Chapter XLIII: Rykoshet vs. Rennie

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Lethe’s face twisted in an expression of shock as he wordlessly tried to shout back towards Rykoshet, but no sound could penetrate the rush of water around them. The others turned, realizing something was happening, and raised their voices in warning. By the time he had managed to turn enough to perceive what it was they saw, it was already too late.

In a surge of motion which left him dazed, Rykoshet felt himself being torn away from the others, and they became smaller and smaller as they were hurled in opposite directions. With a gasp, frigid air struck Rykoshet’s face, and Lethe’s river was gone altogether.

With a grunt, he came down on his side, the snow crunching beneath him as a chill suddenly overtook him. The wind howled in his ears, which already had begun stinging with pain at the climate around him. He struggled to rise, but collapsed again, still stunned by what had just happened. Snow pressed up against his cheeks, and even through his thick armor he could feel the cold straight through to his bones. The entire world around him seemed blanketed in white, and as the Elvaan tried once again to push himself out of the snowdrift he had landed in, he realized that just moments before he had been in the arid Meriphataud Mountains. He had to be hundreds of miles north now, far from Oztroja, separated from his friends, and alone against the elements.

He finally managed to lift his head, and images of what he had seen before being torn from Lethe’s river came flooding back to him.

The others had been astonished at first, and probably remained that way until they actually departed. Lethe’s appearance in Oztroja had been in the form of a pond bubbling up from beneath the stones themselves, cascading until they formed the man himself. The white-robed aqueous figure peered over those Rykoshet had chosen to go with him and nodded approvingly, stroking his full blond beard as the mists which filled the Castle upon his arrival swirled about him. Everyone in the area had succumbed to the sleep of forgetfulness which had taken Lethe out of the minds of those at the feast, save for Rykoshet and his four companions.

“I don’t think you’re crazy enough to have made me insane,” Battousai had said, still amazed as he looked at Lethe, “so this is real?”

“I will bring us to the Northlands, and escort you into Pso’Xja. Come along quickly now, every moment counts.”

Hiraiko nodded at Lethe’s words, coming towards him with the Astral Signa clutched tightly in her hands. Betrayil was immediately in front of her, blocking her path as he gazed with distrust at the bearded figure.

“How are we supposed to get to the Northlands?” he queried suspiciously.

Lethe said nothing, but a hint of a smile creased his face as the water which he had formed himself out of upon his appearance began to brew and bubble at their feet, and all in an instant, they found themselves submerged in clear, mystic waters of Lethe’s river. Blurred and obscured, just on the edge of their vision, they could see the landscape flying by, too fast to register. The herald had been serious about not wasting any time.

They had only been within the cool, comforting embrace of the enchanted waters for scant minutes when something had torn Rykoshet out and away from the rest of them.

As the wind whistled and slashed at his skin, he looked up into the storm and realized that he was not alone as he had thought. There was someone only a few yards away, their form obscured by the driving snow, approaching Rykoshet at a calm and steady stride. If the cold affected him, he did not show it as he came ever closer, making it clear he was coming right for the Elvaan lying in the snow.

Feeling a twisting pain in his side, Rykoshet groaned, somehow managing to free himself from the snowdrift he was sunk into and roll onto his back. His armor, like a second skin to him, suddenly felt too heavy to move. Tzee Xicu’s spear lay shaft-up in the snow some distance away, but the idea of lifting it seemed absurd as he tried to even lift his arms. Something had hit him in that river, forcibly torn him free and thrown him to the ground.

Biting his teeth against the pain, he forced himself to sit up, gasping as he did so.

That something was coming this way.

Pivoting around, Rykoshet managed to get a foot underneath him, forcing his body upright as best he could. He staggered once, equilibrium lost, but stamped his second solleret-covered foot in the snow, sinking up to the shin, and managed to remain vertical. Straightening, he snapped upwards, peering into the whirling snow, and saw the figure become clear.

