Chapter LXXXVI: Loose Ends

In Beaucedine Glacier, the temperature had plummeted beyond mortal endurance. The frozen north, already a wasteland marked by prolonged periods of darkness and endless, driving blizzards, had grown significantly less hospitable as the pall of Dynamis extinguished the sun. Beasts of all sort which roamed the tundra now stayed hidden in their caves, or began slow migrations south. Giant automatons which guarded the entry points to Pso'Xja were frozen over now, sheets of ice covering the man-made golems and holding them stiffly in place. Beaucedine was now home to only one thing which moved freely, unfettered by the cold. Upon the snow drifts, as high as a Gigas's shoulders in some places, the countless legions of demons roamed. Hundreds upon thousands of them, blackening the snow as much as they did the skies. They did not rage against their captivity, nor fight amongst themselves. Millennia of confinement had taught them patience. Their freedom was at hand, and they could wait however long it took.

Also amongst them were the strongest of the beastmen. The Vanguard who stood at the forefront of Dynamis's most elite soldiers resided in Beaucedine. Stronger and fiercer by far than those whom had invaded the Middle Lands, they too bided their time until they could run free across the world of the living. Orc, Quadav, Yagudo, and Goblin alike trudged through the endless snow. Thus the landscape, which stretched out further than the eye could see, was transformed into a frozen hell riddled with fiends. No light or warmth entered Beaucedine Glacier, and any living thing which came upon it would find only death waiting. The dark, gray skin of the Vanguard reflected the environment in which they thrived.

Doshu hovered just above the snow, frigid winds whipping at the Shadow Mantle. In the depths of Beaucedine's darkness, it blended in with his surroundings, making him appear almost invisible. As it billowed, the dark folds crawled over him, alternatingly swallowing parts of his figure in its black embrace. He floated silently forward, bothered not by the cold. Such concerns were well beneath him now. Like a wraith he traveled, moving across the raging snow, unmolested by Kindred or Vanguard. Those few which acknowledged him gave him a wide berth, knowing his destination. None dared to stand in his way as he crested the snow-covered hills. The wind driving past him, the Aht Urghanian floated down a long, narrow ramp of ice. Fei'Yin rose in the horizon.

Doshu halted at the bottom of the ramp to appraise the imposing gray tower. Fei'Yin had stood in Beaucedine Glacier since before the rise of man. Its purpose was a time-lost memory known only to the Zilart, the race which predated the Children of Altana. A few of their kind still walked Vana'diel, but they were few and far between. The spires of Fei'Yin stretched up towards the darkened sky above, eternally reaching for some unknown goal. Doshu let his eyes wander towards the heavens. He knew what Fei'Yin was there for, and he would make use of it soon.

Returning to the matter at hand, he settled down in the snow. It crunched beneath his heel, and immediately swallowed his leg up to the knee. Not feeling the cold, he began trudging forward, cutting a trail which marked his passage. Frigid winds assailed him, but he marched unflinchingly into the darkness enveloping Fei'Yin. He had an appointment to keep.

As he grew closer to the smooth, gray towers of the ancient structure, he felt the oppressive weight of eyes upon him. From the shadows he could see burning, unblinking eyes gazing at him as he passed. Pukis were known only in the darkest lore, stories lost to humanity since the world was young. Yet here in Dynamis's grasp, a few yet remained. Dragons of such power as to dwarf that of the Apocalytpic Beast unleashed in Buburimu, they yet remained locked in the icelands. One day soon he would be able to unleash them. Until then, he merely walked on past. Though their balefully glowing eyes followed him, they did not leave the confines of the darkness in which they dwelled. Even the beasts were aware of Doshu's meeting, and dared not interrupt.

Halting in his tracks, Doshu's dark eyes drfited up the length of Fei'Yin. Even in brighter times, it had been intimidating. A hulking mass of depressing gray which sat in the wide canyon, it emanated an aura of crushing hopelessness. The lair within was a haven for the undead, and their malevolent hunger for the living permeated the air. Now that Dynamis had fully overtaken the area, plunging it into darkness, the Zilartian construct felt almost alive with malice. Though that may have had more to do with its newest inhabitant.

