent a massacre as no other before; the end of the world as we know it. A man with a shovel to dig a hole into the sand so the ocean does not swallow us all.
I pray for him, for my dear friend, and for the sake of our world.
Lord Viljo Kovanen, in 'Black Book of Hunters', a farewell note.
Chapter 63 - Remembrance of the Forgotten
Ever a sombre and lonely place, the forest now gave a semblance of life never seen before. Yet it was a silent liveness, tainted by an ominous touch which only spoke the language of death and misery. Not even the fauna dared to disturb it; for not the chirping of a bird nor the buzzing of an insect nor the growling of an animal could be heard. Even the wind seemed to doubt whether to announce its presence with its familiar whistling.
Whispered words and subtle gestures were exchanged among the Hunters; it was all they dared to do to communicate with one another. And their hands, always upon their wands with an iron grip; knuckles white and sweat-pearled.
There was fear in their eyes. And something far worse, too. A kind of icy resolution which not even the certainty of death could chase away. That which only appears within a man who had already accepted death and its solemn embrace. That which only was seen within a man who fought for something far greater than himself. So they believed.
And there also was the other side of the coin, the not so poetic and far more realistic one.
Brazilian Aurors had answered the Union's summons; their dark-blue uniforms stood out amidst that sea of dull greys and blacks and whites the Hunters wore. Far too many to count them; naive younglings, their faces pale and sweaty, and hardened veterans alike, who wore a mask of resignation above their dread. Those first forementioned still had that damned fire within their eyes, so in need of glory and action despite their evident confusion. Whereas the veterans… They too belonged to the silent graveyard.
It was a picture Levitt knew far too well. That of toy soldiers walking straight into their demise, thinking of their purpose as a noble and dying-worthy one.
It had been so since that man by the name of Usman, the so-called Guardian of the South, had ventured into the depths of the forest all by himself. He'd disappeared into the dark thicket, engulfed by the leaves and bushes and the muddled ground. He'd crossed a barrier which couldn't be seen by the eye, Levitt knew. And whatever his path led to, it was a fate no other man would ever dare to accept.
"I don't like this!" Mikko grunted for the hundredth time.
Levitt and his team stood perched upon a thick branch of a mighty tree; of dark trunk and even darker leaves, the long shadow it casted was proper of that casted by night itself. The young man had walked from one end of the branch to the other countless times, whereas Levitt stood still as the tree itself.
"We know nothing about this damn mission! And, for as much as we ask, they tell us nothing!"
Ashley rolled her eyes. "Be quiet!" she chastised him. Neither could she hide her nerves; and though stilled on her feet, it was the fingers of her left hand which tapped frenziedly against her right forearm. "You've done this countless times before! Not as a Hunter, but as a mercenary!"
"It ain't the same! And you know it as well as I do! Hell, damned be the day I-"
"Silence, you two." Levitt's cold command put an end to their dispute, as per usual.
He glanced across the clearing, where Michael had been ordered to stand watch atop of a twin tree, in command of the rest who once had belonged to the Wings of Liberty. A simple gesture of his hands told Levitt that he too was in a state of total alert.
"I will keep you all safe, if it comes to it," Levitt said firmly. "We owe no loyalty to this bunch of madmen. No, not even you, Mikko—and I don't give a fuck about who your father or cousin are. Things get ugly enough, we take the fastest way out. Simple as that."
Still, the fact Levitt had bowed his head and accepted to come here was a mystery he had yet to resolve. Had he grown mad, perhaps? Was madness a contagious illness? The Hunters' foolish words and beliefs couldn't have made it to him, right? Gerard's speech, that nonsense about fighting for a great cause…
He shook his head, ashamed of his sudden weakness—before battle, there was no time for useless pondering.
Silence returned yet again. Though briefly.
Mikko turned around, hand upon his wand. "Someone's coming!"
A chestnut-haired woman strode into the clearing with a furious stride just then. Tall and of stern features, which showed the first glimpses of age in the form of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. The robes she wore, an azure and white tunic which parted at the hip to show some tight, black trousers, spoke louder of her affiliation than any word may have.
"Kovanen!" she hissed aloud. And the crowd of Hunters and Aurors walked away from her, allowing her passage toward the large boulder in which Lady Lozen, the Guardian of the North, stood upon, watchful of the shadows. "What is the meaning of this!? What in the seven hells are you and the bloody Union doing here!?"
She finally came to stand before Lozen Kovanen, an even taller lady of even sterner and sharper features, yet also with more beauty to them. The Guardian was dressed in a tight tunic and trousers of a dull yellow, embellished by a white cape. A golden longbow hung from her shoulder, beside a long, leathery quiver through which dozens of arrows stood out, their feathery ends a canvas of bright shades.
Their attires made them look as different as water was to fire. Yet, at the same time, when their eyes fell upon one another, it felt as if watching the clashing of two likely steels.
Kovanen raised a brow. "Cynthia Mahomes, I take it. Special agent from the ICW. You came earlier than expected."
"It was the Brazilian Minister who called for me, actually," Mahomes snapped back. "Almost in tears, that fool. He begged the ICW to deploy all its agents into the Amazonas, in order to stop some unprecedented calamity. And, worst of all, he alleged he could not say a word about such a petition, only proper of a madman, because of some ancient oath."
"He was not strong enough, I see." That said, the Guardian's eyes went back to the depths of the forest, where they kept a silent watch.
So the word fell to the wizard beside her.
A short and bald man, old and weary due to his many years of service, of tanned skin and scar-ridden features. But what little sharpness his joints retained, his eyes more than made up for them. For it was said that no dark wizard had ever escaped the sight of Lazaro da Rio, the country's Head-Auror for almost half a century.
"Pedro should not have acted so stupidly," he said with a shake of his head. His accent was exceptional, fluid and smooth. "Now he's dead, and his country is in need of a new leader when it needs it the most. Ah, to think I would outlive another Minister!"
His words managed a dent of surprise into Mahomes's collected mask. And they managed to surprise Levitt too, who, unbeknownst to all else, could hear the private conversation from afar thanks to his enhanced senses. This feat required him to burn a small amount of tin for his Allomancy to work—a little amount, but every tiny bit could be of utmost necessity in battle later on.
"What do you mean by that?" Mahomes asked in a faint voice.
Her inquiry was met with silence. And she finally reached her end.
Mahomes's aura flared suddenly, but before she could draw out her wand, if she ever thought so to begin with, almost a hundred wands were pointed at her from everywhere. Not a single Hunter nor an Auror had hesitated to defend their leaders.
She was brave enough to glance around, however; not a trace of fear in her face nor her voice. "You have all lost your minds, I understand," she mused, taking a few steps back. "This will not go unpunished by the ICW. All other countries have been stripped of their Hunters, even of those who already were under contract. There are pests to control. Beasts as dangerous as they have never been seen before roaming each and every land and sea and river. And yet, here you all are, playing a game you dare not explain to me. Fools, all of you. Utter fools!"
Kovanen turned around, her eyes two icy daggers upon the agent. "You call us fools?"
"Yes, precisely that. Fools who think they can alter the order of the world as they please. There is a lot of money at risk, and that is why the upper command sent me here. But I don't give a damn about that. I care about the many people whose lives are at risk because of this nonsense. Abandon this place and do your duty toward them."
Kovanen jumped down the boulder, then walked toward the agent. A storm was raging in between the two women; growing more violently with each second.
"Do you have any idea what this place is?" Kovanen's voice raised above the tense silence. Long gone was her cold calmness, replaced by a frenzied anger which was reflected in her eyes like a glint of madness. "What does it hold? Who we really are and the purpose why our order was born amidst the ashes?"
And her shouting filled their hearts with dread.
"This forest protects the world from very nasty stuff! Horrors forgotten by mankind! Creatures and monsters which could wipe out entire countries in a matter of days! The fucking end of the world and mankind as we know it! Beings of nightmare you don't want getting out, ever!" She drew in a frenzied breath, looking around, and when she spoke again her words did retain a bit of her usual temperance, "And today we stand here to prevent that undepictable calamity. Us alone and no one else. Our duty. The heavy duty we took upon ourselves ages ago. And were we to fail… Ah, poor of you all, Mahomes. Poor of you all! Go back to your fancy office and worry about your soon-to-be full vault of gold. Let us fight and die in peace."
Mahones took a few steps back, so astonished no words seemed to make it out of her mouth for a few seconds. She'd gone pale as the moon itself.
"You…" she spluttered, at last. "You… What is the meaning of this?" She ran away then, rambling words which seemed to be meant for her alone. "I need to interrogate Lord Viljo… And warn Colonel Sheppard… Madness, that's it… Bunch of drunkards and liars, that's what they are… But, what if…"
Her maddening speech reached an abrupt end when the agent Apparated away.
Whispering followed; faintly, as if they all feared their voices could attract those horrors Kovanen had spoken of. They had all known of today's venture; more or less, they had done so. But it was one thing to know of it, banishing that truth to the back of one's mind, where foolish purposes of greatness and courage stood firm, and another was to hear those words from a Guardian's mouth.
"Lozen…" Mikko mused from behind. He took one step forward, hesitantly, eyes set upon his cousin.
The Guardian had set her eyes back upon the dark depths of the forest, her burst of anger long forgotten. She stood vigilant, anxious, hopeful. Her thoughts were with her friends, he was certain of that. Just as Levitt's own were with his people.
Levitt made his soldier halt with a waive of his hand. "Their fight, Mikko. Theirs, not ours. We are here simply to pretend we are part of this charade."
The youth clenched his jaw, the shadow of a complaint upon his tongue. And yet he ended up backing away, a faint nod as an answer. To say tension grew heavier all over the clearing, it would result in a lie. It had been there since the very beginning, and had not been altered after Kovanen's sombre speech.
That was what scared Levitt the most—what could make so many people, and so different from one another, show such will toward a purpose?
Time would tell, he thought grimly.
Usman, who became Guardian of the South almost twenty years ago, finally reached the Frontier.
He halted right outside the wide clearing, atop a small hill. From up there, he set his eyes upon the two twin black trees which guarded the entrance to a hallway sunk into the shadows. A hallway into the unknown and the forbidden. Into death itself. A place of legends and myths which the world had ignored for long enough; for the years had turned into centuries to later become ages.
And still he felt nothing save duty's cold embrace. A duty toward his people. A duty toward the world.
It was long ago when he came to peace with himself about this moment of his life. Since his very first contract, to get rid of some stranded Dementors, when he was just a foolish youngling. Back then, he hadn't understood all it entailed, of course, just that what would happen today was an event to only occur twice a century.
Now he did understand its importance, though. It meant the greatest honour a Hunter could aspire to. And also unavoidable doom. For no Hunter in history had returned from the Frontier. Nor had ever been anything of them to retrieve nor bury.
That was a thought for another moment, however. Instead, Usman closed his eyes and enjoyed the hot day, the fresh breeze and the humidity it carried. The smell of the thicket and the shadow it casted upon him, the mud under his boots. Life was a beautiful thing, indeed, and so was this world. And he had enjoyed them to their best for as long as he could remember; good and bad years alike.
Usman truly felt at peace with the life he'd lived.
Because of that, when War itself walked out of the dark passage, he welcomed the foul creature with open arms and a regretless heart.
And what a spawn of hell it was! A tall and thick shadow, its body made of pure darkness. It had two powerful legs and four arms. Its belly was slashed in two by a white line, so bright it seemed to hold the two halves of darkness from touching one another. And its face, when looked closely, one could see it had no eyes nor a mouth nor a nose, still they seemed to be carved into the void-like flesh. Just as it happened to its non-existent hair, a kind of carved process into the dark end of the body, its tips of a faint pink.
Usman glanced at the creature, his face already damped in sweat despite his collected breathing and slow heart-beat. A mantle of oppression had fallen upon him, heavy, burdening, suffocating. Time itself seemed to mould to the creature's stride. And when it halted, in between the twin trees which marked the Frontier, the world did the same.
The demon spoke, then. With a voice so human and so regular it iced the blood in the Hunter's veins.
"And here you are, set to fulfil the oath your ancestors swore long ago. Another one of your kind. Strong and brave, like all others before you. I do wonder if you will entail a greater challenge than them."
Usman had not expected to utter a single word today, still they flowed out of his mouth by themselves. "What are you? And why do you speak our language so… so human-like? This is blasphemy. A horror never meant to exist."
The demon stared at him with those eyeless sockets. "Because I have devoured all those who came before you. Their memories and their lives are mine to carry. To live eternally within me." Its upper arms open to the sides, whereas the lower pair folded upon its chest. "And what I am, you wonder. I am alive, although I do not stand as proud and tall as I once did. I have many names, none of which can be uttered by your tongue. However, the wizards of old once referred to me as the Nightmare of War."
Usman trembled, losing bits of his confidence.
"You do know why I summoned you, don't you? When there still were six years left for the next summon."
"Oh, I do know it. Because you plan to break the Pact, because you were scared it would be us to do it first. And not without reason, brave man, for we were about to commit treason today."
War crouched down, grasping a bit of dirt in each of its upper hands. He then brought them together, and allowed the dirt to seep down as if a waterfall.
"Some of us believe this world is ours by right, as the right of conquest rightfully proclaims, and it was about time we broke free of these self-imposed shackles of ours. But I, however, all I wanted was for another fight. One last moment of exhilaration and violence. And yours is the duty to grant me such a moment. For as soon as I kill you, as soon as we exterminate all the Hunters and leave this prison, there will be battle no more. There will be slaughter, there will be massacre, inasmuch the people from this age are not prepared for our arrival. The warriors of old are no more, unfortunately, and all there is left of them is weak, shameful remnants."
A huge conflict blossomed within Usman—between the things he'd always believed in and those he'd just learnt. He seized the chance he'd been given so unexpectedly. Because the world could not fall today.
"I want to make a new Pact with you, Nightmare of War."
War rose up, still lingering behind the Frontier. "Tell me about it, Hunter." Had it just sounded amused?
"If fighting is all you want, I will give that to you. A fight like no other you've had before. And if I come to defeat you, I want you to Vow, in the name of your people, that they will all remain in this forest for the ages to come."
"And if I defeat you? What will you Vow, little man? A pact must go both ways, if I shall remember you."