It was a Hume, wearing armor of a deep blue hue covered with an earth-green cloak bearing an array of eldritch symbols sewn into it. A slim-bladed sword and a broad axe both hung from his sides, freely displayed as he came forward, wind whipping a mass of blonde hair around his severe features. There was not a line or care to be found on his face, and his eyes were a brilliant blue, gleaming unnaturally in the storm. Disoriented as he was, the Elvaan could recognize that his armor was of matchless quality, and though his knowledge of magic was far from expansive, he knew he had never seen the patterns on that cloak before. Leather creaked beneath the adaman plates of his gauntlets as he clenched and unclenched his hands, walking towards Rykoshet without changing expression.

“Come with me,” he said without preamble. Even with the wind howling around him, Rykoshet heard the calm, steady voice of the stranger, but more than that, the force of his presence made him as clear as if they were standing in an empty room together. There was a disturbingly strong power emanating from the man, and it felt to Rykoshet as if the Hume were even this instant attacking his defenses, winnowing through his will with that spiritual force. Unconsciously he took a step back, warning bells blaring in his mind louder and louder with every advancing move the stranger made.

“Who are you?” Rykoshet managed to get out, his lungs still reeling from the punishment he had just taken. “Are you with the North Wind?”

His gaze was as frightening as it was dispassionate, and he gave no answer to Rykoshet’s question. “Come with me,” he repeated, more insistent this time. He stopped in the snow, only a few feet away now, green cloak flapping in the wind behind him. The mantle Rykoshet wore was wrapped tightly around him by the same gust, but even its heavy folds did nothing to ward off the cold. His toes were beginning to go numb even through the thick padding and metal plates of his sollerets, yet this Hume wasn’t even so much as shivering.

Swallowing against his trepidation, Rykoshet managed a bloom of magic which sent a ripple of heat throughout his body, giving him a respite against the cold. The man flicked an eyebrow, clearly sensing the energy. His weapons and armor denoted him as a combatant, but he felt magic naturally, and by the looks of him, could use it as well. Was he another Dark Knight? If he was, Rykoshet realized, the Hume was far more gifted in the arcane than he himself.

“You attacked me,” Rykoshet said, the heat he had conjured fueling his mind, making his mouth work again. “Why?” He had to put off any sort of physical confrontation as long as he could while he recovered. Just being near this stranger told him that he would not last in a fight if he went in unprepared.

The man’s weapons gave a ringing sound as he drew them forth, the black blade of the axe held low as he rose the slim, blue-bladed sword he held, gauntlet wrapped around the golden hilt. It was made of the same adaman as the hauberk the blonde Hume wore, and Rykoshet could sense magic working within it. There would be no time to recover, the Elvaan realized. This man wanted him to go with him, and he was going to make it happen, one way or the other.

“Start walking,” the Hume said in a voice that made it clear there was no request involved, “now.”

Rykoshet knew he’d have only one opening. Things were going to start happening very quickly.

“Make me,” he said defiantly. The man was on him, blades flashing, in an instant.

Taking a page from Danienne’s book of tricks, Rykoshet shot out his hand, and with a flare of darkness blossoming at his palm, the great polearm of Tzee Xicu wrenched itself free from the snow and streaked towards him. The blonde Hume brought down his weapons just as Rykoshet snatched the long wooden handle out of the air, deflecting the axe as he avoided the thrust his foe simultaneously made with his slim-bladed sword. Twirling the weapon, he brought the shaft around to smash into the Hume’s head, but his speed was formidable as he bounded back a step, spinning his axe in the air and catching it again by the handle. The two glared at each other, the Hume with his axe and sword, Rykoshet with his spear. Despite the wind fiercely tearing around him, it didn’t seem quite so cold anymore.

The Hume renewed his assault, dashing forward with speed that blew snow up at his heels. Rykoshet brought up his spear, catching the axe under the pommel and stopping it inches from his face, but metal ground against metal as the sword the Hume wielded scratched against the surface of the Elvaan’s armor. He thrust again, and Rykoshet spun to the side, twirling his spear to spin back around and slash at his assailant, but he found only air. Once again, the stranger was too fast for him, pulling back and vanishing into the wind before Tzee Xicu’s weapon could find him. Rykoshet stopped, searching the surroundings for his target, finding only a shadow moving fleetly through the snow.