Judging himself to be in the proper position, Doshu dropped down to one knee. His hair fell before his eyes as he lowered his head, staring down at the snow he was sinking into. A swirl of freezing wind brushed past him as he waited. For the first time since entering the glacier, the man in black felt cold rushing through his bones. He shivered openly, his body involuntarily spasming as the heat was drained from it. Ice formed on the fringes of his soul. The wind passed, but the warmth was slow in returning as Doshu crooked his chin upwards. Above the spot where he kneeled, the blackened sky was coming to life.

It started, as it had before, with the smile. A grin of far too many teeth began gleaming in the air as the sound of beating wings began to echo through the canyon. Rows of spiral incisors ending in pointed tips materialized, hovering in place as a thin pair of blackened lips surrounded them. Two enormous bat wings appeared above a long, devilish tail, flapping rhythmically against a mass of gray flesh. Mounds of dark, sagging skin faded into view as stubby limbs surmounted by hooked claws began scratching at the air. Lastly, as it always did, came the eye. One single enormous eye, with an iris deep as the abyss. Mounted in the center of the creature which appeared, it comprised the majority of its body. That hovering, piercing eye emitted a pale amber glow as it focused in on Doshu. Blurred edges around the being solidified, and the man in black stood to face it directly.

"Hello again, Angra Mainyu," he gave a deep bow, flourishing his ebon cape.

Angra Mainyu's single eye gazed intently at Doshu as his wings beat slowly against the freezing air. He was an Ahriman, an ancient creature born of forbidden magic. They existed all across the more treacherous areas of Vana'diel. The cyclopean creatures preyed on weaker magics, cannibalizing other eldritch forces to slake their own diabolical thirst. However, to call Angra Mainyu an Ahriman was to call a dragon an eft. In all the world of dreams Doshu and his cabal had unleashed, nothing more terrifying than Angra Mainyu had poured through the breach.

His one burning gray eye slowly rotated from left to right, wings slowly folding and unfolding around his colorless skin. A mouth full of conical fangs greeted Doshu as Angra Mainyu hovered over him. Facing the beast without fear, he took a step forward and awaited acknowledgement.

"Doshu," the Ahriman's voice was shrill, and echoed upon itself. One word from him sounded like he was shouting into a canyon, the syllables repeating endlessly, running over one another. A breath drew into his elongated mouth, a sound like a distant gale brushing through the Elvaan's ears. "You are alone."

He inclined his head ever so slightly. "The others . . . do not need to know everything."

Angra Mainyu's great, unblinking eye stared at him intently. "They will find you out sooner or later, Doshu. It is a dangerous game you play."

He scoffed, flaring out his cape as he returned the Ahriman's glare. "The Thief already knows, but is smart enough not to challenge me. Attack is too blinded with his own lust for power to so much as look at me the wrong way. And even if Secure knew, I doubt he would care. He's smart enough to keep our goals in sight."

The one-eyed monster's lips curled into a fanged smile. "Are you sure it is not you whom is blinded?"

He clenched his fists defiantly. "My eyes are wide open, Angra Mainyu. My vision is clear."

"So you say," the Ahriman's voice echoed, "Such an assertion is meaningless to one who sees all."

"Precisely why I have come to you," Doshu cut to the point. "My plans are reaching a critical juncture. I must be made aware of any elements which have escaped my notice, any random factors I have overlooked. I have need of your vision, great Angra Mainyu."

"Feh," its smile widened, teeth clenching to form a wall of fangs. "And why should I aid you more than I already have?" In a sudden wave of darkness, the creature vanished. One moment he was there, and the next nothing but a void of black filled the air. Doshu spun around to find him hovering behind him, his grin still clenched. "Your games would be so much fantasy were it not for my aid. The Shadow Mantle and Ring, Annihilator, entry into Dynamis - all made possible by me."

"You have as big a stake in this as we do, Angra Mainyu," Doshu reminded him angrily. "It was you who sought us out, after all."

