That Horrible Moment Chapter 6
She Knew
By Donraj
As he grappled with Gilliam
on the hard-packed ground, Lanal quickly realized that he was fighting a
losing battle against his stronger opponent. He felt his dagger arm being
pushed back inch by inch, within seconds Gilliam would be able to retaliate.
Changing tactics, Lanal abruptly stopped trying to thrust his dagger into
Gilliam’s throat. As he did, he set the front ends of his feet against
the ground. As Gilliam’s arms shot forward, Lanal dropped the dagger
and planted his hands palm down against the dirt. Kicking forward with his
feet, he lifted his body into a handstand. Falling forward, he came to his
feet in a crouch, already spinning around to face his
adversary.
Caught off-guard by the acrobatic
move, Gilliam rolled over, landing face-down on his stomach. Trying to pull
his feet under him, he began to stand. Lanal’s foot smashed square into
his face, slamming him back to the ground. He rolled to the right, tasting
blood and dirt in his mouth. Drawing another dagger, Lanal wasted no time
in following upon the
attack.
Lanal sprang at Gilliam like
a snake on a rat, dagger hand descending in a downward stab. The unarmed
Gilliam, terror overriding caution, flung his right hand onto the point of
the dagger in a desperate attempt to block it, impaling his palm on the
needle-sharp point. Ripping it out, Lanal slashed it into Gilliam’s
right side. With a scream that was more pain-filled screech than battle-cry,
Gilliam dragged his feet back under him and clenched his left hand into a
fist. Still screaming, he stood and slammed the padded heel of his hand into
the bottom of Lanal’s jaw. As his teeth slammed together with an audible
clank, the assassin’s head slammed back. Whipping his hand back down,
Gilliam seized the wrist of Lanal’s dagger arm, squeezing his fingers
cruelly into the nerve center. Forced to drop the dagger, Lanal broke away
and backpedaled. Staggering back, Gilliam snatched the dagger with his unwounded
hand
Spitting a tooth out, Gilliam
awkwardly grasped the dripping blade in his left hand. Struggling to stop
his legs from trembling, he fell into a fighting crouch. Lifting his bleeding
right hand before him, he forced the appendage to flex in a beckoning
gesture.
“Come on,” he
gasped.
***
Blackness crackled across
Chell’s hands, and blackness swam across Alberto’s eyes as the
life-draining spell worked its unholy magic. As his parasitical enemy drew
the very life force out of his body, the world seemed to simply fall away
to Alberto. Chell’s face, the dark forest, even his own body seemed
to vanish. What had started as a numbness in his arms spread to the rest
of his body, blocking out all sensation. The only thought his mind could
produce was the certain knowledge that he was going to
die.
It was then, in that state
of absolute detachment, that the voice came to him once more. As dry as bones
and as terrible as damnation, its whisper seemed as loud as a thunderstorm.
It was
Lich.
-You are going to die, foolish
mortal. You will die, and you will come to me, and join me
forever.-
Alberto tried to deny the
hissing voice, tried to form a response from his suddenly torpid brain. It
was no use. Even if he did reply, what difference would it make? The demon
was right, he was going to
die.
-But I can save you, little
human. Open yourself to me, give your body over to me, let my power fill
your soul and you will crush this
one!-
Alberto felt himself drawn
to the offer, felt himself giving in, letting Lich enter him. Why not? He
was going to die either way, at least this way he would have revenge. And
the power… Amid the gray nothingness that swirled through his mind,
the power concealed within that voice blazed like dark beacon, a darkness
that somehow seemed to shine. It would be so
easy…
Just as he was about to give
in, just as he was truly lost, an image flashed through his mind. He saw
himself as a puppet, an automaton, a mere golem that housed Lich’s spirit.
In one brief flash of insight, Alberto saw into Lich’s mind, saw what
would become of
him.
He would remain here, trapped
forever in this grey void, languishing in a mental prison until Lich was
either cast out or grew bored with this world. Nothingness, that was what
Lich offered him. No more battles, no more insane drive to power. He would
never again feel lightning crackling between his fingers, never again smell
the bitter tang of ozone in the air, never again feel the blazing heat of
a fireball forming in his
palm.