He spun again, bringing his spear down as he sensed the force of the Hume’s presence drawing near. Too late he realized what it was, and a column of air smashed into his chest, tearing and biting at his armor and shredding open the scratch created by the sword thrust. Rykoshet’s breath exploded from his body as he was hurled bodily into the ground, the snow collapsing in around him to form a coffin of frozen rain. A chill shot through him again, jolting him back to his senses just in time to see a jet of flame circling his way. Bracing himself, he tore his spear free from the snow and brought it to bear, cleaving the arcane fire in twain, the snow around it turning to slush and water as the heat radiated against it. There was another surge of energy off to his left, and he turned as yet more fire burned through the air towards him.

His opponent was fearsomely strong in wielding magic, too fast to land a blow against, and struck with the ferocity of a master combatant. He had Rykoshet pinned down, striking from a distance, not even affording him the opportunity to strike back. He knew he had the advantage, and felt no desire to boast or taunt his superiority. The Hume was here with the task of bringing Rykoshet wherever it was he was supposed to take him, and if he had to grind him down first, he obviously had no qualms about doing so. He was both driven and relentless, and as a flurry of ice streaked by him, magically altered into driving, cutting shards in the air, Rykoshet knew this might be more than he could handle.

Again he felt a surge of energy from his left, the stranger strafing around him, biting at him with magical attacks which he could not respond to. Again, wind crashed into his chest, but this time he stood his ground, flesh slicing open as metallic flecks of his armor blew back into the snow. The wind burned his skin even as it opened fresh cuts, blood streaking down his cheeks like crimson tears to spill onto the polished black surface of his armor. Wincing as he tried to steady himself against the pain, he carefully readied his response. He had to time it perfectly.

The now-familiar bloom of energy blossomed to his left. Rykoshet’s hand fired towards it, and a flare of dark magic burst from within, targeting the source of the spiritual force. A choked cry came from the sheets of wind and snow bearing down, and he knew he had found his mark. The force he felt fizzled out like a fire with a pail of water thrown atop it, and the Elvaan was given precious seconds to act as the stunning spell did its work. Clenching Tzee Xicu’s spear, he took a bracing step forward, and then leaped into the air, twirling the polearm like a whirlwind as he let his senses guide him towards his mark.

There came a gasp of surprise, and he bore down directly upon the stranger. Too quickly though, the Hume recovered from the spell, and his weapons tore free from his side to deflect the driving thrust of Rykoshet’s attack. Piercing blue eyes glared at him as once again they stood face-to-face, the dispassionate veneer of the Hume greeting Rykoshet’s own blood-streaked visage. With a cry of effort, the Elvaan pressed his attack, slicing towards the Hume’s middle, but he seemed to glide backwards as he avoided the spear’s curved blade. Immediately he came in close, his sword biting into Rykoshet’s armor again, creasing his side as the larger Elvaan struggled to avoid a crushing blow from the axe delivered simultaneously. He cried out then as the blue rapier pierced his armor, sinking into his arm just under the shoulder, the red-stained tip bursting out the other side before being drawn back in. The blade had seemed to thrust twice in the same attack, cutting into Rykoshet’s armor and then wounding his arm while he was occupied with not being cleaved in two by the Hume’s black one-handed axe.

Red stained the pure white snow at Rykoshet’s feet as he staggered back, but the Hume was already on him, slicing and thrusting with unstoppable force. This time, even as his arm shrieked against the pain, Rykoshet deftly spun to one side, ducking underneath the thrust of the sword, which he now realized was the more dangerous weapon, and arcing his spear upwards in the same motion. Impossibly fast, the Hume flared out his arms and halted his forward momentum, the blade streaking close enough to his face to strike hairs from his chin, but missing its mark. Rykoshet wasted no time, as he knew that this foe would not either. Using the speed of the spear’s arc, he followed up his strike with the shaft, catching the stranger’s hand and giving him the first real blow he had struck against his foe. It was not enough to make him drop his sword, but he withdrew for a moment, giving Rykoshet time to plant a knuckle beneath him and bound to his feet.