The widening grin was coupled with a brief peal of laughter. The sound was akin to a swarm of bats bursting forth from a cave. "Did I truly? Or did your journey simply lead you to me?" There was another blossoming of darkness, and his form was erased from Doshu's sight. Immediately the Ranger looked up, feeling the wind beat down on him as Angra Mainyu appeared high in the air. "There are still prizes to be won in this great game," he mused, turning his single eye down piercingly at the Elvaan. Gradually, he began to descend. Before long man and monster stood face-to-face, and the Ahriman's gleaming gray eye stared into Doshu's heart. "And as you know, we will all assuredly die should we fail."

Doshu's own eyes were frigid. "Do you not think the reward worth the risk?"

A hiss came from Angra Mainyu's lips as they curled back. "I do not think you even fathom what is at stake, or will know what to do once you have it." Doshu's angry retort was cut off by another squeal of laughter. "Still yourself. I will tell you what I see."

He had known all along, of course, that Angra Mainyu would. His taunts never ceased to grow frustrating, however. Having to constantly cajole the use of his vision out of him was becoming tiring. For now, the Ahriman was far too powerful for Doshu to even consider tearing down. That situation would change, though, if he just held his patience.

"Thank you, Angra Mainyu," he managed to sound convincing. "I am grateful for your aid, as always."

The ancient terror did not respond. His eye was already fixed on the distance. "So many yet dream," he grumbled, smile waning. "So many still fight the nightmare." A flap of gray skin stretched upwards, hooding his gaze as he began slowly floating above Doshu's head. His shadow fell upon the Elvaan, and a chill which the freezing winds of Beaucedine had not been able to give him ran through his bones.

"The Samurai's Son rushes to the east to join his companions. Bahamut's Servant waits outside the Dragon King's Tomb, seeking to rouse that which lays within. A Stalwart Shield travels north from Heaven's Tower to separate the White and Red. The King of Onzozo will return to reclaim his throne. The Shining Knight is in the desert sands, where he will battle the endless horde. And in the south, the Favoured One will enter the Temple of the Heartless God." Angra Mainyu's eye slid open. He peered down at Doshu with an expression far more serious than before. "All of these elements will conspire to threaten your master plan. They must be dealth with." A moment of silence passed as the Ahriman slowly beat his wings. "The Four Winds are still active."

"Neutralized," Doshu dismissed. "They dare not use their powers while apart from one another or we will find and kill them in an instant."

"Perhaps," his shrill voice was distant. "Should they reunite everything is in jeopardy."

"Then they will not," the Elvaan's tone darkened. "Thank you, Angra Mainyu. That was everything I needed to know."

That piercing eye settled on Doshu one last time, lips curling back slightly again. "Good luck then, mortal. Your siege of the Yagudo stronghold will yield many surprises for you."

"Will I succeed?"

Angra Mainyu turned his gaze to the distance once more, but only briefly. Within moments he returned his eye to meet Doshu's inquisitive stare.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then let surprises come as they may." Clutching the folds of the Shadow Mantle, he drew it tightly about himself. "Next time, I will bring the others, so as to alleviate their fears. I will pretend this meeting never happened."

Angra Mainyu laughed once again. "Games within games. I think I shall be sad when our ultimate goal is attained. It will mean the fun leading up to it has ended."

"I doubt, great Angra Mainyu," Doshu replied, "that there will be anything for us to be sad about after we have won."

"True enough," he laughed, "true enough indeed. Farewell for now, mortal."

"Farewell," Doshu echoed. A moment later, both were gone. The freezing winds of Beaucedine Glacier blew sheets of ice over where he had stood, and within moments there was no trace they had been there at all.


No one save a few prowling demons were in Jeuno when Doshu returned. Most of the forces which had taken Jeuno were already on the move. Castle Oztroja was as powerful a fortress as existed in the Middle Lands, but it would fall. In a way, he admired these westerners plight as they banded together with beastmen in their mutual bid for survival. He had made alliances of his own, however, and very strongly doubted his own army would even come into play. He did not get where he was by taking chances, though. Oztroja would meet with all the crushing power he could bring to bear.

"Now these random factors in my equation," Doshu mumbled, ascending the steps towards the Ducal throne, "they must be dealt with."