He would never wield magic
again.
That last thought, more then
anything else, terrified Alberto It jolted him out of his torpor and back
to full consciousness. He must not give
in!
Lich’s spirit had already
begun to seep into his soul, infecting his weakening aura with its malign
energies. Alberto fought back, his mind locking with Lich’s across the
veil that separated them, forcing the demon back. Lich struggled against
him, the spirit’s dark will striving to engulf the mortal’s mind.
But for all its power, Lich languished in another plane entirely, and this
was Alberto’s body, Alberto’s place. Slowly, the demon gave ground.
Alberto refocused his will,
directing all of his mental strength at the psychic bond that linked them
together; the tie had inadvertently forged in his reckless attempt at summoning
the nightmarish beast. Slowly, he wrapped his mind around it like a vise,
pinching it closed, snapping shut the gate through which Lich had gained
access. Cursing him, Lich was forced to retreat to its shadowy home or have
its mind cut off and
destroyed.
The struggle for his mind
won, Alberto turned his thoughts to physical survival. Chell still held him
in his vampiric grasp. Life energy continued to race out of his body. He
could not last much longer. He needed something to break the link, something
to replenish his drained body and
heal…
Heal. That was it. Calling
on the last bit of his mental and magical strength, Alberto reached out to
a power he rarely drew on, a spell he normally
disdained.
At the academy of Igros,
Alberto had been selected for training as a healer, a battlefield medic.
While expecting Alberto to work to restore rather then destroy people’s
bodies was not among the Hokuten trainers’ wiser decisions (it came
close to the stupidity of letting Alberto in to begin with), it had given
Alberto a chance to learn real magic. Along with that magic, that glorious
destructive power, Alberto had been forced (much to his distaste) to learn
basic healing spells. While he had little interest in a magic that could
not be used to charbroil the flesh from random people, Alberto had indeed
learned it, and promptly regulated it to the back of his mind. And it was
to that secluded part of his psyche that Alberto went, reaching for an energy
that was almost anathema to the destructive-minded
wizard.
A cool, clean energy began
to swell within him, an almost electric charge that sent shivers of pleasure
through every fiber of his being. It swept through him, refreshing and recharging
his ravaged body like water poured on parched
earth.
Then it reached the spot
where Chell’s hands gripped his wrists. Drawn to the draining effect,
the healing energy coursed out of Alberto’s body and into Chell’s
insatiable grasp. The suction of the spell seized hold of the healing spell,
dragging more energy out of whatever dimension it originated. More and more
energy flooded in and out of Alberto’s body as Chell’s magic
inadvertently wrapped the simple healing spell far beyond its limits. As
the energy flow increased, Alberto’s body began to glow with an eldritch
light. Under that pressure, under that sheer, constantly increasing volume
of energy, something had to
give.
Chell’s spell went
first.
The lifedrain spell, for
all of its lethal efficiency, was a fragile thing. It was meant to transfer
small, manageable amounts of life energy from one body to another. It could
only bear so much before shattering. Trying to absorb the flood of pure,
unadulterated life energy that Alberto was hurling at it was like trying
to fill a tea cup with a fire
hose.
With a crackle of wild energy,
the spell snapped. Chell fell back screaming, his hands charred black by
the backlash. He stumbled, falling unceremoniously on his rump. From this
reclining position, he had a clear view of what was happening to
Alberto.
By now, the influx of life
energy had formed a nimbus of light around Alberto’s body. The sheer
force of the energy lifted him upward, levitating him nearly two feet off
the ground. He threw back his head and laughed wildly in sheer exultation
as he felt every ounce of strength he has lost replace. More then replaced!
Alberto had never felt so much power; never (except perhaps for that time
he had tried to summon Lich) even come close to the amount of energy released
by the chance interaction of the two spells. He felt invincible, as if his
skin was as tough as a dragon’s hide and his arms had the strength of
a giant, as if he could spread a pair of wings and soar into the night
sky!