No sooner had his feet settled on the ground than his attacker was on him again. His axe slashed at the air, Rykoshet parrying with his spear as his sword thrust at the air again, but Rykoshet lanced out his arm and caught his attacker by the wrist, preventing a second stroke. Roaring defiance, he pulled his foe forward, smashing the crown of his own head against the bridge of the Hume’s nose. He tore his hand away as a sudden shock coursed through his arm, pain blurring his vision as an electrical charge reached the wound under his shoulder, where the stranger had thrust just below where Rykoshet’s thick shoulder plate would have protected him. The blonde Hume had his teeth bared, blood running from his nose as he recoiled from Rykoshet. His blue eyes narrowed, meeting Rykoshet’s dark gaze. In an instant, he was swinging again.

His combat style was unlike anything Rykoshet had encountered. Each strike against Tzee Xicu’s spear released bursts of magic, electric energy which the man had now begun venting into his weapons. Even blocking to protect his life was now a potentially deadly act as lightning crackled against the spear, threatening to make him convulse. His armor was streaked with his own blood, and his face was red and wet from the slices the Hume’s wind spells had rent open. The stranger, never ceasing in his assault, used his axe and sword with equal facility, forcing Rykoshet to struggle against the obviously more dangerous slices of the axe, which could tear through armor or dismember him, but that left him open to the deadly thrusts of his adaman-forged sword. The blood staining the gleaming deep blue armor the Hume wore was only Rykoshet’s, and none of his own.

His speed was also unbelievable, as every thrust and slice of the spear Rykoshet made was effortlessly bound away from or deflected. He made an attack too wide, and without hesitation the stranger brought his gauntleted fist up as Rykoshet struggled to halt the flow of his weapon, but it was too late. The thick handle of the Hume’s axe smashed against his chin, nearly dislocating his jaw. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his eyes went wide in shock as the blue rapier thrust downwards, piercing his leg. The sword burned as it was torn back out again, and Rykoshet cried out as a fresh coat of blood stained the snowy ground. He tumbled backwards, nearly falling backwards. The cold was creeping in on him again, and he knew it had nothing to do with the weather.

The Hume cared little what condition Rykoshet was in when he delivered him where he was going, obviously. He would cleave and carve as many pieces out of him as he had to before the job was done. Unconsciously, the spear Rykoshet held slid from the grasp of his wounded arm, the tip dipping towards the snow. His knees nearly buckled, as implacably the stranger came forward again.

Flecks of darkness burst into life in Rykoshet’s eyes, and the Hume recoiled with a shocked cry as the snow suddenly burst up around where the Elvaan stood, the air undulating with a cascade of dark magic. It surged and rippled off of Rykoshet’s wounded body, and flecks of spittle dropped from his mouth as he snarled with the force of the spell creating a dark halo all around him. The Hume stared with unfazed eyes at the appearance of Rykoshet’s dread spikes.

“This will not stop me,” he said without contempt nor boast, simple matter-of-fact. “I have only to wait until you expend your energy.”

Rykoshet knew he was right, he knew that would be the case even before he had summoned the spikes. The nature of the spell was to drain the energy, the very life force of any who came into contact with them, and transfer the force unto the user. It was a useful trick against beasts, but no rational, sane person would willingly try to assault someone whom had conjured the dread spikes. His opponent was clearly not mad. Rykoshet could not match his speed, so he need only not attack him until the Elvaan ran out of the energy necessary to maintain the spell. Then this fight would be over.

Steeling himself, knowing what he had to do, Rykoshet watched his breath steam in the air, the aura of the dread spikes crackling around him. With coldly uncaring eyes, his foe waited for him just outside the reach of his spell, fists already bringing up his weapons to finish the job.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl around Rykoshet as he gathered the will to stay conscious. It was time to do or die.

Or, with all likelihood, do and die.