The King of Onzozo would be easy enough. If he were indeed making a bid to reclaim his lost caves, the outcome was simple to predict. Still, he would send a bit of insurance along to guarantee the Beastmaster was neutralized. He did not know this Favoured One Angra Mainyu spoke of, but he recognized the destination as the Temple of Uggalepih. That one troubled him. Ultimately, he decided it would be best to use his eyes and ears in the jungles of Yuhtunga to determine how best to proceed. The Shining Knight was already as good as dead if he were truly planning to fight with the Anticans. Bahamut's Servant he had no choice but to let operate freely, but a trap had to be laid in place for after his task was complete.

Then there were the other two he had been warned of. The Samurai's Son and the Stalwart Shield.

"Attack," Doshu called into his linkpearl, raising it to his lips.

There was no response for a long moment. The wizard was still recuperating from his battle with Vile. The revelation that a sorcerer of Vile-Revile's might had survived and stood against them was a nuisance, but little more than that. Finally, the trail end of a coughing spell split the silence, and the Tarutaru's voice rang from the pearl in Doshu's hand.

"What do you want?" he demanded. "I am deep in meditation."

"And I apologize for disturbing you," he placated, "but I have need of your guardian. Will you send him here?"

"Fine," came the snarling response. "but I must concentrate."

"Of course," Doshu said, leaning back in the throne of Jeuno. "I shall be in the throne room. Have him meet me there."

He let his linkpearl drop down. Pyramiding his fingers, he scanned the room with his dark eyes. Attacks's bodyguard would do for the Stalwart Shield. That left one more.

"Come to me, my Dark Hand," he called to the empty hall.

The stillness of the chamber was broken by a fierce rush of motion. Seemingly from nowhere, a form materialized at the bottom of the steps before Doshu's throne. Draped in a light armor blood red in color and wrapped in black cloth, a man appeared, kneeled in the Elvaan's presence. His face was wrapped up tightly in a traditional Ninja's mask, and only his blazing red eyes were visible.

"Yes, Lord Doshu," the Ninja responded, keeping his gaze downcast.

"Rise, servant," he intoned, opening the folds of his cloak. "I have a gift for you."

The Ninja stood straight, fists clenched as he looked up the steps towards the throne. Doshu rose as well, withdrawing a slim blade from the Shadow Mantle. It glinted in the dim light as a wave of force suddenly sent a tremor through the room.

"You know we hold four prisoners, bound to the Mothercrystals in preparation for our final rite."

The Ninja nodded. "I was among those who removed them from Attohwa Chasm."

Doshu held out his fist. In his grasp was a katana, the blade bright and blue. It pulsated in his hand, and the Ninja's eyes widened at the sight of it. "Recently, we discovered one of them was hiding this. I have a task for you, and it."

"I live to serve you, Lord Doshu." he said mechanically. Doshu acknowledged the statement with a nod of his head. It was true, ater all.

"Then I bestow upon you Kikoku, my Dark Hand. Find the man called Demyn and use its power to kill him."

The Dark Hand took the weapon in his grasp. He shuddered at its touch, and tendrils of a bluish smoke rose from his hand as Kikoku bonded to him. The relic katana had been an unexpected discovery, but a providence Doshu was not about to let go to waste. The Ninja's eyes brightened, red beacons in the dimly lit hall.

"With this, no one will be safe from your Dark Hand," he assured.

"Go," Doshu commanded, "return here when Demyn breathes no more." With that dismissal, he returned to the throne. By the time he turned around, his Ninja was gone.

Almost simultaneously, the great brass door to the chamber swung open, and a massive shadow spread across the thin shaft of light it allowed.

"Ah, you're here," he welcomed, gesturing Attack's bodyguard to enter. "I hope you're ready for an assignment."

The Galka, as big as some of the Trolls Doshu was used to seeing and sporting even thicker armor, cracked the marble floor as he lumbered forward. His sausage-thick fingers clenched and unclenched as he walked, dull eyes staring up at the Elvaan with what limited facilities he possessed. At least, Doshu thought, relieved, his rank odor was gone. Cooped up with him as he healed must have been too much for even Attack, as he knew the Galka would only bathe when ordered.

Still, some operations required a scalpel. For that he had his Dark Hand. Others needed a sledgehammer.

"I been stuck in that room so long now," the Galka rumbled, "feels like I just face the wall all day. I wanna kill somethin'."