He trembled, this time in
excitement rather then pain. He spun around wildly, then slowed as his eyes
fixed on Chell. He grinned. Time to test those
feelings…
***
Every fiber of his being
focused on the battle to save Hanlon’s life, Xavier did not even notice
Rosa’s furious duel with the bandit assassin. Healing grace poured through
his hands and into the wound the old fighting monks chest in a steady, pulsing
rhythm. The energy seemed to sing to Xavier, a vibrant, humming song as wild
and beautiful as life itself.
But it still was not enough
to repair Hanlon’s bolt pierced heart. Xavier could feel Hanlon’s
life slipping away despite all his efforts, he could feel the man’s
spirit about to fall away from the aged
body.
Gritting his teeth, Xavier
forced his own life energy into the spell, sacrificing his own essence in
a desperate attempt to empower the spell beyond his mortal limits. Pouring
his very soul in the effort, Xavier begged St Ajora, begged God Himself,
for the grace to save Hanlon. As the strength left his body, Xavier began
to grow dizzy and
light-headed.
As Xavier hovered on the
verge of unconsciousness, he felt a delicate pair of hands place themselves
atop his own. A soft, silvery light filled his vision, banishing the darkness
behind his eyelids. A deep sense of peace swept over him, and in that moment
he felt Hanlon’s wounds begin to
close.
The heart was the first thing
to be affected, its ripped chambers drawn together into a whole organ. The
aorta, severed by the deadly projectile, reattached itself, and blood began
to flow through it once more as the organ began to pump. As the flesh
miraculously regenerated, the crossbow bolt was forced out, to fall harmlessly
to the ground. The wound closed behind it, leaving not even a scratch
behind.
Xavier tilted his head back,
eyes raised heavenwards, as the glow faded from his
hands.
“Praise God,” he
whispered
reverently.
***
Realizing that he had played
with his opponent enough, Dukane decided to finish the job. There were other
targets that needed to be killed this night, and he had delayed his business
too long already. As Rosa painfully pulled herself back to her feet, Dukane
sprang forward, blades ready. The right-hand short sword thrust in high for
her throat, while the other snaked in low towards her belly. As he came into
striking distance, he swept his foot in a kick aimed at her injured knee.
Rosa twisted to defend herself, but he was so
fast…
A burst of light flared behind
Rosa, so bright that it seemed a star had fallen to earth. Dukane was far
too experienced to allow himself to be distracted by the unexpected display,
but something else followed it. A wave of sensation swept over him, a cool,
tranquil energy that made Dukane shudder inexplicably. A nameless dread shot
through him as it did, and for one brief moment the red aura that surrounded
him flickered and
died.
It returned instantly as
whatever power had swept over Dukane passed him by, but in that instant,
everything changed. As the haste magic flickered, Dukane stumbled, his movements
out of synch and off-balance. He immediately began to recover, but in that
split-second his defenses were
gone.
Rosa was quick to seize the
opportunity.
Sword held in both hands,
Rosa slashed up at a diagonal angle. Cutting through empty air where a blocking
sword should have been in position, the razor-sharp blade instead sliced
into Dukane’s right wrist. The sword cleaved the appendage, off with
a grisly crunch, hand and sword. Rosa’s momentum carried the sword to
shoulder level as the hand went flying. Altering the angle of her blade,
Rosa hurled her body into a spinning cut, lopping Dukane’s head clean
off.
Rosa fell to her knees exhausted,
her sword dropping from her suddenly nerveless hands. Her head swam, and
her body swayed as she closed her eyes against the dizziness. Only one thought
burned clearly through her dazed
mind.
She had
survived.
***
From his vantage point in
a tall tree at the fringes of the camp, Drake saw Dukane’s death. That
displeased him, the assassin has been one of his better followers. Well,
he had found his first target of the night. Flexing his powerful leg muscles,
the helmeted and armored warrior leapt from his crouching position atop the
branch. With the unique ability that marked him as a Dragon Knight, he soared
through the night sky towards his prey, nearly twenty feet away. As he hurtled
towards the woman, he pulled his spear in line for her
heart.
***
As he looked up, Xavier saw
the dark form descending upon Rosa. He shouted a warning at her, knowing
even as he did that it would do no good, knowing that Rosa would never be
able to react in time.