Usman set his back straight, trying to give an impression of courage which he didn't feel. Not for the demon, but for himself. "I will give you what is most precious to me. My people, my fellow Hunters. All of them, for you to slaughter in combat, for you to have your so-desired exhilaration."
"So be it, then."
War walked past the Frontier. Wind stilled, light darkened, and the earth shook lightly with a whisper of fear. The Pact had been sealed, whereas another Pact, a far more ancient one, had been shattered.
"Be aware that I cannot speak in their name," the Nightmare said, "for their hatred is a right of their own. But if you defeat me, I will uphold my side of our Pact. I will rise against my people, even after death. For war is war, even when bid against one's own flesh and blood. But you knew this already, did you not? And still you took your chance, for you know you stand no chance against our return."
The creature moved with such a speed he became a blur to the sight. Usman was prepared, however, and he used his Partial Transfiguration to its fullest. His eyes turned bright orange, those of a feline, and his newly-acquired reflexes allowed him to dodge War's punch.
A blow of energy came from it, marking a deep furrow upon the ground, shattering every tree it found on its way.
Usman seized his chance. He slid his leg amidst War's as he took hold of its upper, left arm. With a shout of effort and rage, he threw the Nightmare away. Opening his hands, he chanted, "Confringo!" and all there was before him bursted violently.
The ground creviced as a wide trail of destruction rid it of its life and vegetation. The air smelled of dust and ashes, and a cloud of smoke was born to cover it all.
And still footsteps resounded from within. Heavy, calm, slow. Until War walked through the thick cloud, not a single scratch upon its void-like flesh.
"Transfiguration and wandless magic, I see," the creature hummed. "It has been long since I last faced a user of them, and even longer since there was one to master the two of them. What is your name, Hunter? I find you interesting enough."
Usman gathered his magic into his fists and shins, falling into a defensive stance. "My name is Usman, Guardian of the South."
There was no further exchange of words.
The clearing became their battlefield. The Nightmare's inborn strength and prowess against the Hunter's acquired through Partial Transfiguration. Usman dodged clawing and punching with the speed granted by his lion-legs. Left fist unchanged, imbued in raw magic, made contact with the demon's stomach. It felt as if punching stone, yet it made War yield an inch, surprised. His right fist raised, now a bear-like claw, and tore through its upper, right arm.
It fell down, severed, without a drop of blood.
Usman blinked, jumping away, and when he opened his eyes a new limb had been born from the stump. Instant regeneration? He'd known of this skill, as they'd seen it plenty in the Men's Bane. But this was far too quick and efficient, this…
War lunged at him from afar, again a blur to the sight.
Usman took his hand down to the ground. "Aero!" A wall of wind was born in between them, whistling furiously, streaks of gust so sharp and quick the Nightmare's skin was sliced a hundred times. But the demon simply walked through it, firmly, relentlessly.
He raised a fist, just to find a wall in the Nightmare's hand which had captured it; and for much he tried to pull it away, it remained jailed. So close to one another, Usman gazed in horror at the demon's face. There was the shadow of a smile on his empty face, a slight protuberance carved into the void.
"Ah, battle!" it exclaimed. "Such a wonderful thing!"
Usman acted thoughtlessly.
He transfigured the skin of his forehead into solid stone, and headbutted the monster. It groaned, more in surprise than in pain, and the infernal grip upon his fist was slightly reduced, enough to pull it free. Both hands came to stand upon one another. "Incendio Diabolica!" and the demon was set ablaze.
The black flames devoured its body as if a famished animal. Hissing in rage, filling the place with the smell of burnt, rotten flesh. And yet Usman did not halt in his offence. "Confringo!" aimed down this time, the spell bursted a hole through the ground; one deep enough to bury a house whole. The Nightmare fell into the crater, still embraced by the fire, which casted a gloomy light upon the dirt walls. Until light was no more, as tons of dirt and rock fell upon the creature, burying it alive.
The Hunter allowed himself a deep breath as he jumped away. He felt nothing from within the ground. Again, he knew not to feel victorious. And fate proved it a wise decision shortly after.
The ground bulged, then it broke as a black arm pierced through it. The Nightmare rose from underground, unharmed, unangered. "Say, for how long will you be able to withstand this frenetic pace of battle?" it wondered, truly curious. "Because I have faced your kind for longer than history may account, and I know for certain you are creatures of weakness and ephemerality. This will not end well for you, little man."
Usman turned a deaf ear to those words—there was no such a thing as preserving one's strength in this kind of battle. Far too important for that, far too deadly a foe for that.
Magic roaring alife within him, spurred by a sense of duty and dread, the Hunter fell into a deadly dance with the Nightmare. Hand to hand combat was his speciality; blessed by his excellency on Partial Transfiguration.
For the Nightmare, it was as if fighting a hurricane of frenzy animals. The strength of an elephant; the grace and lethality of a tiger; the swiftness of a cat; hands to be turned into claws of a bear; nose into the buck of an eagle; teeth into the fangs of a crocodile; skin as hard rock. And all merged with the skill and templance of a master of martial arts.
Their fight took them into the Frontier, sowing destruction everywhere they stepped upon. Trees pulled off their roots to be used as cubs by War; ground turned into spikes by Usman, then set ablaze as they impaled the creature, a torment of flames; holes deep into the ground, remnants of his spells…
Again and again, Usman wounded the Nightmare. Arms and legs torn apart and severed, holes through its trunk, even its head sliced in two by his hand-claws. Again and again, the Nightmare regenerated as if nothing had been done to it. The Hunter remained unharmed, however, lost in the trance battle had become. He'd never been this focused on a fight before, almost becoming one with it. He was to breathe blood and violence, he was to embrace them as if dear brothers. And were he to lose his focus for an instant, death awaited.
Five minutes of fighting which felt like years of strain. And when they halted, in a place where silence reigned yet again, Usman felt himself falling down, exhausted beyond comprehension.
"I told you, little man," the Nightmare said, standing on one leg upon a hill. "Your kind is not to fight so fiercely for long. And now there is no strength within you. And now you are dead."
Usman gritted his teeth, his sight blurry, an incessant buzzing within his ears. "Do not think so low of my kind, demon. We might not be as fierce in battle as we once were, so long ago, when times of war and blood were all known to my ancestors. But we have evolved, we have become better. And our will to live is far greater than it was back then. Do not underestimate us. Do not underestimate the bonds which join us."
He pulled a small ruby from within his black robes. It was no larger than the last phalanx of his thumb, but it shone fiercely against the darkness of the deep forest. He kissed it softly, then crushed it to dust.
Strength blossomed within as his magical aura flared once more, furious and delighted. This was Sora's blessing. I will not let her down. None of them. Usman straightened his back, ready for battle once more. Many counted on him—his people, those dear to him. That responsibility weighed a lot, and so did the other two blessings which lay hidden into his robes.
He was the chosen Guardian to honour the Pact, as the unwritten law claimed, but Usman did not stand alone today.
War jumped down, sliding downhill. "Ah, yes, I do remember those strange gems. Hate them, in fact. They were a rare relic back then, so rare it greatly surprises me to find even one has survived for so long. I guess you Hunters kept more secrets to yourselves than I thought."
It was then when Usman noticed something.
They stood before the doors of a fortified city, though its walls were of wood instead of rock. A large, wide arc granted entrance to a long alley, a wide road of dirt and small pebbles. To its sides, small houses could be seen growing under the shadows of gigantic trees, atop of which more houses had been built, connected by wooden, hanging bridges.
And there were people witnessing their duel. Men and women, young and old, and children and elders. Faces struck with terror, moving to stand protectively in front of their loved ones. Crying and shouting could be heard, raising above the forest's silence he'd grown so used to. Men prepared themselves for fighting, even if no wand could be seen in their hands.
And such fear, he understood, it was not directed toward the Nightmare. They feared him.
Aghast, Usman expanded his magical aura toward the city, toward its habitants. Within them, he found muggles and wizards alike. He could only take a few steps back, still looking at them, feeling dazed.
"What… What is the meaning of this?"
"They call it Caelem, the eternal city. Capital to the Kingdom of Daendyll, which is what was built in this forest upon ages of confinement by those who refused to die as they were once casted away. Consider yourself fortunate, for you have become one of the very few outsiders to ever set a foot here."
War's voice pulled the Hunter out of his stupor, and he cursed himself, for the demon could have killed him a hundred times in such a brief lapse of unfocus.
"Do not fear, for I will not kill you when you are so shocked. I enjoy killing due to the thrive it grants me. I take joy in a hunt, not a slaughter. And you, little man, you are entertaining me greatly."
"These people," Usman went on, ignoring the countless gazes set upon his back, "do not fear you… How is that possible?"
Strange signatures came from behind. Calm auras, yet so very cold they felt unnatural. There was a sickly touch to them, as if… Contaminated, that was the adequate word. An ugly thing never meant to exist. An agonising animal waiting to be put out of its misery. Usman eyed them warily from the corner of his eyes.
A bunch of humanoid figures now stood before the terrified crowd. Tall and thin, dressed in loose robes of black and grey and other dull colours. What little skin could be seen of them, it was sickly-pale and shrivelled. A skin stretched and worn by ages, too long a time no being should have lived through.
They did nothing, simply stared at them from afar.
"Your kind usually fear the unknown, what they cannot understand. And these people, they know me very well." War circled the Hunter, eyeing him as the prey it considered him to be. "Now, you? You are a stranger. The type of man they have been told to fear and be wary of. For all they have ever known is peace within this forest, for centuries and centuries. And that will not change today, for we are set to bid war away from here."
Again War moved so fast it became a blur. Usman, fully recovered, fell into the deadly dance which bonded them. He noticed something. Each limb he sliced, each hole through its flesh, it took a little longer to regenerate. It wasn't an instantaneous process anymore.
He unleashed an array of punches upon its chest, feeling the tough skin giving away against his strength. Jumping aside by conjuring wind, Usman put a bit of distance in between them. And he was delighted to find War's wounds took around seven seconds to be no more.
"You are killable," the Hunter mused in awe.
War halted, amused. "Of course I am. We all are. Even war is ephemeral, as for it to be bid, it needs life. Without you, mankind, I would have no reason to exist."
And just like that, their fight resumed.
It took them into the city of Caelem, where Usman tried to use the environment in his favour. He ran around the wooden houses, sometimes hiding inside, sometimes climbing up the trees above them. Unfortunately, it also meant he needed to be extremely careful. Two times, he thought better when unleashing a destructive spell, for innocent people roamed about, trying to run away.
Different and strange people, perhaps, but innocent still.
Those humanoid warriors trailed after them everywhere. Never coming to meddle into their fight, their eyes heavy needles upon them. Always close enough, never too much.
Left hand upon the right, Usman pressed them against the ground. It shook, waving, as if it could breathe. And then it raised, a whirlwind of dust, dirt and rock to be unleashed upon the Nightmare. The debris made the humanoids recoil, hands upon their blades, and the townfolk's screams to fill the battlefield.
It was now or never.
A path through the cloud of debris was opened to Usman. He ran faster than he'd ever done, his legs those of a frail yet elegant gazelle. His eyes, owl-like, glimpsed a shadow through the dust. With a shout, he jumped into the whirlwind as he pulled something out of his robes.
It was a silver arrow, its feathers of an indigo-blue marbled with black streaks.
Usman sunk the tip into War's chest, and then screamed, "Infernum!"
Lozen's blessing unleashed a firestorm upon them. Flames ate it all, having a feast upon War's strange flesh, delighting themselves with a challenge. Usman felt pain all over his body, scorching, incessant. He jumped away with a strong Depulso as a rain of cinder fell upon them.
Caelem, the eternal city, burnt.
Trees turned into ashes as the blue flames devoured them, their thick leaves reduced to black, charred powder. Screams of agony could be heard. Though, did they belong to people or the forest itself? The humanoid creatures stood aside, far away from the flames, eyeing them with disgust.
The shouts started to make more sense.
"Aguamenti! Aguamenti! Aguamenti!"
Men and women used their wandless magic to fight the fire away, trying to project their hometown. The children and the elder were taken away, though an old lady remained, clinging weakly to the remnants of her house. Just to be bathed in flames and cinder shortly after. Small, winged snakes slithered around the flames, hissing in rage, pushing the fire away with their voice.
Usman closed his eyes, falling down to one knee. The skin of his arms and face seemed to be on fire, too. It was a strange kind of pain. Faint, like a faraway thing, and yet strong enough for his mind to not be able to think about anything but it. The sleeves of his robes had burned, black remnants of silk adjoined to the blistered, charred flesh of his arms.
His eyes remained set on the feasting flames.
A blue hell all over the city. And within the heart of the fire, a shadow could be seen. A furious gust of wind dispelled them away if just a bit. Enough for Usman to see what lay within, and he let out a breathless gasp. All which remained of War was its legs. Waist above, there was nothing but a mount of cinder.
And yet they took a step forward. And another. And another.
Cinder fell down, pushed aside by a dark process carved up from the void-like flesh of its waist. It took the Nightmare almost fifteen seconds to grow an inch of flesh. Yet he advanced relentlessly.
One more step toward Usman. And another. And another.
The Hunter stood up in trembling legs. But he wasn't so exhausted, was he? He wished so, incredible as it may sound. For, otherwise, it would mean dread had blossomed within him at last.
And finally, its regeneration reached the white line which split its trunk in half. It opened, like a mouth to the endless void, toothless and tongueless. A path into horrors never meant to exist. The word Nightmare had never met such a fairest representation.
And it spoke.
"That was, with no hint of doubt, the mightiest piece of magic I have felt on me since the Ancient Times."
Five more steps, and its neck began to grow anew.
"You almost got me. Fool of I, grew confident due to the victories I achieved in the past. Perhaps your words were within reason, Hunter. Mankind has indeed evolved. Ah, how long has it been since I last felt so excited? I may find the most gruesome of the battles once we make it past the Frontier, as opposed to what I thought. I am eager to know of your kind's will to live, to know of their ferocity when cornered beyond salvation."
Its body whole anew, War lunged at the Hunter. It became a blur once more, but this time Usman was not ready to meet him. Like a shadow it dashed past him. Pain blossomed as his arm was torn from his body.
Usman bellowed in pain, bending down. Fight! A voice implored within him. Fight for your people, damned it all! He turned around just in time to jump aside. And still pain blossomed as he lost half of his sight. Blood dripped down the left side of his face, a red trail born out of the empty socket and the gruesome cut carved there.