Where is your God
now?
In a flash of insight, Xavier
knew what he had to
do.
***
As she opened her eyes, Rosa
saw him, saw Drake swooping down like an owl on a mouse. She froze, turned
immobile by the nightmarish vision. She tried to shake it off, tried to dodge,
but she knew it was too late. Helplessly, Rosa stared into the face of
death.
Something appeared in front
of her. At the last moment, Xavier hurled himself in Drake’s path, arms
out wide in a protective gesture. Drake slammed into him, his momentum combining
with Xavier’s to thrust the entire length of the cruel spear right through
Xavier’s body. Before Rosa’s horrified eyes, it protruded bloody
out of the front of his chest. She met the young priest’s eyes, which
had gone wide with shock. She tried to say something, but no sound would
emerge from her
lips.
Xavier looked down, saw the
spear sticking out of him, and knew that his life was over. For a moment,
he felt despair threaten to sweep over him, but with the wisdom and strength
that had guided him all his young life, he put it aside. Raising his head,
he met Rosa’s eyes again. Somehow, despite his horrific wound, Xavier
smiled.
“Forgive him Rosa,”
he whispered. “Don’t let your hatred consume
you.”
A look of peace came across
his young features. Slowly, his eyes began to
close.
Callously, Drake yanked the
spear back out, ripping the wound further open and letting Xavier’s
unsupported body collapse to the
ground.
“Fool,” he said
contemptuously.
Shocked, shaking with grief,
Rosa slowly looked up at the armored man, Xavier’s murderer. With a
shriek of rage that sounded like an animal’s howl of pain, she leapt
at
him.
***
Ellis reached the camp to
find that the fight had already begun. The bandit cavalry had ripped into
the unsuspecting guards, already reduced in numbers by Lanal’s planning
and agents. Many died in the initial charge, but the survivors had fallen
back among the wagons for defense. The tighter conditions hampered the mounted
bandits movements, and soon a pitched battle raged within the
camp.
Ellis started to raise her
bow to lend her comrades the best assistance she could by attacking the bandits
unguarded flank, but then, from across the camp, she saw it. She saw Drake
swoop down on Xavier, saw him butcher the helpless man and turn to fight
off Rosa’s counterattack. She saw, and she
knew.
Her arms began to tremble
with sheer terror, her legs threatened to buckle. In her mind’s eye,
she saw another camp, long ago. As the years slipped away, the thick smell
of smoke filled her lungs as the pure night air
vanished.
And she knew that
man.
It all came back to her at
that moment, as clearly as if it were happening again before her eyes. In
that moment she was no longer a confident, seasoned adventurer, in that moment
she was once again a frightened child, hiding under a pile of wreckage as
she watched her family being
massacred.
She knew then where she had
recognized Lanal from, and why he had filled her with such irrational terror.
She stood there, oblivious to the danger around her, as she relived the night
when the Touten Knights had ridden in and decided to wipe out a small band
of performers that their leaders thought might be
spies.
She
knew.
It was all happening
again.
***
Enraged beyond reason, Rosa
slammed her sword down in an overhead cut. Drake easily blocked the clumsy
blow with the haft of his spear, then spun the weapon in a counter-clockwise
circle. The force of the parry sent the weapon flying from Rosa’s sweat
drenched hands. Reversing the spin, the brutal warrior slammed the butt of
the weapon into her jaw. She went down, sprawling in a heap on the hard,
cold ground. Pulling his weapon back, Drake pumped his arms back for one
final
thrust.
Something leapt on his back,
wrapping its legs around his armored waist for support. Hands like stone
chopped in at his head from either side in a deadly strike. The force behind
them would have broken his skull open if his head had been bare. Drake’s
sturdy helmet saved his life, but the buffet sent his world spinning around
him.
Drake hunched forward as
much as his thick armor would allow. The sudden move sent the unseen assailant
somersaulting over Drake’s shoulders. At the same time, Drake angled
his spear upwards, hoping to catch his attacker as he
fell.
The figure, agile as a monkey,
flipped right over the trap, landing on his feet right in front of Drake.