He ignored the scorching pain, his one remaining eye set on the Nightmare, which now stood with its back toward him. That lack of respect hurt Usman just as much as his wounds did.
"I'm not done!" he bellowed. "I will fight until my last breath!"
And still did the Nightmare set its back toward him.
"I know," War said, then. "That is the foulest trait you men have been blessed with. That sickly attachment to hope, even when all is lost. The way you cling to life, even when death is unavoidable and doom looms just above your heads. It is the reason we lost the War for Dawn ages ago. Look at them, if not. Look at them."
Usman glanced past the Nightmare.
Caelem was still hell, a sea of cinder and blue flames which refused to cease their hunger, a barren land where last had stood a paradise for the forgotten. And yet, they grew weaker and weaker. Why? Because its people refused to give up. Their weak spells managed to extinguish the flames. The winged snakes' hissing made them halt, and bid enough time for men and women to arrive. Those who could wield magic, their auras flared like faraway stars amidst the blackness of the night; weak yet incessant. And those who couldn't, they carried buckets and pots of water in their hands.
"Lesser men and women, all of them," the Nightmare went on. "Weaklings. Not only when compared to me, but also to you. And yet they will come to beat the mighty magic you unleashed upon them. That is why Caelem is named the way it was, the eternal city. Because no matter what kind of storm is to come at them, they will survive it. One way or another, they will. War would not exist without their will to live. I would not exist. And yet I do. And yet I was created to feast upon your flesh."
Usman drew in a deep breath as cold sweat damped his face, mixing it with the dried, crusted blood and making it drip down once more. His right arm, the one remaining, made its way into his robes, searching for something.
There was nothing inside his pockets.
"Are you looking for this, perhaps?" War's voice startled him. There was a black dagger on its hand. "This is another relic of the past. A blade forged by those weak and coward Goblins. They hated your kind, but were way more scared of mine. Therefore they made an alliance with the Alazthi, and through that union were born these deathly weapons. Just to be betrayed thereafter, though that does not matter. Like I said, you all cling to life too fervently."
War tossed the dagger into the blue flames behind them.
Usman's heart ached when he saw it swallowed by the blue flames. The steel would withstand the heat without trouble, but Shane's blessing, his last ace in the hole, was no more. Still he stood up. With one arm and one eye, he still stood up.
Until my last breath, he told himself.
Usman gathered all the magic within him into his hand. Across the barren, carbonised field, the Nightmare of War crouched down. Time stilled as the two foes stared at one another. Tension was palpable, sweat dripping down the Hunter's face. His heartbeat became a countdown; tic-tac, tic-tac, like a frenzied clock. And then they both lunged at one another.
War became a black flash, whereas Usman unleashed one last burst of destruction upon the demon. It did not avoid it. Instead it dashed through it. The smell of burnt rotten flesh filled the field.
There was no pain. Whoever once said that death hurt had been a liar. There was cold and a semblance of emptiness. But it did not hurt. Life did hurt. Duty did hurt. Now, death? Death was a light thing. It was easy to surrender to it. Comforting, even. A soothing embrace. So it was for him once he understood what was about to happen. Because the wound into his chest, through which War's hand had pierced the flesh and torn the bone, knew no salvation.
Usman blinked, though his eye remained closed for far too long. It made him believe there was darkness all around him.
Back then, Usman had been scared of death.
He remembered those times in his village, where night was a forbidden thing. And then at Ouagadou; there, he'd been so thrived to learn magic, so thrived to belong to a world so different to the wild one he'd grown into, that death had filled his nightmares even more. To lose all he held dearly, it had terrified Usman.
But then he became a Hunter. At first, he did it to bring a semblance of peace and safety to his village. Nights weren't so awful nowadays, and that had been his greatest pride. But one thing had led to another. And he rose and rose through the Union's ranks until, one day, he became a Guardian.
Many had come to fear such a title, for it carried an omen of danger and death most weren't willful to take. For him, however, it had been the greatest chance to make a change in favour of Africa and the many towns who lay as lost and defenceless as his own once did.
He'd met incredible people—fair and courageous and just and fierce people. Each one with their virtues and flaws, often instilled upon them by their upbringing. There was tough and cold Lozen, a pureblood lady raised to lead and to be elegant. Kind and lively Sora, always ready to offer a hand to those in need of it. Young and hot-headed Shane, a boy who had lived for vengeance yet was able to set it aside for the sake of his loved ones.
Usman blinked, finding his one eye full of tears.
War stood before him, tall and proud, yet with a gruesome wound—a hole into its left ribcage—which wasn't regenerating. Its bearing was calm, almost respectful. There was no trace of that violence he'd oozed until their last exchange.
"Do you have any last words?" the Nightmare asked with a reverence to its voice which simply did not fit.
Usman gathered what little pride there was within him, and gasped a bunch of words to which he found pain as he'd never met before. "Not for you to hear, foul demon. I will plead no mercy. Do what you will."
War crouched down before the Hunter, staring right into his eye. "I will speak your words to whoever they are meant for, I swear. Remember that I am to devour you, to consume your memories, to learn all there is to you. Do not be a fool and take this chance I am offering to you. It is a sign of respect toward a great warrior, neither an insult nor a humiliation."
Usman closed his eye, snorting in mirthless amusement. And the words flowed out of his mouth.
"Be strong, Ousmane. This world is yours to take. Succeed where I failed. Forgive those I condemned. Love those whom I hated. And take care of our people. Life is full of misery and pain, but so it is full of mirth and love and happiness. Do not ever surrender, do not ever stand alone. I'm sure you will be a better man than I was."
"Is that all, Hunter?"
"It is all, Nightmare. End me now, please."
And death embraced him, at last. It was a soothing embrace, for it allowed Usman, Guardian of the South, to rid himself of the heavy duty once set upon him. All he left behind, all those promises, those merry memories, those disgraces which had shaped him into the man he was today, to be carried away like a cloud by the wind.
The mouth carved into War's stomach opened as wide as it could. A passage into oblivion.
And into oblivion Usman went.
Hell itself upon them, that was what Levitt found in the forest.
Screaming, wailing, noises of terror and agony; all he could hear. Flashes of purple and blue and yellow and green; all he could see amidst the red of blood and the white of death. A Hunter died beneath him, cut in two by a rabid Men's Bane, the incantation of a curse about to leave her mouth. An Auror was turned against his own friend, white worms gorging upon his flesh, his eyes milky and sightless. A hound made of fire lunged at a Hunter, and his screams joined the sombre choir as he was burned alive.
Death, everywhere he looked at.
Their shouts were a sombre cacophony which barely made sense.
"Help me!"
"There are too many of them!"
"Agh! It hurts! It hurts!"
"Martins, come with-!"
"Fight back! Fight back!"
And there were screams of battle, too.
"Confringo!"
"Inferno!"
"Diffindo!"
"Aguamenti!"
"Avada Kedavra!"
Spells and curses travelled through the battlefield. A Men's Bane was felled by a rain of them, and then a brave Auror set its corpse aflame before it could regenerate. Just to die shortly after, impaled by the spear of a humanoid creature dressed in full black.
"Captain!" he heard from behind. It was Tim. "Michael needs help!"
Levitt jumped into hell without thinking it twice.
He dashed past foes and allies alike, ignoring the pleas for help of some and the rabid growling from others, eyes set on the unfair duel across the narrow river which split the field in two. Michael fended himself as best as he could against one of those humanoid beasts. The creature used his sword to break the spells into a rain of sparks, closing the distance in between them. It moved far too swiftly for a creature of its frail size, and the strange magic it wielded was a morbid one.
Levitt lunged at it from behind, and his enhanced speed proved to be too much for the creature. All it could do was to turn around, yet a bit too slow. Its longer sword missed Levitt's shorter one, which sunk deep into its heart; if it even had one. The humanoid gasped; whether it was in surprise or pain was something he didn't care about.
"Incendio!"
Levitt's blade was set ablaze, and the creature's insides burned into embers and ashes. Its silent scream, albeit a pained whisper, was only heard by him.
Michael came to stand by his side, breathing raggedly. "We need to get out of here! This is madness!"
Mikko led the rest of the team across the river. There was blood in his robes, though it didn't seem to be his.
"There's too many of them, and they seem to come from bloody everywhere! We were barely able to make it here. Hell, I think two Hunters died just because they thought we would help them, so they left their backs unguarded and… Fuck! We could've done something!"
Blame weighed heavily upon him, Levitt knew. Mikko had never been able to set that nonsense about honour aside—his upbring as a foolish pureblood was hard to forget, after all. Despite all he'd seen, he had yet to understand it was them alone against the world.
Still, Levitt halted amidst that hell, taking in such a horrible spectacle.
Three Aurors, a shiny knot upon their uniforms which confirmed them as officials, led the counterattack. They moved in perfect symphony, guarding each other's blind spots; a dance they had performed countless times.
Two humanoids fell as they tried to break their formation, killed and burned and killed once more just in case. They bursted a thousand holes into a Men's Bane which lunged at them, and then set ablaze the worms which remained. A huge golem of stone raised from the ground, its rocky fist falling down like a hammer, just to be jailed in a sphere of water which shrunk into the size of a marble.
Hunters and other Aurors gathered around them, feeling hope for the first time in what had felt an eternity of torment. Bit by bit, they conquered the land before the river. Bit by bit, the horde of monsters was pushed away. Bit by bit, the prospect of victory became a real thing.
Until hope was no more.
Until a veil of mist embraced the battlefield.
A wave of dread fell upon them, so oppressive to even move a finger was a mighty thing. Levitt felt the need to dig a hole into the ground and sunk inside to never rise again. Michael gasped, horrified. Ashley fell to her knees, wand slipping from her fingers. Mikko missed his step, falling down. Some of the others ran away, like Zara and Tim, when Levitt was in no condition to make them halt.
Desperation itself stormed into the battlefield.
It was another of those humanoid creatures, tall and thin as every other. Dressed in full grey, this one. Its aura had the same semblance of contamination to it, but far stronger; it was almost nauseating, a far too cloying poison. And the blade he wielded, however, was unique. Long and thin and straight, of a white steel which seemed to be made of pure light.
The creature cut its way through Hunters and Aurors alike, dashing through them with the swiftness and speed of the wind. Each person its blade cut through, they fell down. Their flesh unblemished and woundless, not a drop of blood upon it. And lifeless still. Their eyes went black into their sockets, turned into embers, as their limbs fell inert. Nor a shout was heard, for the kind of the death it unleashed was a silent one. Unfair, too. For the massacre it committed was that of a man stepping on ants.
Levitt snapped out of his horrified stupor.
"Run!"
There was no word of objection this time, nor of doubt or regret. They abandoned what little was left of their allies to die by the hands of that demon, hoping that such an unjust massacre would buy them enough time.
Plenty of obstacles were found in their way.
Glimpses of battle, for the entire forest seemed to have become a battlefield. Levitt created an opening through all which came at them. Golems, to be pushed back and left behind for others to deal with; hounds of fire, which fell to his wand; a Men's Bane, which ignored them in pursuit of two solitary Hunters who fought nearby, finding them a far easier prey.
And yet, for much they ran, the sea of trees before them was endless. Uphill and downhill they went, jumping across deep furrows borne from battle or rivers full of greenish water. All for the sake of getting as much distance as possible in between that demon and themselves.
So focused on that task Levitt was, so scared of a horror he couldn't understand, that he committed a mistake.
The humanoid creature came out of nowhere, a shadow lunging from the thicket. It fell upon him amidst jumping across a river. He reacted far too late, when their combined weight made them fall into the furious current of water. His name was shouted, though briefly.
Its cold veil pulled him out of his surprised stupor.
Levitt's hand raised, then closed around the humanoid's, which had closed around his throat. It was a fierce fight which they fought. His enhanced strength against the creature's fortitude. Water pushed against his closed mouth, trying to force its way inside, trying to drown him and make him become part of the river. His back crashed against the hard walls of the furrow, needles of pain travelling through every inch.
He used that brief pause within the current to get rid of the humanoid. Right hand pointed at the ground as the left stuck in between his throat and the beast, he casted a spell—Depulso. Levitt rocketed upward, bursting out of the river with the creature still upon him, countless drops of water around him.
"Lux Gladii!"
A single blade of light was conjured, and it severed the creature's hand, the one around his throat, with a swift, clean cut. Levitt kicked it away then, hearing a loud crack when his feet impacted on the creature's ribs, and they fell down apart from one another. He landed on his legs, crouching down at the right moment to reduce the strain upon his joints. Still it hurt more than he would've wanted.
Peace came at last, yet briefly.
The humanoid spoke, in such a strange yet sophisticated language Levitt never thought it to be beastly. The way the consonants mixed with the vocals, there was sense within it, he could tell. Also, it was rather obvious it was either a threat or a curse. More so evidently when it unsheathed a short spear from its back.
"The hell did you say?" Levitt grunted, also unsheathing his short sword. "I don't speak your damn language, foul beast."
They spoke to one another in a language known to every warrior, that of battle.
The creature's skill with the spear was a mighty thing. The weapon worked like an extension of its arm, swift and elegant. Levitt, however, chose a brutality so rare within him. The faces of his people were all he could think about. Alone and unprotected in this hellish place. He'd already lost plenty—Kouji, Pierre, Jordan… No other name would be added to the list.
He wielded fire, water, wind and lighting. He made use of countless spells and curses, all lethal. Most crashed against some strange Shield, conjured from the humanoid's foul and strange magic. In that regard, their prowess was equal, he was annoyed to note. And the same could be said about their skill in weapons.
Levitt, however, fought for something far greater than himself. He fought for his people.
And when the spear lunged at his heart, when the creature felt itself victorious, strength blossomed within him and so he ducked down, blade already on the move. He unleashed a dozen cuts in the span of two seconds. "Inferno!" Thus the remnants of its flesh were turned into ashes.
Levitt fell to one knee, exhausted yet unwound. Dazed still, he took his hand down to his leather belt, grabbing a vial of pewter. He drank it in one long gulp, as if a thirsty man. He was strong again, but dizziness had yet to go away. Such was the consequence of a reckless usage of a Physical Metal.
"I need to get back and find them," he told himself, forcing his tired legs to get on the move.