Spinning to face him, the man smashed an open palm strike into the
dragoon’s armored jaw. Drake stumbled back, waving his spear defensively
to ward off any further attacks. It was then that he received his first clear
view of his
enemy.
He was old, at an age when
most men would have spent their days spoiling their grandchildren and annoying
their adult offspring. He was bald, his scalp covered by leathery skin that
looked like it might block a fairly determined sword slash. He was shorter
then average, and his limbs were covered by cords of lean muscle that reminded
Drake of a goblin’s
physique.
“Your name,” Drake
asked
flatly.
“Hanlon,” the old
warrior replied, equally
emotionless.
“You are worth
killing.”
With that, Drake began to
circle slowly, a movement Hanlon mirrored. They paced each other precisely,
eyeing each other like junkyard dogs about to rip each other’s throats
out. Silently, their gazes locked, they watched for an
opening.
***
As Ellis stood paralyzed,
the battle for the survival of the camp raged on. The defenders, knowing
full well that they were fighting for their lives, fought like cornered sand
panthers, but they had been caught by surprise, and they were badly out numbered.
The tighter quarters gave them some advantage, but inevitably one mercenary
after another fell. Victory for the bandits seemed
assured.
Then the watchers decided
to join
in.
Ellis was the only one to
see the pale figures as they loped in on all fours out of the underbrush
and towards the melee. As they reached the encircled wagons the stunted figures
hurled themselves into the fight, slamming into the unsuspecting riders and
dragging them down from their seats. Those whose necks were not broken instantly
in the fall had only seconds to realize their fates before razor-sharp teeth
ripped out their throats. Their surviving comrades wheeled about in confusion
as they turned and identified their
attackers
Goblins.
The caravan’s defenders,
who had luckily been bypassed in favor of the mounted bandits, wisely fell
back and allowed their unexpected saviors to focus on the
bandits.
One of the ambushers turned
victims stumbled out towards them. He had lost his chocobo, his right arm
hung broken at an unnatural angle and blood streamed from his forehead. In
a pleading tone, he begged them to save him from the vicious monsters, for
them to band together in the name of their common humanity. His face grim
and pitiless, one of the guards stepped forward and skewered the man with
his sword. Raising the gore stained weapon above his head, he turned to his
companions.
“If the gobs want to
fight them, let’m! Untie the
birds!”
The others scrambled to do
so, untying the lines that held the terrified chocobos in place. They
hadn’t been paid enough for
this!
***
A scream split the night
as one of the caravan guards was impaled on a bandit lance. Recognizing the
voice of one of his men, Hanlon’s eyes flickered towards the source
of the agonized sound though the wagon blocked the battle from view. Noting
Hanlon’s distraction, Drake seized the initiative. He rushed forward,
stabbing in with his deadly spear. Hanlon backpedaled away from the attack,
the spear tip grazing his chest. Retracting his weapon, Drake kept up the
offensive, forcing the unarmed warrior to retreat backward. On the third
strike, Hanlon caught the shaft of the spear on his forearm and deflected
the weapon out to the side. Darting forward down its length, Hanlon head
butted Drake square in his armored
forehead.
This seemingly idiotic action
truly hurt, but it also knocked Drake back half a step. Pressing the advantage,
Hanlon kicked straight up with his right leg, smashing it into Drake’s
jaw. As the dragoon’s head snapped backwards, Hanlon fell into a leg
sweep, knocking Drake’s feet out from under him. The armored juggernaut
toppled.
As Hanlon positioned himself
to the finish off the fallen warrior, a new threat intervened. Three of the
goblin raiders stalked into the area, eyes wide and red. And by the toothy
grins on their ugly faces, they did not particularly care which humans they
were fighting.
Reevaluating his priorities,
Hanlon backed away from Drake. Calmly, the old man tried to figure out just
how he was supposed to get out of this
one.
***
A scream ripped through the
night as a brilliant flare lit the forest bright as noon. As both Lanal and
Gilliam paused and tried to figure out what was going on, they heard the
sound of a tree falling to the ground. Lanal could not be sure, but he thought
he recognized the voice as Chell’s. A sinking feeling fell over Lanal.