Levitt ran by the river's side, going against the current through the slightly stepped path. It was peaceful here. If it wasn't because of the faraway screams and the light shaking of the ground, one could almost think of it as a leisurely run through the forest. Yet the screams got louder and louder and louder, until they became a vexatious companion.
Until they became all he could hear, see and feel.
What once had been fertile soil full of vegetation, it had become an arid wasteland upon which both men and monsters performed their violent dance. Trees had been uprooted, leaving behind deep, rootless holes into the ground. Some of them were filled with corpses; both beastly and man-like. The muddy ground, dried and cindered and blood-coated, the blades of grass long gone. The sun, free of that thicket which had confined its rays outside the forest, now shone upon them ferociously, giving the place a semblance of a desert.
There was death whenever he looked.
Levitt walked forward thoughtlessly, dazed, lost. He could feel Death's hand upon his shoulder. Daring, mocking. A reminder of his curse. Just in case he had once believed himself above it.
Michael laid on the ground, his innards spilling out through a cut which had almost severed his body in two. His handsome face, one last rictus of disbelief, was untarnished by blood, spotless and untouched; it was almost ironic. And his eyes, wide open, stared as they saw no more. Nearby, young Zara laid beside the corpse of a Men's Bane. Its white worms gorged on their flesh, taking delight in the feast bestowed upon them. Tim's wand was halfway buried into a pile of ashes, not far from there.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Levitt was embraced by silence. The battle around him seemed to be carried out in slow motion, raging ferociously still. Colours paled as if watching them through a darkened lens. Their agonic screams, drowned gasps. The beastly roaring, mute threats.
What is the point? he asked himself. For much I try, they always die. They die, and I live. They die, so I can live. I am cursed beyond salvation.
And yet, he found himself dashing through the battlefield as his eyes had glimpsed a flash of blonde. His blade made quick work of the firehounds which had swarmed Mikko, whereas his magic, light arrows casted around them, fenced away another horde of them.
Why? Why must I try again? It's pointless. I cannot save anyone but myself. I'm cursed. Cursed!
Still he fought to his last breath. Again and again, his blade was coated in blood. Again and again, his magic became a violent wave of death. There was one thought alone within his mind—to save Mikko and Ashley. It fueled his body, banishing his fear deep into his mind, well beyond hearing.
Levitt felt a dampness running down his face, and knew himself shedding tears.
"Leader!" a voice shouted into his ears. "Leader!" and now some hands shook his body. "Levitt! Wake the hell up!"
Levitt blinked, and found himself surrounded by a different kind of death. A circle of beasts lay around him, all slayed by his own very hand; some marred beyond recognition. He did not remember how he'd killed them, let it be by sword or magic. Simply that they had posed a threat to his last remaining friends.
Only a few Hunters remained, less than a dozen. They had not the spirits to glance at such a monster of war he'd become. Not even to mourn their loved ones. Their eyes were sunk and hollow, devoid of life. Sat down, most of them, all they could was to stare at the nothingness before them. This was death too, though in a different sense.
"Michael is…" Ashley started. She'd gone very pale, a gushing wound on her left shoulder. It had already been seen to, though poorly, as some blood-coated bandage pressed against it.
"I know," Levitt whispered. "Zara and Tim, too. And the rest? Michael's squad. Where are they?"
His question was met with silence—why would they tell him what he already knew? Perhaps they thought that if those words were not to be spoken, it would relieve a bit of their pain. Fools, yet kind fools. Hadn't they learned that already?
Nearby, a woman stood up. She glanced around one last time, as if to make sure she wasn't in a nightmare. Her wand raised, pointed at herself. "Avada Kedavra!"
Her body fell down as a flash of green alighted the wasteland, a relieved smile on her face.
No one followed her. Whether it was a matter of courage or respect, Levitt did not know. All he knew is that he had failed, once more, to protect those dear to him. All those massacred around him, all those doomed to die in a hopeless battle, could go to hell for all he cared.
Because he was cursed to survive. To see all those whom he loved die.
Atop a hill, Lozen Kovanen drew a crimson arrow to her bow, then breathed in deeply as she pulled from the string, musing, "Incendio!" and then let go of it. The arrow flew swiftly across the battlefield, cutting through the wind with a soft whistling, until it reached its victim.
It struck the Men's Bane right into one of its eyes. The creature was not granted time to wail in pain, for it was engulfed in a firestorm; flames feasted upon his flesh, devouring all there was of it until only embers remained.
Lozen did not halt for an instant.
A golden arrow was pulled from her quiver, then, and the motion was repeated. "Baubillius!" Lighting surged within the battlefield this time, therefore a horde of firehounds were felled, turned into dust. Another of its same kind followed next, aimed at a rabid three-headed dog as large as an elephant. There was nothing of it to remain after the lighting died.
Her Hunters advanced in a flawless formation, that of a spearhead, turning a blind eye and deaf ears to so much death around them. They were a polished, sharp nail, whereas Lozen herself was the hammer. And these hellish creatures were the wood to pierce through.
Evelyne, a seasoned Hunter of cindered hair, stood at the end of the nail. Wand always ablaze, she unleashed curse upon curse against the horde. Mateo and Peng, two younger wizards who were less prone to violence and its seducing touch, covered her in each step she took. Shields raised, just to be shattered and raised once more. Spells and curses were casted incessantly, a rainstorm so full of colour and death.
Footsteps resounded behind; a faint melody muffled by the dampness of the ground. The messenger stood himself against the tree, fighting for his breath.
"My lady, sectors three to seven have been overrun," he spluttered as best as he could. "And sector two has been wiped out—we've lost contact with them almost an hour ago."
Lozen stilled, fingers upon the bow's string, tensing it, caressing it kindly. "Wasn't that the sector given to that former mercenary, the Thai warrior? Their battalion was tasked to hold the river, right?" There was another question hidden within the spoken one—her younger cousin, Mikko, had also fought there.
The arrow flew away, unleashing a furious cascade of water upon a pack of firehounds.
"It was, my lady. Like I said, there were no survivors. I'm sorry for your loss."
The confirmation almost dented her cold resolve. Almost. Mikko's name was just another to add to the large pile, despite the fond memories of infancy which had bonded them. He was dead, gone to never return. Unlike those who still stood beside her. She could save them. And she would.
Another arrow was pulled into the bow, a golden one marbled with white streaks—another Baubillius, yet not so pure, more docile and less violent. It flew toward a couple of hunters who had been surrounded by two winged lions with a serpent tail. Death found them too.
"And what about Shane?"
"He's holding sectors eight to ten quite efficiently. Only asked for reinforcements once. For sector eleven, which he abandoned when he thought of it a lost battle."
"And Sora?"
"Sector fifteen to eighteen were safe, or so said the last report. Next one will arrive in fifteen minutes."
Lozen considered their options—they were losing the battle, but not so badly as expected. Perhaps, if she were to… No, there was a plan she must stick to, devised by people far more intelligent than her. She was to hold this sector, and so she would do.
Lozed pulled a silver arrow from the quiver, "Mille Ventos Secat!" and set it loose.
It was no ordinary wind spell. It had a well-defined purpose, as the three Men's Bane which bursted into the battlefield discovered. A hurricane of cleaving and slicing set upon their flesh. It did not kill them, as it held not enough power, but it left them wounded enough for Evelyne to finish them off, crushing them by moulding the ground beneath into a suffocating sphere.
The battle was going too well. Far too well.
It was bound to change, she knew.
Therefore, when the Lethifolds joined the battle, Lozen and her Hunters were ready for them. They came in a wave, like a black rain. Creatures unbound to life and yet which lingered within it. Black cloaks slithering through the air erratically yet with a sense of purpose. Their presence alone, a shriek of dread and horror. A reminder of horrors never meant to exist.
Alas, Hunters were people of dread and horror too. Men and women who had fought them for ages.
So their formation did not break, as fear was held deep within. To fend off those foul creatures with battle spells and curses was a venture fated to end in tragedy. Four Hunters broke the formation's balance, stepping inside, being covered by their comrades instantly.
Their shouts raised above the cries of battle. "Expecto Patronum!"
A faint, silvery veil alighted the battlefield, gleaming against the looming shadow of the deep forest. The Hunters took delight in it, their spirits invigorated, seeming to stand far taller than before. The Lethifolds, however, seemed to halt in disgust, yet briefly, for they soon began their attack once more. Still they moved not so smoothly as before.
Still it was not enough.
Two wizards and one witch, who had been distracted fending off a pack of firehounds, were engulfed into their shapeless embrace of blackness. When the shadows raised up, looking thicker and larger, there was no trace of the Hunters.
Lozen clenched her jaw, reading her bow. "They will pay for that."
To her left, Laila, a plump woman of auburn hair, faintly hummed a melody as her wand traced some strange glyphs upon a bunch of simple arrows. Lozen grabbed one of them, drawing it into the bow, and then pulled another arrow from the quiver, to be held by her teeth meanwhile, for a second volley.
The first arrow had been infused with a Ward of Inversion. Alas, to kill a creature born in death, one ought to imbue them with life first. It flew silently, until it stuck into a Lethifold. The shadow hesitated and halted midair, almost confused. An instant which Lozen used to fire a second arrow.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The arrow, alighted in green, was a sentence of death upon the foul creature. Its shapeless form fell down, no different from a regular cloak. Death only understood life, being its counterpart. Human, monster or animal, it cared not. Its touch was the same for every living being. Lethifolds were no exception, once ridden of their nature.
Arrow after arrow followed. The battlefield, once so filled with black shapes upon its bloody canvas, was cleaned of them.
Lozen blinked, trying to keep sweat away from her eyes. Her Hunters advanced into the forest, claiming it. She blinked once more. A trail of corpses laid behind, fruit of mankind's rage and purpose; a shout of will screamt to the skies.
She blinked once more, and found herself alone in a world of shadows in which silence reigned. Colour was no more, the wind halted and the world itself stilled. All she could hear was her own heartbeat, frenzied and out of control.
A Voice so foul and otherworldly, like a retching scream, put an end to the silence.
"Ah, I see. Another descendant of the old Alazthi warriors, like that man who dared to step into the World of Shadows per his own choice. Just as foolish as they were, another insect who refuses to die in between a hound's maws. Still, you rid my Lethifolds of their eternal torment, and that has angered me greatly. I have collected them for many centuries, just for you to suppress their curse and unlive them. Ah, so daring as they were, indeed!"
Lozen, terrified as she had never been, raised her eyes into the pale sky, searching for the Voice. A black sun shone upon the grey sky, and there was no cloud to conceal it.
"Where are you, foul creature!? Step into the light so I may rid you of your pitiful life as well!"
"The light? Ah, I am afraid that is not possible. I am a creature of shadows, you see, and this is my realm. We will meet again one day, Lozen Kovanen. You and that man, I soon will feast upon your flesh and turn your corpses into puppets for my new army. The Nightmare of Corruption cannot be escaped, let it be known."
Lozen blinked in fear, and she opened her eyes, and the shadows were no more. She was back into the forest, save it had all changed as she'd been jailed in that timeless realm. A cold veil had fallen upon her, freezing her. Once so fed up with the humid heat, she could only miss it as every inch of her body shuddered.
The Hunter's formation had been broken by three humanoid warriors, and her soldiers lay scattered, alone and surrounded by the hordes of hell. They had slayed some of them before, but these three, there was something different to them. The way they moved, their foul, contaminated auras…
A spear was launched from the hands of the tallest. A white projectile, like a shooting star. Lozen was still dazed because of the Voice's threat, and so she wasn't able to react in time.
"My lady!" Laila exclaimed.
Lozen saw red as blood splashed upon her robes and face. Blood, yet her flesh remained untouched. Laila gorged on her own blood and spit, the white spear impaled through her throat. A spear which had not been meant for her. She stilled with one last tremblor of pain, her eyes darkened and her hand fell.
Wordless, Lozen stood up. Dazed still, perhaps, but for a different reason. Anger boiled within her, taking hold of every thought and move. Looking past Laila, she spared one last glance to the battlefield. Her Hunters, her precious friends, slaughtered before her. A massacre now that their formation had been broken. And she had stood aside as that happened.
It would happen no more.
That day, she rained arrows of death upon the hordes of hell. She had never bid so much destruction before. Her fingers turned bloody and swollen and numb as her quiver was emptied. They hurt greatly. Still, not nearly as much as her pride hurt.
At some point in the battle, Evelyne stood by her side. There was a rictus of pain and desperation on her face. Eyes still ablaze with courage, yet a shadow lingered within them. That of defeat.
"My lady Lozen! You must retreat!"
Lozen shook her head, her left hand raising in search of another arrow. Save there was none anymore. That confounded her—for how long had she been shooting?
"Hear me, damn it all!" Evelyne insisted, seizing the Guardian by her arm. It was then when Lozen noticed the Hunter was missing one arm. "This sector is gone, my lady. Gone! You must retreat and take the wounded with you."
"Lost, you say?" Lozen repeated slowly.
It was a truth she refused to see. Each time she glanced at the battlefield, it made all the more sense. Lost. They had lost.
"Yes, we've bloody lost! There's too many of them! We cannot contain them anymore."
The hordes of hell advanced, now that the impregnable wall which had stood before them was no more; like a furious gush of water breaking through a dam. Few Hunters remained to fend them off, weak and wounded all. Still, what they lacked in strength and numbers, they more than made up for it with sheer courage and determination.
They were bound to fail, of course, and they all knew it. But first, they would stand one last time—a stand worthy of songs and poems.
Evelyne pressed on. "We all are disposable, my lady, but you are not. I beg of you to run away and take the wounded with you. This is not an act of cowardice, but of duty and will. You must live, my lady, live to fight another day. So long as you are to breathe still, hope will not be lost."
There was one last battle within her—heart against mind. To abandon her people to their luck, it filled her with shame and sorrow. To stay, and die, with them, was a far easier choice to make.
Lozen found herself nodding, tossing aside her empty quiver as her bow came to rest upon her back. It felt heavier than ever. It was the weight of death, she knew. Whether it was the death she'd unleashed upon those foul creatures or that of her people whom she was set to abandon, she ignored that.
The Guardian called for retreat, and she didn't look back once.
Evelyne stood atop the hill in command of what little remained of their vanguard, a daring smile on her dusty, blood-coated face. Shouts of rage, hopeless yet full of purpose, were heard through the forest. One last stand, grand and mighty. An act of unselfishness and courage to be known and sung for the ages to come.
That day, Lozen understood there was courage within defeat. For it was much easier to give in to her rage and frustration, to stand beside her fellow Hunters one last time. Yet it was not the right thing to do, she knew.
As it was said—duty was heavier than a mountain, and death as light as a feather.
The flames rose upward, in search of trees to set ablaze, to be bathed in a rain of cinder. But the trees stood far too mighty and tall for the campfires, eyeing them with contempt, branches stretched as if threatening arms.
Clexa stood amidst the two largest and more furious fires, gaze set upon the foul shrine which had been laid there, in a shallow hole into the fertile soil. Some of her people stood behind her, seeking shelter under the shadows of the trees, away from the flames. Away from the sin about to be unleashed upon the world.
Faraway, so far away they could almost pretend nothing was happening, war and change was bid against the Outlanders. Horrors of the past and those who once knew no justice nor fairness, fighting together at last. The Forgotten and the Accursed, together, united, as unbelievable as it may sound. Death as the world had not known in ages. Rivers of tears and blood. A sorrow beyond words. And yet, Clexa felt nothing of it, and she was not ashamed to admit so. For so long as war was taken away from Daendyll, her people would survive.
A remembrance of the Forgotten, truly.
The shrine was a pitiful thing, perfect for a pitiful aberration. A bunch of dry leaves upon the ground, a bed for the sacrifice to lay on. This ritual did not deserve anything else. So it had been agreed.
Clexa looked back once, searching for kind and understanding eyes; any kind of comfort within her people. No one met her gaze, however. They all stood with their heads bowed down, ashamed of themselves, regretful of their decisions. She did not, for her back stood straight and firm, and so did her head.
Sighing, she walked toward the shrine, moving past the raging campfires. "Let him come," she ordered firmly. "It is time."
There was silence behind, only broken by someone's footsteps, echoing fainter and fainter as they walked away. Seconds went by. And then came a collective gasping, caused undoubtedly by a most foul sight.
The wrath glided into the clearing in silence. It slithered past the witness, who lowered their gazes yet again. Was it fear that made them act that way? Was it a nauseous feeling of wrongfulness? They were to stand still as a horror like no other was brought back to life, after all.
Clexa, however, stared at the pitiful shadow, thinking of it as a shameful thing. It buzzed, excited, anxiously. Its two companions trailed behind. Cowardly Peter, a rat more than a man, and Ashram the Consumed, as he was known in Daendyll. She took her time observing them, finding the two men way more interesting than the wrath.
What could make two men lose their pride like that, she wondered.
In regards to Peter, it was quite easy to say. He was a coward as she had not seen before; a man with unparalleled talent for survival. Ashram, however, was moved by a speech of hatred and classism. He cared not about the purity of one's blood, as she'd read of many Outlanders, but about one's might with magic. He wanted to bring back the times of old. Times of death and blood, times too cruel for children and elders and weaklings.
Clexa pitied him, and she made it known with the sharpness of her eyes upon the pale man.
Ashram simply drew his lips into a thin line. "I don't like that look on your face, woman. I would erase it, if I could."
"Alas, you cannot," she sniffed. "I can kill you all, however, as easily as I would step over an ant. Shame that I have been advised to not do so. Yet I stand remorseless and calm. Come the time, you will all die, slain by your very own ambitions."
"Say what you will. Just bring my lord back and he'll do the judging."
Ignoring them, the wrath had fallen upon the shrine, waiting patiently. Clexa made her way over there, feeling her people's eyes on her back. This is what needs to be done, she told herself once more. To save Daendyll, we must bid destruction to the Outlanders. This foul creature by the name of Voldemort, the Outlanders, the Nightmares and the Order of Rod'azac will destroy one another. And we will be free and in peace, at last.
Orange frost streamed off her body, and she felt strength surging within. Niklos's embrace was scorching hot, a hand of control and manipulation more than one of kindness and friendship, but he knew of his boundaries far too well to push his fortune. So, he simply remained her companion—two souls, two minds, one heart and one body, Clexa's.
The Essentia whispered his words into Clexa's ears, and she made them known.
"Bring the boy!" she hissed, ashamed of herself.
Lanphael strode into the clearing, a gleaming smile on her beautiful face. Her moonlight dress fluttered behind, never touching the ground, gliding just above it. In her arms, two fragile limbs of ivory fineness, lay a cloaked body which should have been far too heavy for her to carry.
Clexa forced herself to not look aside as some sobbed in horror and shame.
That body belonged to a young wizard, a boy born within Caelem's walls eighteen years ago. Handsome, of tanned-skin and brown eyes. Thin yet strong. Intelligent and kind. A boy with a mother and three siblings; two girls and one boy, all younger.
His name was Joao.
A boy to be turned into a vessel to contain a horror within. A sacrifice.
"It needs to be done, Clexa," Niklos said. "One life to save thousands. It is a fair exchange."
There was a softness to his voice which did not fool her. Sure, the Essentia cared about Daendyll and its people in a way only known to him. But there was no love within him. If tools were what he needed of them, tools they would become.
Clexa clenched her jaw and continued with the ritual—she would go to hell one day to be cleansed of her sins, but first, she needed to take care of her people, to make sure they would live through the Second Doom.
"Drop him down."
Lanphael glanced at her with a dark mirth in her eyes—she hated to be ordered around by a woman she considered inferior to her, yet put up with it with her innate elegance.
Once the boy's body was laid down on the ground, upon the bed of dry leaves, Clexa ignored the rising of his chest and the calmness within his face and spoke to the wrath.
"You are to make of this body your new one."
The shadow buzzed, still and silent. Clexa wondered what his silence meant. If it had any qualms about the vessel it was offered, it said nothing. And that terrified her more than any furious shout could ever.
Gulping down, she averted her eyes from the wrath.
"Bring me the blood!"
A shadow emerged from behind the circle of flames. Thin, tall, dressed in full black, with a shady elegance to his stride, the handler of his greatsword resting above his shoulder. Auger the Rod'azac walked past the terrified witness, his emotionless eyes set on Clexa and the wrath beside her. A glass vial, filled with blood, lay upon his right hand, about a finger long and two of width.
Blood he had harvested himself. Blood of a child chosen by the Written Fate itself.
When the vial rested upon her hands, Clexa fell its weight. What she was about to do was a mistake, she knew. She was about to condemn the world. And yet, Daendyll would stand closer to salvation this way.
Such a thought, it was all she needed to begin the ritual.
"Blood of your fated foe, a boy named Harry Potter, taken willess from him," she recited aloud, face dampened in cold sweat. "A Binding Nail, an alloy of Alazthi Steel and Radiant Wood. Bane of life and creator of life, together, so foul a union may be born, and you may be born from it. O, thou shalt be bornth anew!"
Clexa emptied the vial of blood into the Nail, soaking it red. She halted a moment to look at the sacrilegious tool, an abomination never meant to exist. And then, dispelling all remnants of doubt and weakness within her, she impaled the wrath with the Nail.
Timed stilled as the wrath gasped in pain; an acute shriek she would never forget. Bit by bit, it got sucked into the Nail, and the crimson steel was marbled in black. It seemed to ooze a smoke of sheer darkness. Evilness in its purest form, she knew.
And then, finally, she sunk the nail into the boy's forehead, and the flesh and bone gave away as if made of sand, so tender and fragile, swallowing it whole. He woke up with a gasp, eyes wide open in horror and pain and misery. His shouting was heard all over the forest, carried by the winds, which wanted to warn the world of the aberration just committed.
And then he became inert, glassy eyes which stared at Clexa without seeing her, showing no emotion at all. On his forehead, only the head of the Nail could be seen. Almost one with his tanned skin, black veins all across the sickly-pale flesh, binding them through a sombre anastomosis.
Seconds went by; seconds which felt eternal. A gleam of sharpness appeared within the boy's eyes, at last. He sat up slowly, looking at his hands, feeling the skin of his face, not sparing a bit of attention to all those gathered around him. Why would he, a monster who considered himself above all, spare any thought to them?
When he spoke, he did so with Joao's voice.
"I have returned, finally. After more than a decade of suffering and cowardly wandering, I have returned."
And yet no one came to think it was him anymore. No, the voice now belonged to a monster in the body of a youth.
Alas, Lord Voldemort had been reborn.
Lazaro da Rio had known death and blood since he could remember.
A foul profession, that of an Auror was. Always cursed to deal with the foulest lot of one's country. One simply grew used to it. Embraced it and made use of it when necessary, even so. A part of oneself was doomed to be lost, that noble and kind. Violence was too sweet a poison sometimes, more so when those you were against had no qualms to wield it so easily. It was all to protect the weak, the innocent and defenceless. That was what he'd told himself countless times, at least.
Today, however, Lazaro understood what true war and death meant.
These hordes of hell were not alike to anything he'd known. There was no malice, nor selfishness nor greed within them. Their attack was a scream of rage which carried a purpose he did not understand. To stand before them, it felt like fighting against the ocean and its might. One simply could not contain it. And yet they tried, for such was their duty.
Countless had already fallen—countless were to yet fall.
Lazaro had prepared himself for this day since he had a memory. He'd always known something foul and strange lay within the Amazonas Forest. His superiors had always spoken in whispers about it, voices filled with dread. It was only when he reached a position of command, that he was told of this heavy duty. About that silent threat which lingered within the soil he loved dearly.
His wand was a hot beacon in his hand. He'd never unleashed so much violence before. He'd never had to worry so little about who stood on the receiving end, also. Around Lazaro, his Aurors worked efficiently. They knew their job quite well—to cover him and to take the wounded away. No life would be sacrificed as long as he was to yet breathe.
To fight against beasts, it was very different from fighting against dark wizards.
One could expect those foul men to stand by reason. Vile as they were, they feared death and longed for life like anyone else. These creatures, however, cared not about it. One could expect a likeness in duelling another man, like a distorted reflection casted upon a mirror, when spells and curses were to speak. These creatures, however, only understood the most primal form of violence, to tear flesh and draw blood.
Still they were alive, therefore they could be felled.
He jumped over a firehound, briefly glancing at it—when dead, the flames upon their fur extinguished, showing reddish and blistered flesh beneath. To the left, one of his men let out a pained growl, and there was silence. Another man replaced him in the formation, but Lazaro added another name to the list.
"Tighter on the flanks!" Lazaro shouted at the top of his lungs, wielding death while at it as flashes of green streamed off his wand. "Stand firm and strong, my soldiers! Don't let those fuckers surround us!"
Lazaro didn't look back once. He simply pushed forward, against the tough wall these hordes of monsters entailed, trusting his Aurors not only with his own life, but also with the fate of the world.
"Reinforce the back of the left wing!" Rodri shouted later on. "Rearguard, stand watch and open an escape route in case it's needed!"
"Cover me!" Ainhoa bellowed not far from the head of the spear. "There's too many wounded! I gotta take them away!"
"Come at us!" Rafael laughed maddingly, always one to plunge into battle and its frenzied embrace. "Let us show you our country's prowess, Brazil's joy and pride!"
Yet he wasn't mistaken, for here stood Brazil's finest. Men and women of incredible valour. Fair and just people who hadn't hesitated to leave their families behind and dive into hell itself.
Alas, only in times of death and sorrow heroes were to appear. But there were no heroes today, in this dark forest. Heroes had a name to be written in books and sung in poems and remembered by all. Lazaro and his men were not so important, unfortunately. They had names, true enough, names to be forgotten and buried by all save their loved ones. And who gave a damn? No one. And because of that selfless resolution, they lunged at the hoarders of hell like a battering ram.
Once they made it past the creek they had been told to reconquer and hold, Lazaro noticed something strange. There was a faint mist all around them. Thick and humid, it coated the trunks of the trees with a layer of dew.
He halted, wary and suspicious of the sudden silence. "Rodri and Ainhoa, you two are to take command of two squads each. Set a wide perimeter all across the creek. We must hold it until the next messenger arrives." The two Aurors nodded and set off with a bunch of men following them. "Rafael, fall back to the rearguard and secure an escape route. And for the love of God, do calm down!" The young man shrugged his shoulders before walking away.
Lazaro was left alone with a bunch of Aurors, barely a fifth of the force he'd commanded a few hours ago. He glanced through them. Dirty and exhausted faces were all he saw. There wasn't fear within their eyes, not anymore. This last victory had certainly raised their spirits.
Still the mist grew thicker, still silence reigned.
Until a gust of wind, furious and cold, spread the mist all over the field. It was so thick a wall one could barely see a few metres of distance through it. He walked around for a bit, yet didn't bump into anyone else. It seemed to even dispel noise away, as no whisper reached Lazaro's ears for much effort he put to the task.
A path through the mist opened before him, and the shore of the creek became real once more. He stood alone now, however. There was no trace of his Aurors. And footsteps resounded faintly. A shadow walked through the misty hallway, dispelling it away with each step it took.
The humanoid creature was very similar to the one Lazaro had slain about an hour ago, when the battle was still young. This one, however, was a different kind of monster, he could tell. The contamination within its aura, the looming death within its bearing, the cold intelligence within its azure eyes…
And the white, gleaming blade it wielded. That was what scared him the most.
The blade rose into the air, pointed at Lazaro's heart, and the creature spoke fluently and softly.
"You are worthy of my Blade, old man. I have seen you face death and stand unharmed and unhinged. I have seen the way your men stared at you with hope in their eyes. It shames me to come at you when you are so exhausted already, but the Written Fate had me rid of other men's lives before our paths crossed. You must die today. I am sorry."
Lazaro answered the challenge without a word.
An array of curses streamed off his wand. The creature danced around them with a swiftness and elegance so unfair when compared to the old Auror's stiffness. The few which were about to hit the creature, were parried into a rain of sparks by that strange blade.
Lazaro's wand rose, and the ground in between them was set ablaze. Violent flames engulfed the creature, who simply jumped through them, its grey cloak falling behind in a rain of cinder.
For a moment, Lazaro was left stunned.
Mist seemed to gather around the humanoid, exhaled into its lungs with each breath, making each of its moves a faint blur so hard to decipher. Until it stood right before him, its blade a gleaming omen of death.