What was going on over
there?
Time for a change of
plans.
Cocking his wrist, Lanal
hurled the short dagger straight at his enemy’s throat. Gilliam, distracted
by the disturbance, noticed it at the last second. With barely an instant
to react, Gilliam reflexively twisted his wounded arm into a block. The dagger
thudded into the flesh of his forearm, drawing a scream from Gilliam’s
raw
throat.
Battered as his target was,
Lanal probably could have slain Gilliam if he kept up the fight, but at this
point that wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. His enemy had proven
too resourceful, too lucky. His gut told him that things were going south,
and Lanal had long ago learned to heed that
voice.
As Gilliam dropped his dagger
and tried to stem the blood flow from his arm, Lanal turned and
fled.
***
As Hanlon eyed the approaching
goblin trio, Drake pulled himself to his feet nearby, leaning on his spear
for support. With a reptilian calm, he analyzed the new
situation.
Goblins traveled in groups.
If there were three here, there were likely thirty nearby. That could throw
his carefully executed attack plan out the
window.
He turned his head towards
his aged nemesis and smiled beneath his mask. No reason to stay
here.
Flexing his legs, he sprang
into another of his unnatural leaps. Landing atop one of the wagons, he examined
the main
battle.
Goblins, a whole mob of them,
were tearing into his men. They fought with the agility of monkeys and the
coordination of a wolf pack. They circled and pounced, switching freely between
standing upright and loping on all fours.
His raiders had managed to
form up in a rough defensive square, abandoning their mounts to stand back
to back. Goblin and human corpses littered the ground underfoot, but for
the moment the tight formation was keeping them alive against the wild
creatures.
Drake shook his head in
disbelief. Where had they come
from?
Dismissing the question for
the time being, Drake sprang into action. Hurling himself across the intervening
distance, he landed like a thunderbolt in the goblins’ midst. His spear
took one in the throat as he landed. Immediately he yanked it out and slammed
the butt end into the wrinkled forehead of another, cracking its thick skull.
As it fell to the ground, Drake spun his spear in a pinwheel, driving the
diminutive creatures
back.
Turning his head to his bandits,
he barked an order he was not used to
giving.
“Retreat!”
***
The trio circled Hanlon slowly,
lips pulled back in snarls. The old man stood calmly, arms akimbo and body
completely relaxed. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind for the fight
ahead. Finally, the goblins broke the impasse. With feral snarls, they fell
to all fours and charged him. Hanlon stood stock still, an easy
target.
At the last second, his eyes
flew open. He dashed forward, just as two of them pounced at him. He leapt
between them as they hurtled through the air, snapping his legs out into
a double side kick that slammed into their respective skulls. They went sprawling
to either side. Hanlon landed in a crouch. Straightening, he looked at the
third
goblin.
“Can we discuss this?”
he asked, politely addressing the creature in its own harsh
language.
“I will rip open you
chest and eat your heart!” the fiery goblin spat
back.
Hanlon really did not think
it was
exaggerating.
Hissing, it fell to all fours
and charged him. At the last moment, the cunning creature hurled itself into
a roll to the left rather then leap at Hanlon as its compatriots had. Coming
to a halt behind him, it hurled itself at Hanlon’s vulnerable
flank.
But Hanlon was no longer
there.
As the goblin had gone into
its roll, Hanlon had fallen into a low crouch. The course of the goblin’s
leap carried it over the ducking warrior, or it would have had Hanlon not
stood straight up and grabbed it by the throat. Placing his other hand under
the diminutive creature’s crotch, Hanlon slammed it into the side of
a nearby wagon. As the dazed creature struggled to regain its wits, Hanlon
shifted his grip to hold it with one hand. Closing the other hand into a
fist, he slammed it into its gut. As the breath was blasted out of it, Hanlon
tightened his grip around its neck and lifted it from the
ground.
“Now,” he said
calmly, “you are going to answer some questions for
me.”
***
They lunged and leapt, rolled
and retreated, swarming him, fighting in perfect coordination. They were
fast, and strong, and viciously adept at
fighting.