It went through his left arm, his weak one, as if it was made of wind itself. The flesh was not sliced, a drop of blood yet to be spilled. No wound was left behind. His arm stood healthy as ever. Save it was his no more. It fell down, inert, death. He felt nothing of it; neither pain nor coldness. His arm was, simply, no more.
Lazaro conjured a Shield in between them, then pushed against it. The blade went through it, but the creature had been sent far enough for the cut to miss its target.
They both acted at the same time, their auras flaring simultaneously.
An explosion of equal might—purity against contamination. The ground in between the two of them cracked, birthing a deep ravine. Lazaro came to stand on one side, the creature on the opposite, and there they held their gazes.
His arm lay dead close to his body. Yet painless as it was, it helped him to keep his mind clear of any distraction. What was gone, gone was.
"That blade of yours sure is strange."
The humanoid raised it before its body. "This is a Soulblade. I acquired it ages ago by right of conquest. It has been my most loyal partner since then."
"Right of conquest," Lazaro mused back. "You speak like the wizards of old. Like a trueborn Alazthi."
The creature's blue eyes gleamed sharply. "Oh, but I am a Rod'azac. All I was before, it matters not. Death is all I understand. A thrive which I have repressed for so long I almost grew immune to its sweet touch. Alas, today I discovered such a feat is not within my hands to achieve. But you, old man, what is it that bounds you to fighting? Are you a slave of violence too?"
Lazaro clenched his jaw. He'd not expected to have a philosophical conversation with a monster today. Faraway, noises of battle reached him—screams, curses and wailing—yet faintly. What did that mean? Had his men been wiped out already? Or were they, perhaps, pushing the monsters away?
"I'm bound to violence too," he answered sourly. "I'm a destroyer of foulness and evilness, after all. And you, creature of hell, belong to them."
Their conversation died to never return.
Once more, the humanoid seemed to be embraced by a veil of mist which made its sharp feints and dashes all the more unpredictable. Lazaro's sight, however, was to be caught off guard just once; his arm had been the price of his mistake, but there would be no more.
With a twist of his wand, the trees bent sharply, snaking around the humanoid, closing around it as they formed a sphere, jailing it inside. Lazaro waited, then, for he was certain that such a demon couldn't be held for long.
The tip of the Blade pierced through the wood like a gleaming nail. It carved a circle into it so easily it seemed to be made of wax. That sword rids the living of their life, and cuts through the dead as there's no life within them to consume. Lazaro grinned darkly—a challenge like no other, indeed.
The humanoid stuck its head out of the wooden jail, raising a hand toward him, its contaminated aura flaring violently, a red rippling upon its hand. "Confringo!" Lazaro's curse was first to be born, sending the creature back into its jail.
"Confringo! Confringo! Confringo!"
Again and again, Lazaro made use of his most violent and polished curse. They all clashed against a Shield; its signature was so unlike any other he'd felt, so strong, so firm, and yet, with a weakness proper of an amateur. It was like seeing a bunch of bright stars amidst the dark night. One with a sight so nurtured by battle couldn't simply miss them.
Ah, just as I thought. This creature comes from an age in which magic was yet young, a tool for the strong to survive. Incredibly powerful, and rudimentary too. That Shield, it was equally strong in every inch of its surface, and that made it incredibly easy to crumble.
"Confringo! Confringo! Confringo!"
It was long ago when Lazaro understood Shields needed to have a core, a weak spot. If one was to gather weakness in one point, the rest would stand far stronger. Now, if someone was to hit that weak spot, the Shield would crumble with the simplest and weakest of spells. The more cores a Shield had, the weaker it would be all around, but also, the more weak spots one's foe would need to guess and hit to make it crumble. The key laid within balance—a balance every warrior ought to find for themselves.
Each time his curses impacted, the Shield was shattered. Each time a new curse was borne from his wand, a new Shield was raised. Lazaro's hand started to tremble one minute into the frenzied assault, exhaustion impossible to ignore anymore. Yet he didn't halt for a second, sowing destruction without remorse.
And finally, he was quicker than his foe. Barely a fraction of an instant quicker, but it was enough.
The orange curse impacted right upon the creature's chest, sending it back, through the wooden walls of its prison which weren't able to withstand the powerful burst of magic.
Smoke covered it all, the pungent scent of blood and burnt flesh joining that of dust. And for a few seconds, there was peace and silence.
The creature stepped out from the cloud of dust. There was a bleeding hole in its chest, not so deep as to have caused lethal damage, unfortunately. Bloody, shattered ribs could be seen, its loose robes shredded and faintly coated in a red so dark it resembled black. Its stride, however, was perfectly calm. Elegant and gracile, even; its feet lingered on the ground for so brief a time they seemed to glide above it.
"I have underestimated you, old man."
"You, warriors of old, might be brutes with an excellency toward battle and a talent for death," Lazaro said, one finger pointed at his foe. "But your magic is awfully rudimentary. We, wizards of the present age, are far better people who value life more than death. Our magic has evolved, we've polished it to unthinkable heights. Because peace is dear to us, and it's during peace when civilizations nourish and develop."
Its eyes gleamed with understanding. "And why do you tell me this? Are you, perhaps, a fool with a death wish?"
"Because it won't make a difference. You and I, we are warriors. Moulded by our many fights, defined by our minds and skills, yet also by our habits. I'm almost a hundred years old, of which I have spent most of them fighting. My way of fighting it's set in stone, and for much I try to do something different, when in mortal peril, I will always go back to where I feel strongest. Now, you, a warrior who's lived thousands of years, are doomed to never change your ways."
The unthinkable happened, then. The Rod'azac, a creature so calm in battle, always in control of its emotions and thoughts, resumed the fight with a ferocity so improper to it.
Its white Blade resembled a slithering snake in each attack, moving so sharply the steel seemed to almost bend and round. Lazaro did his best to get out of its reach, his feet moving nonstop, aching in pain and protest.
"Alarte Ascendare!"
His spell, casted persistently upon the ground all around him, was not meant to levitate the Rod'azac. It was more of a constant current than a violent burst, slowing down the creature whenever its feet left the ground, making the simple act of pushing them down too hard a task.
His peculiar spell, a modification he came up with almost fifty years ago, seemed to greatly confuse the creature.
Lazaro saw a faint doubt within its eyes, which blinked repeatedly, and he felt the way his aura fluctuated. Almost as if… As if the Rod'azac had tried to cast a Finite upon the spell yet had no idea how to deal with a constant flux of magic.
Grinning madly, the Auror danced with the beast—a dance in which a single misstep would result in his death. His spells broke against the Blade, the creature's sharp cuts found nothing but empty air to cleave.
Transfiguration worked for a brief instant.
Lazaro's hand fell upon some trees, carving figures out of the rough surface, giving them a semblance of life. A hound of wood lunged at the Rod'azac, and when the Blade impaled it, it became a shapeless chuck of wood once more. Two human-shaped golems lunged at it from behind, one as a sacrifice for the other to get a hold of the humanoid's arm.
"Diffindo!"
The Rod'azac spun midair. Not only did it dismantle the wooden golem with a sudden cut, it also avoided the spell.
Partly.
It fell down on one leg with a muffled thud. "Ah, to be rid of my blood for a second time. You must be the first in many centuries to achieve such a feat."
Its right hand, the one to not wield that Blade, had been severed with a clean cut. Drops of dark blood dripped from the fresh wound. A far too small amount. Slowly, thickly, as if rotten sap.
Lazaro stared keenly at the wound, and he noticed something.
"I see you cannot regenerate, as many I killed today did."
"No, I do not possess that innate skill. I am not a Nightmare, nor a man. I am a Rod'azac, as I said. I dwell in between those two realms, closer to you than to a beast, fortunately."
Monster or man, a lie was a lie, and liars were a kind of people Lazaro understood far too well. The best kind of lie was that which contained specs of truth and lie alike.
"You aren't lying to me, I can tell, but neither are you telling me the truth. You cannot regenerate instantly, or perhaps not by your own means. But you stand far too collected after being wounded in such a gruesome way. There's something more, right?"
Again its eyes gleamed sharply. "What is thy name?"
"Lazaro da Rio."
"Thou have impressed me, Lazaro da Rio. Earned my praise and respect. Perhaps men as of today are not as weak and pitiful as I thought of them." The Blade rose once more, embraced by a veil of mist. "Alas, I shall put an end to this duel. Thou have made me lose far too much time. I shall partake in the shattering of our shackles, so the world may witness our return."
Lazaro blinked, feeling dazed.
Mist had consumed the clearing, thick and heavy. The Rod'azac took a single step forward, becoming one with the mist. A shadow gleaming through, a dwelling horror within. And then it was upon him. Its arm raised, fluctuating, a blurry thing, death gleaming upon it, shaped like a white Blade. A weapon for the accursed to wield.
One last whisper preceded the eternal void.
"Stand proud, Lazaro da Rio. Thou were strong."
The smell of fire and death lingered heavily in the air, carried everywhere through Daendyll by the humid breeze of the forest. Blood's metallic touch, along with the retching scent of piss and emptied bowels, were the two perfect companions to a most foul fragrance.
Here, well past the Frontier, a land in which no Forgotten had ventured into for ages, it had a sacred touch to it. A calamity of further magnitude.
Kaai the Elf strode past the countless corpses she found in her way, sparing a glance to each one of them. Some had been felled by steel, others by maws and claws and bucks, and just as many of them by magic, primitive and unique. Some lay marred beyond thought, a mass of blood, bones and meat. Some others, they lay so still and calm a glimpse of fear and horror could still be appreciated. Courage was a beautiful thing, but one to disappear when facing death.
She could only feel sorrow and pity toward them. They were supposed to be her enemies, she knew, people who had confined her kind into the forest for ages, turning them into the Forgotten.
Still she could not bring herself to hate them. Life was life, just as precious for every living being. Why rid another of their lives, when there was plenty of room in the world for all?
"I didn't expect them to smell so awfully," Daeny said from behind.
The child's face had turned incredibly pale, almost white. Her bright, purple eyes glanced around incessantly, taking in the foul picture of death. Her robes—a white, loose blouse and a long, pink skirt—were coated with blood. So were her small hands and her white hair. She too had tried to save those who had yet lingered in between the dead and the living.
"Thou have no need to come here," Kaai told her softly. "This is no sight for a child."
She sniffed faintly. "I'm not a child. I'm the Princess of Dusk. Besides, I'm already thirteen years of age. Old enough, I reckon."
The paleness of her face and the way her hands trembled told a very different story. However, it was long ago when Kaai understood that no word of hers, as kind or reasonable as it may be, would ever get to change their mind once it was set upon something. Humans were a very proud folk for how ephemeral they were.
The Elf let out a tired sigh. "Do as thou please, then." She had not the spirit to argue against the child. Not on such a sombre day. If this was to become a nightmare for her to remember every night, it was her problem to deal with.
Kaai set forth, for a glimpse of black had caught her attention. The robes of a Rod'azac, buried beneath a bunch of corpses. She carefully set them aside, until the pale, shrivelled face of the warrior was revealed to her. There had been one last smile of relief when feeling death's hand upon his shoulder.
Yden, that has been his name.
"Thou deserve to finally rest, accursed one," Kaai mused softly.
She closed the warrior's milky eyes, and then sang a slow melody. A song for death, for grief. The barren, burnt soil grew green, embracing the corpse into a embrace of life, flowers of red and yellow and purple blooming all over the burial site. She finished with a note which hung in the air, as if victim of an echo which did not belong to the clearing.
Daeny made her way over to the Elf. "I didn't know they could die too," the girl mused. "They've always looked so strong to me. Eternal, terrifying, untouchable. And the tales Mum told me about them…" She went quiet, but sometimes silence spoke louder than words.
Kaai walked past the tomb, hearing rushed footsteps behind. "We all can die, child. Even the mightiest. That is why life is so precious to us all, a treasure like no other, one which cannot be bought with gold nor jewels. Why it should be so precious, better said." She grimaced when looking around—so much death! And yet, this was nothing when compared to what awaited in the future. "Alas, we are doomed to rid others of their precious life. If we all were to speak the same language, to look at the world with the same eyes… I just wonder…"
Ages had ended and others had begun, all to be carried away by the wind, a never ending cycle like that of the sun and the moon and their daily dance. And they all had yet to learn that lesson. Perhaps it was never meant to be, Kaai thought sourly.
"There's someone nearby," Daeny said suddenly, pulling the Elf out of her trance. "There! Right there!"
The child set off without further preamble, and Kaai went after her. She didn't fear for the girl's life, for it was evident this part of the forest had been conquered by the Forgotten.
It did not take her long to discover what had caught the girl's eyes. Atreon the Rod'azac stood with his back turned on them. His white robes, so different to those his kind wore, were a sight Kaai herself had never grown used to. Atreon was considered the most peaceful of all, but that did not mean he was without the thirst for slaughter so innate to his kind.
And beneath him, laid on the ground, was a woman dressed in pink and white. Her chest rose faintly with each breath, a weak whistling streaming off her mouth; a pained melody, pitiful yet full of fight. A thin trail of blood ran down her face, born from her hairline.
This woman did not look wounded at all. And yet she was to die in a matter of minutes.
Atreon did not turn around to greet them. "You should not be here, Dusk Princess. This land which lays beyond the Frontier is no place for a child. You do know the rules."
Daeny halted, turning even paler, her mouth opening and closing as no reasonable words came to her mind.
"She is with me, accursed one," Kaai said. "You and I, our voices weigh the same."
Daeny grew braver at that. "Yes, I'm with her!" And so, she approached the dying woman, crouching down by her side. The child observed her keenly, purple eyes taking in the pitiful picture before her. "She's alive! She's still breathing!"
Kaai took the girl's side, also crouching down, and set her eyes upon the strange woman. She was so very pale, and the lack of blood within her face had little to do with that. Her eyes were slanted and brown; a rare sight to the Elf.
"How?" Kaai asked the Rod'azac. There was no need for further words between the two of them.
"She and her people were surrounded," Atreon explained. "They gave a good fight, slain plenty of ours. Alas, they were not ready for the arrival of Messar. Today, there was a reminder of the cold flames behind the Twin Serpent Knight's spears. And this woman, this Hunter, she understood it quickly enough. Somehow, she made all her companions banish before death was to fall upon them. By the time Messar was about to fell her, she was like this already. The strange, and exceptional, magic she conjured was fatal enough."
Kaai drew in a deep breath, taking the Hunter's hand into her own. "What is thy name, brave woman?"
Her milky eyes raised, a wheezing sound coming off her throat. But she was able to speak after a while, and Kaai did her best to hear the woman's last words.
"So… Sora… Guardian… Guardian of the… East." She coughed down a strange mix of blood, froth and spit. "My… people. Are they… safe?"
"They are," Kaai mused softly. "Rest now, kind soul. Thou did well."
And so, the Hunter closed her eyes to never open them again. Kaai rested the Hunter on the ground, wrapping her up into her warm robes, setting right the clasp upon her cloak; a sword with a hilt of twin feathers. Daeny drew in a breathless gasp, still one to only know of death from tales and songs. To see it so up close, it could scar a child for life.
Behind, Atreon walked away, shaking his head in resignation. "You are weak, Kaai. Perhaps I was wrong to question Lanphael's words about you. Perhaps there was more reason within your sister's words that I wanted to believe."
Kaai's stem-like brows narrowed—it was something she'd seen men do when offended or annoyed. Right now, she felt both. "I respect life above all else, Atreon. And this woman, she sacrificed herself and her venture so her people may see one more dawn. One life, hers, in favour of dozens. She deserves respect."
Atreon the Rod'azac halted briefly. "Life? It was long ago when we rid ourselves of that, Elf. Sometimes I miss it dearly, yearn for it even. Most of the time, I just feel nothing. And we gave it up to save you all. Do not ever forget that." That said, he walked away into the thicket.
His words fell heavily upon Daeny, who bit her lip anxiously—as little she knew about the foul truth of the Rod'azac's birth, it was enough to instil dread within her. Kaai, however, simply allowed those words to disappear with the wind. It was ages ago when she thought of herself at peace with something she took no part in.
Silence instilled its reign for a short while.
Just for the child to break it. "And," she started, doubtful, "what comes now?"
Kaai set her hand upon the ground. Her green fingers, which ended in rose-like petals as nails, softly caressed the soft surface. It spoke to her of horrors it greatly condemned. One of them, which it feared the most, was to take place nearby.
So she stood up. "Come with me. It was thou who wanted to accompany me. As a grown woman and not a child, as thou worded it. Well, now it is time to live by thine words, Princess."
Daeny gulped down, still she clinged to the Elf's arm. Though they stood at the same height, their heads were not held just as tall; one ducked down in fear and doubt, the other raised despite sadness for the lives lost. So they remained for as long as their walk across the forest landed.
It was a short search, it shall be noted.
The voices led them through. A furious shouting, one devoid of any reason nor eloquence. It was a scream of madness, only proper of one who had lost everything. Only proper of one to which vengeance was all left to live for.
Kaai set her hand upon a large tree, and beckoned for its help. The tree happily gave in for a child of the forest. One of its thickest branches bent down, coiling around their waists. Daeny clinged even fiercer against the Elf, still mistrustful of a power she had seen and experienced a hundred times. They rose up softly, and then the tree granted them another branch so their feet may step upon it.
And it became a balcony upon which they witnessed a most foul spectacle. "There!" Daeny gasped, finger pointed forward.
Among the greenery, two sinners committed blasphemy.
One was a spec of red. Dressed in loose robes of a crimson shade, the Twin Serpent Knight—known as Messar by those of her time—wielded a likewise red spear in each hand. Long bringers of death, they were. Their body made of Radiant Wood, unbreakable yet bent for a purpose they despised, that of killing, and the reddish steel of their heads which seemed to be ablaze, tongues of fire upon them with each thrust.
The other was a spec of blue. A young man, of brown and curly hair. He was quite short, especially when compared to the Rod'azac, but his bearing in battle was that of one who thought of himself the tallest. If it wasn't for the purpose of his act, Kaai would have labelled the way his wand moved a piece of art itself. Such polished technique, it shouldn't have been meant for death and battle.
And the screaming they'd heard, it was his.
"Come to me, vile creature! I shall show you true terror! As long as there is life in me, I will wish death and blood upon you and your foul progenie! I will feast upon your flesh! And you shall know fear! Mark my words!"
A flash of white streamed off his wand, and a chunk of ground just before Messar was obliterated into dust. Light raised from it, a dozen little balls which haunted the Rod'azac. All to be parried by her spears, save one it did hit. And borne was a blinding explosion which shook the forest.
Messar walked from it unscratched, but her crimson robes had burnt, revealing a twisted, flat body of shrivelled and greyish skin. Her one pink eye, the one uncovered, shone brightly as she raised a finger at the Hunter.
Upon his shoulder, a faint cloud of black smoke rippled into his flesh just above his collarbone. And then it was no more, eaten away by something to which Kaai found no words to depict.
The Hunter shouted at the top of his lungs. And he too laughed madly. And he never ceased his offence despite his bleeding wound.
"Pain! Ah, pain! Cold and hot all the same! I shall inflict it upon you, as much as I felt it and way more!"
His left hand upon his wand, he conjured a beacon of light into his hands. It streamed off as if a beam of molten light, rippling and twisting in search of its foe. Messar dashed away, but the Hunter turned to whichever side she ran to, keeping the flow of magic active and violent. The blazing light combusted all it touched, erasing it all.
His eyes showed a glint of hatred as profound as Kaai had ever seen. And she had seen plenty, for such was the price of living with the Forgotten and the Accursed.
"Shane," the Hunter bellowed still, "useless Shane! Do you not remember? What was done to you? To your family? Summon your past! Remember how weak you once stood! When rage was yet rare to you! Ha, ha, ha! I will kill you, foul demon! Ha, ha, ha! I will exterminate every one last of you! Until my last breath, I will! So I hereby vow!"
Messar halted, raising her twin spears before her, to then sink them into the ground beneath. A rippling of fire was borne, which gladly stood against the river of molten light, consuming it, voiding it.
Kaai heard her even from so far away, even when her words were spoken in too faint a voice, as the plants beneath her feet saw to it before they were to become one with the fire and the molten light.
"Thou dareth to speak of pain and death to me? Thou dareth to speak of vows to me? Thou dareth to use Sacred Fire, the one forbidden power, against me? Die and repent in hell, oblivious Hunter."
Letting go of one spear, Messar removed the patch of reddish silk above her left eye with a twisted finger. An eye to never be unveiled, myth spoke of it. Nevertheless it was unveiled on this fateful day. A golden, snake-like eye, gleaming as brightly as its pink twin did. A golden iris upon which two shadows danced, slithering around.
And Messar's twisted finger raised once more, pointed at the Hunter.
No rippling cloud was brought upon his body this time. It was much fainter, much quicker. One second, he stood whole and powerful, filled and overwhelmed by rage and bloodlust. The next second, he kneeled down, both of his arms torn away, two bleeding holes upon his guts. Blood spilled from his mouth as he fell back, throating him as he babbled agonically.
Daeny gasped in horror, looking away.
Kaai's hand fell upon the tree, beckoning it to lend help to a daughter of the forest. Its leaves became a vine to which she clinged as she jumped down. Messar simply stared at the Elf as she ran toward the fallen Hunter.
She made it just in time. Kaai was able to soothe his pain a bit with a soft, slow melody. She lay the youth on his side, allowing the blood to uncloth his mouth. He coughed weakly, a pitiful wheezing. It was then when she noticed the silver clasp upon his blue cloak. A sword pointed downward, twin feathers as a hilt. The Mark of Guardianship. She had seen it plenty before—in that kind woman who had just died on her, on the many hopeless souls who had defied the Nightmare of War every age.
"All will end soon enough, wizard," she mused softly. "I cannot save thou, unfortunately, but I will try to soothe thine suffering."
His eyes raised in search of hers. Blood-shot and swollen, yes, and so unbelievably filled with hatred and fury.
"Get… your filth… filthy hands… off me," he managed to grunt. "Spawn… of hell."
Footsteps resounded from behind; slow, small, hesitant. Daeny came to stand behind the Elf, bearing herself with a false charade of courage her eyes did not manifest.
The Hunter saw her, and his eyes opened widely. For a brief while, surprise and stupor replaced fury and hatred. Daeny grew braver at this, and she came to kneel beside the man, whispering words of mercy and warmth and farewell to him as Kaai had done.
He, however, used what little strength there was within him to raise his head and straighten his neck. And then he spat a clot of blood upon Daeny's face. The child flinched away, too stunned to move by choice.
"You… monster… of a same… kind," he growled weakly. Each word he spluttered made him all the more pale, weaker. And still he held himself strong enough to unleash his hatred upon them. A most foul emotion which fueled his magic and his will to a point in which death could not take him yet. "A child… No. A spawn of hell… too. Die. Die. Die… All of you… Suffer… Suffer. Suffer. Rotten. You are rotten. Meat… meat for the hounds to…to rape and breed…"
Kaai felt a coldness she had not felt in ages. She felt it as Daeny ran away from the Hunter, sobbing and crying. His speech continued, all the same fouler and bitter. She ceased her cares, hoping death would take him swiftly. The end, however, came in a much direct way.
Messar impaled his heart with her spear. The flesh around the steel melted and smoked, hissing as it burned, the scent of cinder and embers filling the place. His head fell down to never raise again, and his eyes were at last devoid of hatred as they stared, lifeless, at the thicket above.
"Filth," the Twin Serpent Knight hissed, "thou were not deserving of life. Thy hatred was never meant to equal ours. Let it be known." She then glanced down at Kaai, pink and golden eye each kindless. "And thou, little elf, did thou have enough? Thou still consider him worthy of life, I wonder. Has thy foolishness been satiated today? Alas, the world understands death and pain alone. Those who love and feel are ephemeral, even those who hate. Us, the Accursed, it was long ago when we last understood any emotion. It was long ago when our hatred went beyond belief, and we rid ourselves of such a tool upon our soul. Thence, we survive. Thence, they die."
Kaai stood up, and walked past the Rod'azac. "Thou are wrong, Messar," she said. "Today, I understood that the Outlanders feel just as much hatred as thee, the Accursed, do. The same disdain toward life; the most precious thing we were blessed with. It will be a worthy battle, I suppose. Congratulations. Thou will at last find thy awaited rest as thou all destroy one another…"
Kaai felt her green eyes fill with tears, for to speak these words aloud, it broke her.
"As thou all destroy the world."
Levitt had gone thoughtless for so long that time didn't make sense anymore.
How long had it been since the battle stilled? Hours? No, that wasn't possible. They would be dead, were it that way. Minutes? Must have been a lot of them, if so.
It was the first time he'd seen silence hold for so long. There were twelve of them, lost souls upon that death-ridden wasteland, and yet they all could have posed as mutes.
All which could be heard was the ravens' croaking, gorging upon the carrion, having a feast as no other they had ever known. Levitt ignored them, and so did everyone else. Instead he carved three holes into the ground, deep, clean of any blood. A faint noise came from behind. He turned around, and was surprised to find both Mikko and Ashley.
Mikko carried Michael in his arms with great effort, limping, wincing in pain with each step he took. Michael's marred body had been enveloped in a grey cloak, and his eyes were closed now. Ashley crouched down on the rough ground, cradling young Zara into her arms, tears opening damp furrows into her dirty skin.
They looked so peaceful that, for a moment, Levitt thought they'd been fortunate to leave this world.
Mikko stared at him, hesitating, until he finally spoke.
"Couldn't bring myself to levitate him. It felt insulting, disrespectful. Least I could do for Michael was to bury him myself, I reckon."
"She was so young," Ashley mused, trying to keep her tears at bay. And failing miserably. "Kind, too. This life never suited her…"
Without a word, Levitt took Michael's corpse from Mikko's arms. The youth didn't complain, instead walked beside him toward the tomb. Gracefully as he could, Levitt laid him down, and then, between the two of them, they filled the hole with dirt. The process was repeated once more with Zara's body. A silent deed. None of them mentioned Tim. Not even when Mikko threw his wand, all which remained of him, into the third tomb.
Once they were finished, about to leave, Ashley crawled toward the tombs. She spent a while there, humming words rhythmically to herself, her wand drawing strange symbols into the soil. Until she stood up with a sigh, all the more exhausted yet relieved still.
"What did you do?" Mikko asked softly.
"Warded their tombs. Infused the barren soil with a Ward of Inversion. Come the time, flowers will blossom here, green will replace the ugly brown. Like Mikko said, it's all I could do. I suppose."
Levitt nodded, then turned around as he'd felt himself observed.
It turned out to be a precise hunch. The nine remaining Hunters had set their eyes upon him. There was sorrow within some; perhaps feeling that kind of pain themselves, or maybe thinking about those friends they hadn't been able to bury. There was anger in others—how did they dare to stand still instead of embracing the coldness of defeat, their faces spoke aloud. Most, however, held no emotion within their eyes.
Empty husks of flesh and blood.
Save one which approached them with silent, quick steps.
It was a woman; short, dark-haired and with a scar-ridden face. He remembered her. Once, her eyes had been full of contempt toward him, that rebellious mercenary who dared to dress himself in those colours so dear to her. A man who didn't belong to her beloved order of dreamy fools.
Maria, that was her name.
She'd been the one to first preach to him about their noble fight, about their grandiose purpose. And what irked Levitt the most, was the fact he could still see that in her bearing. Not even when proved wrong by death all around her, when being shown how small they were when compared to far mightier powers, she refused to give up.
"You are alive," she simply said. "All the tales about you and your skills, they were lies, foolish stories. You are far worse, mercenary. A monster of a kind. The kind of monster we need."
Levitt frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"To fight demons, one needs a demon of their own. Today, I've seen so much death I ignore why I'm still sane. My friends, all gone. Slain before me by hellish creatures. I don't even want to avenge them, nor to give them a proper burial. No. All I want is to get out of here alive. Why, may you ask? Because I want to live to fight another die. Because that's what makes me a Hunter. The world needs us more than ever."
Levitt did not feel like laughing at her, much to his surprise. He'd been left astonished. Words were cheap, a tool for one to mask their truths. Eyes, however, were not. And Maria's eyes held embers within those dark pits, albeit blood-shot, her irises were.
"You've gone mad, woman."
She nodded, serious and collected. "You might be right. And who is to blame me, if so? After all we've seen today, madness might be the only way forward. There is a reason why I still stand, and the same goes for you. I've found mine. Now, have you found yours?"