But Drake was no less skilled,
no less vicious. Working his spear brilliantly, he fought the mob of goblins
to a standstill. He impaled them, cracked skulls and sent them flying. The
ones that survived the blows wasted no time in rising to their feet and throwing
themselves back at him. They were insane, seeming to care nothing for their
own lives.
Drake knew he would soon
be
overwhelmed.
His men tried to obey the
order to retreat, but the goblins were hot on their heels. The ones that
simply broke ranks and fled were run down like animals. Their screams were
the worst
ones.
Drake had bought all the
time he could, he had to leave now. A goblin wrapped itself around his right
leg, its sharp teeth gnawing futilely at his heavy metal armor as it immobilized
him. Raising his other iron booted foot, Drake stomped down on it, hard.
The broken creature’s grip relaxed, Drake shook it
off.
He had to
leave.
Gathering himself, he made
yet another incredible jump, coming to a landing in a thick-limbed tree at
the edge of the camp. Grimly, he watched his bandits being torn apart. Some
had managed to flee into the forest, but the goblins were in hot pursuit,
Drake doubted he would ever see any of them
again.
Wondering if he would be
able to salvage anything from this disaster, he retreated into the forest
night.
***
Rosa knelt beside Xavier’s
still form, her entire body shaking with grief. Cradling his head in her
arms, she didn’t even feel the pain of her injuries as she rocked back
and forth. She vaguely heard the sounds of combat nearby, but she was too
numb to raise her head and see what was going
on.
“Why?”
“Why, why did you do
it? You knew I hated you, you knew you would die, why did you do it? You
could have stayed home, lived a life of luxury, why did you have to go and
do this?
Why?”
As the hot tears obscured
her vision, Rosa dimly saw a light begin to glow before her. Wiping the tears
from her eyes, she stared in blank amazement as a silvery light came into
being atop Xavier’s chest, right on the wound that had killed him. The
light began to rise up, solidifying in a small, perfectly formed crystal.
The luminous crystal, no bigger then her fist, hovered at eye level with
her.
It was the most beautiful
thing she had ever seen. Somehow, it reminded her of
Xavier.
Her hand trembling, she slowly
reached out to touch it. As her fingertips brushed against it lightly, she
was surprised to feel that it was not hard at all. It was warm, and indescribably
alive. As she made contact with it, a burst of warmth shot through her body.
She gasped as an unearthly sense of comfort filled her soul, and everything
seemed to fall
away…
She was unaware of it, but
her body fell to the ground. Oblivious, she sprawled face down beside
him.
***
Gasping for breath, the cut
in his side flashing pain with every jarring step, Gilliam sprinted through
the forest. He had recovered his sword, although he wasn’t sure if he
could actually wield it at this point. His wounded right arm was tucked against
the side to minimize the bleeding, and he held the sword clutched awkwardly
in his left hand.
But that didn’t matter,
the stubborn mercenary’s mind insisted. Lanal’s treacherous attack
(why had he betrayed them?) could only be part of a larger plan. These bandits,
whoever they were, were far more cunning and skilled then they had been given
credit for. Gilliam wondered just how many other people in the merchant’s
guild were part of the
operation.
But that was beside the point.
His comrades, Ellis, all of them were likely fighting for their lives. Ignoring
the pleas of his damaged body, Gilliam picked up the
pace.
He was very surprised to
learn that the fight was
over.
The camp site looked like
a scene out of Hell. Bodies were strewn everywhere like rag dolls, blood
stained the grass and made it as slippery as ice. The screams of the wounded
and the dying added an infernal chorus, and Gilliam found himself wondering
when the demons would
appear.
A cry caught his attention.
He turned to see Ellis curled up behind a tree, he arms wrapped around her
knees. He ran to her, crouching down beside her. She started to panic as
he approached, but relaxed slightly as she recognized
him.
“G-Gilliam?” she
asked
pitifully.
Gilliam started to ask what
had happened, wanting to gain a picture of the situation, but was cut off
as Ellis flung her arms around him and collapsed sobbing against his chest.
Instinctively, Gilliam wrapped his arms around her, murmuring something soothing,
wondering when the sun would rise.