Levitt turned around. "I'm cursed," he replied, slowly, tasting those foul words. "That is my reason. One I didn't choose." Admitting them aloud freed part of his burden. His people had died because he was cursed. Yes. It wasn't because he'd failed to protect them. His curse, that was to blame.
"Cursed? Do not make me laugh." The Hunter's voice had a touch of mock to it. "Cursed were all those who died today, they were. You? You were fortunate. I saw you fight a storm all by yourself. And you came out of it almost unscratched. That ain't to be cursed."
Levitt took a menacing step toward the woman, glaring daggers at her. "I'm cursed, you damned woman!" he almost shouted, breathing raggedly. "Did you not see it? The fact I survived when all odds were against me? You said it yourself. I stood amidst a storm alone, and yet I survived. And all those I tried to save, dead. Dead! Although I protect them from the storm, they always end up dead. Dead! Because I'm cursed, damned it all!"
That seemed to amuse her in a grim way, as she shook her head in disbelief.
"You cannot save everyone, soldier," Maria sniffed. "Do you think of yourself as a God? A puppeteer moving our threads, perhaps? I'm my own woman, with her failures and successes. I chose to fight today, because of a duty toward my friends, toward this world. They all did, even your friends, let it be for a noble or selfish reason. Do not be so arrogant and think you are important enough to meddle into their fate. Don't you dare to make a mockery out of their will and fight."
Levitt halted, stunned.
Maria had yet to finish, however.
"You cannot save everyone, soldier," she repeated in a much softer voice. "But you can save us. All I know is that we will all die unless you are to lead us out of the forest. Your friends are dead, but so are mine. I refuse to simply give up." She glanced around, eyeing the survivors, then spoke up, her voice a willful shout, "I refuse to give up! All those who left us today, I refuse to believe they died in vain. Are we really going to insult them this way? Are we really going to throw away this chance we've been given? The chance to see one more dawn! The chance to fight one more day! The chance to not make their sacrifice meaningless!"
Her words had been infused with a powerful kind of magic. That which only words attained, those which came from within one's heart. Emotion, raw as it was. Sorrow, anxiousness, fear and desperation; a foul hand upon their hearts, squeezing dry their will. But also a shout of hope, courage and will.
Levitt felt ashamed of himself—had he really been about to surrender, to make their sacrifice meaningless?
Mikko's hand fell upon his shoulder, warm, soothingly. "We do it for them, Levitt. We live, we carry them with us. It's what they would have wanted us to do."
Ashley joined them. "No one blames you, Levitt. You couldn't save them this time, but all of us would have died long ago if it wasn't because of you. All of us, period. You've saved us again and again. It wasn't pointless. None of them."
The Hunters stood up one after another. To say there was a semblance of courage within them, it would have entailed a lie. There was fear, desperation and loss. And there also was will. Will to live, will to fight another day. Not for themselves, but for those who couldn't anymore.
Michael, Kouji and the rest, would they have surrendered? No, never. They had risked their lives again and again, let it be due to selfishness or to help another of their own, always refusing to give up. Why? Because they valued life above all else. They had clung to that incandescent ledge with the tip of their fingers, and for much it had hurt, they had never let go of it.
Neither would Levitt.
So he straightened his back, turning around, glancing at his people. At those nine Hunters whom they too depended on him. It would have been a perfect time for a speech, to raise the morale of the soldiers, to encourage their will. Jordan would have done so exceptionally well; he always found a way to fire them up. Just a few words, said at the right moment and in the right way.
But he was a man of few words, so all he did was to say, "We will make it out of the forest. I will see to that," and prayed for his words to cause, at best, just a fraction of emotion as Jordan's would have caused.
They all nodded at him, drawing out their wands once more. They were held with firm fingers. So was their stride as they trailed behind him. Levitt took one last look at the three solitary graves upon the barren soil. Ashley had said that green would blossom here one day. He intended to see it with his own eyes.
In the next few hours, Levitt lost part of his memories for a second time that day. Or perhaps he mixed them into the chaos his mind was in. Because it all felt too familiar. The smell of blood and fire and death and putrid flesh. Those shouts of fear and rage and also of hope. The weight of the blade upon his hand. The heat of his wand upon the other hand.
Corpse after corpse, all left in his wake. Of each and every kind. No creature to wish death upon them survived.
He saw red, he almost exhausted himself to death. Consumed every ounce of metal he'd brought to the forest, losing his Allomancy in the process. Felt claws and teeth and flames upon his flesh. Pain, which he understood as well as his mother language.
And then, at long last, warmth embraced him. The sun's rays, always so dear to him; though now more than ever. Around them, the forest grew no more. A green valley through which the river slithered, free of that fortress of trees which had confined it for so long. There was silence, too. No more screaming, nor growling nor screeching. Silence, blessed silence.
Levitt took in a deep breath, tasting the metallic touch of blood upon his tongue. His blade slipped from his fingers, and so did his wand. And then he fell down.
Mikko was there to grab him just in time. "I got you, Levitt. Now and always."
Maria the Hunter picked up his tools of destruction. She looked at them almost reverently. "We are alive," she mused in awe. "Safe. Woundless. By the love of Merlin, we are fucking alive…"
A woman kneeled down, sobbing so fervently her body was shook as if victim of a seizure. Tears ran down Ashley's face; not of sadness, this time, as her eyes told him, but of happiness. A couple of men who greatly resembled one another broke into a tight hug.
Like that, too pitiful a sight for any sane person to understand, they walked forth, trying to put as much distance in between the forest and them.
It was almost cruel how easy it was for them to not even look back, to leave everything behind. Had they done that, they would have glimpsed the smoke columns rising into the sky; of a deep black, tall and powerful. Or the warm wind upon their backs, which brought them a reminder of fire and cinder. Or the red upon the river's water, through which shadows which didn't belong to fishes were dragged away from hell.
It took them about an hour before they sighted another group of people. Dozens, he counted at first glance. Wounded and abed, most of them. A pitiful bunch. Whimpers of pain and the whispering which came along with grief, as if raising one's voice could anger the dead, was all that could be heard.
An improvised camp had been raised atop a hill. Tents stood weakly against the soft wind. Folk dressed in white and red tunics, from the top of their heads to the tip of their toes, ran through them in a frenzy. Their hands carried vials of potions, and also scalpels and bandages. Levitt recognised them well enough—Asclepios's Acolytes, the Union's strange and grim healers.
What few soldiers stood on their feet, they were far too tired and haunted to welcome them with anything more effusive than a nod of their heads. They were glad to see that others had survived, of course. They simply could not bring themselves to show it.
Maria went toward another woman, then embraced her in silence. The two brothers who had embraced one another let themselves down upon the soft grass, empty eyes staring at the clear sky. The rest of the Hunters scattered around, in search of any familiar face. A desperate search doomed to fail, they knew, but one worth trying.
But first, all of them passed by Levitt. Each uttering a weak "Thank you," as their hands gave a soft squeeze to his not so wounded shoulder. All those Hunters who once had looked down upon him, the up-jumped mercenary who dared to think of them as fools, now talked kindly to him.
It left him so astonished that he only realised they had gone through half of the camp when a peculiar flash of gold caught his eyes at the end of it.
"Lozen," Mikko whispered beside him.
The Guardian raised her head, noticing them. Levitt was astonished to see her like this. Once so firm and strong, so tall and proud, and now so empty, so frail and weak. She looked the most defeated of all. Her white and gold robes were soaked in blood; though it wasn't hers, obviously. Golden locks had escaped from the tight tress which bound her hair, bristled and dirty. Her longbow lay stranded by her side, and there was no trace of the leathery quiver. The bow's string looked about to snap broken.
"Mikko," she whispered back, raising up to her feet. She took a single step forward, toward them. "I thought you were dead. Your sector was deemed lost right away."
"Well, I'm not," he said awkwardly. "A demon dressed in grey killed them all. Us… We ran away. That's why we survived."
"I see." She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. "I'm glad you are alive, cousin. I truly am."
A pair of hands seized Levitt from behind. Smaller and more delicate, but not weak by any means. "Come on, Leader," Ashley said softly. "Let's leave them alone. I'm sure there's plenty they want to say to each other."
Levitt gave in to her arms, allowing himself to be carried away like a pitiful sick. The Guardian's voice made them halt after a few steps, however.
"Wait, please." When they turned around, they found her hand upon Mikko's shoulder. Light had returned to her blue eyes, though faintly. "I'm glad you all survived. I saw the way all my Hunters look at you now. You saved them, did you not? Accept my deepest gratitude, please."
Levitt held her eyes for a few seconds, then gave the Guardian a nod before walking away.
They'd held a wordless conversation, for the things they had discussed had no need of them. An understanding between warriors. Between people who had been cursed to survive as their loved ones fell.
There would come another day, another fight. And they needed to be stronger, better, if they wanted to save what little was left of their loved ones.
Gerard Stokes crawled forth pitifully.
It was all he could do, as his legs simply refused to answer his commands. One lay shattered and ruined, he knew, a bloody mess. The other fared a bit better, the flesh swollen and blistered around the mark of a firehound's fangs, just above his knee.
Around him, death had blossomed. Countless corpses lay in every direction he looked at. Corpses of his people, mostly. The entire Union had been summoned to battle today, each and every Hunter. Still they had failed, met defeat, known death. How many had died exactly? Hundreds? About a thousand? All of them but Gerard himself? Hell, to still breathe, it was a miracle.
That last thought brought a grim grimace to his face.
He, pitiful and weak Gerard, had survived among the countless prodigious and brave Hunters who had met their end today. People far stronger and noble than him. Like Stoner, who had covered their first retreat, alone against a humanoid warrior which had wielded a crimson spear in each hand. Like Abel and Lana, who had held the Frontier for long enough for them to take the wounded away.
It had happened all over again.
More than a decade ago, during the Great War, dear Fabian and Gideon Prewett had not known the end of it, whereas Gerard had survived safe from any harm. His best friends, the two strongest and bravest men he had ever known.
And for them, you must push on and live, he told himself, trying to ignore the excruciating pain. Live for them, you weakling. Make them proud.
At last, Gerard made it past the field of corpses; flooded in red, it gave a scent of death and rot so pungent he would never forget it. His forearms ached in protest, having carried him forward like a crawling infant. Here, the soil was greener and alive still. Only a few bodies lay upon it, scattered away from one another. A tall tree grew amidst, standing out from the rest. Its roots had cleaved their way out of the ground, raising like twisted fingers.
Gerard set off for it. He needed a break. Even if that meant greater odds of death, he really needed it. And that became the gravest mistake of his life.
Dread and cold fell upon him oppressively.
A shadow made its way through the trees, a shape similar to that of a man, and from him was borne a sudden mist. Tall and thin, with a dark elegance to its stride. Dressed in full grey, loose robes which flapped to each step, soaked in a shade of red so dark it looked black around its chest. Its shattered, bloody ribcage peeked through the torn cloth. Of pale, shrivelled and sickly skin. Of white, thin hair. Of eyes so azure which almost gleamed into the darkness; a gleam of lethality.
A long, thin blade was wielded by its left hand; its one remaining hand. Of white, gleaming steel, unblemished by blood yet tarnished by so much death.
Gerard whimpered, standing his back against a tree. His trembling hands couldn't get a hold of his wand. Perhaps it was for the better, he thought, giving up. What was he to do against this demon? He wasn't Gideon, didn't have his courage. He wasn't Fabian, didn't have his skill.
The humanoid came to stand before him, its azure eyes two bright gems filled with contempt and death. And also with disappointment.
"Fear not, pitiful man," it said, a voice so man-like it instilled a fear within Gerard no monstrous growl could have ever achieved. "Your shameful flesh is not worthy of my Blade. To see what my dear order has become, it saddens me greatly. You call yourselves Hunters, in honour of the dutiful warriors who once rid themselves of their humanity for the sake of their people. You will never be like us, a true Rod'azac."
The humanoid strode past him, the mist around him a most loyal companion, walking into the shadows once more. Its voice, however, was heard still.
"Spread my words far and wide, pitiful man, and make sure the world heeds of them. Let it be known that today I, Vrael, Lord of Mist, have joined the Hunt."
A reddish sun stood atop the sky, painting the clouds red and orange, trying to make of them a curtain of fire. It was a grand stand against dusk and the darkness that followed next.
A stand worthy of praise. A stand doomed to never succeed.
Ousmane Diop walked thoughtlessly through the endless plain all around his hometown. Dried, yellowish grass stretched as far as sight could tell, cracking with each step he took, and only a few thin, short trees, twisted and devoid of any green, stood in search of the sun. A dull carpet which had a certain beauty to it—so he thought, at least.
He wasn't alone today. A bunch of Firecats ran all around him, a frenzied touch to their stride which greatly worried him. Adults and cubs alike were part of the strange dance. Their usually dull fur, a coat of bronze, now flared brightly upon the darkening day. Their hissing was a language he couldn't understand, and yet, today he somewhat did.
Because fear was an emotion able to tumble down every barrier between races.
Ousmane looked up, and watched how the sun darkened. It wasn't covered by any cloud, neither did it hide behind the faraway mountains nor was it granted rest by the moon, her eternal foe and friend all together. No, a shadow stretched all across the disk of fire, eating away at it. A shadow shaped like a dragon, red-eyed and black-scaled. Whether this was real or a product of his mind, the boy didn't know.
A veil of darkness fell upon them, as brief as it was, for it only lasted a few seconds. And the Firecats became a bunch of flaring figures amidst it. They stilled, looking upward—the whole bunch of them, around a hundred or so. And their hissing, a song of dread and fear before, became a melody of sorrow and acceptance. Because they had witnessed the rise of their eternal foe, the mightiest of dragons, as the songs said it would occur one day.
Alas, Firecats were the Heralds of the End for his people.
Ousmane fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks. "You fought well, dear Usman. I'm certain. Enjoy your deserved rest, my friend. I'm sure we'll meet up there once more, if there's a heaven as the songs say. But, in the meantime, I will protect our people. I swear it to you."
And finally, all the pieces are set into the field. I'll probably take a time off and use it to edit some of the first few chapters. Or perhaps I won't, I have no idea. I always do what I feel like, so, whenever it is, see you!