"Good," Doshu couldn't help but grin. This was the best kind of sledgehammer. The kind which was perfect for what it did, and never aspired to do anything else. "I need you to succeed where Secure has failed, Bloodied Sword."

"I'm gonna destroy Winnurst?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his shaved head.

Doshu shook his head. "No, we'll have to go back there some other time. I need you to kill just one man. His name is Meowolf."

"Stalwart Shield," Bloodied Sword snarled, lips curling downward. "Figgers he'd still be kickin'. Well I'll put him underground, boss. Just point me in the right direction."

"I knew I could count on you. Don't forget your shield."

He chuckled, a surprisingly childlike sound. "Never do, boss. Oh, and no more Bloodied Sword."

"Oh?" Doshu cocked an eyebrow.

"Way I figger it, that's a Bastokan name, an' there ain't no Bastok no more. No point in usi' a dead name, right?"

The Elvaan laughed briefly. From the mouths of fools, he thought. "Very true. So then, is it Dracu?"

He flashed Doshu a nod and a hauntingly terrifying grin. "Dracu it is."

"Then go with my blessing, Dracu. Bring me back Meowolf's shield."

"I'm gonna use it as a platter boss. I'll serve you up his whole head."

Dracu delivered a clumsy bow, and turned to leave. Doshu watched Attack's bodyguard go, content that all his loose ends would soon be tied off.

So the Elvaan sat alone on the throne of Jeuno, contemplating the dark future of Vana'diel as his hordes marched inexorably closer to their goal.

He would sleep well tonight. Come tomorrow, he would watch the fall of Castle Oztroja. And his dream would be that much closer to becoming real.

Chapter LIII: The Law of Unintended Consequences

The driving snow beating down upon Beaucedine Glacier made the darkness gripping the land even worse. As hard as it already was to make out the terrain, in the midst of one of the Glacier’s notorious blizzard made it impossible. Up was down and left was right. There were no defining points of reference save for the ground itself, and even that would betray those who trusted too far. In a land of ice and darkness, there was no safe haven to ride out the storm. Being trapped in one meant death was now inevitable.

Rykoshet, lying flat on his back with his eyes staring up into the storm, could not help but wonder why it was there was green grass beneath him.

He didn’t remember exactly what happened. One moment they had been trudging through the storm, led on by Lethe. Then, all he remembered was a shriek from behind him before a wave of incomprehensible heat struck him down. Now, he found himself prostrate in the center of what amounted to a crater of melted snow and permafrost. The sensation he had felt was still burning him through. He managed to let his head drop to the side, and saw Battousai only a few feet away. His younger brother was in similar shape. All around him, in fact, the small party lay in ruins. The howling winds whipped around them, the exposed blades of grass already freezing over again. Yet Rykoshet felt like he might never be cold again.

Struggling, he reached up an arm. With considerable effort and presence of mind, he raised his head up. He blinked snow from his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness. Something was moving beside him. The Dark Knight struggled for strength. It seemed like all the energy had been burnt out of him. He knew there was movement to his side, but even trying to focus his vision was a struggle. Finally, he heaved his body as best he could to one side. Breath left his body in a gasp. Lethe’s protection was gone, he immediately knew, as he saw ice crystals forming on his armor and in his hair. It was still so damned hot though. He felt like he had just jumped head first into Ifrit’s Cauldron.

He saw the thing that was moving, and a rising sense of alarm at his situation quickly formed. Betrayil, his mask hanging open as the Ninja scraped and clawed his way across the ground, was passing by him. Each movement he took made a ragged choking sound rattle out from his throat, but he showed no sign of stopping. Rykoshet knew immediately what would drive Betrayil forward in such a way. Clutching at the ground beneath him, he struggled to tilt himself to a better angle, to see where the Hume was crawling. His destination was the epicenter of the hole they had sunk in to.

At its middle lay Hiraiko. In her hands, the Astral Signa was burning with white-hot flame. The woman herself was choking, water leaking from her mouth. With all the water for hundreds of leagues completely frozen, Hiraiko was drowning.

The puzzle pieces came crashing together. Rykoshet’s mind immediately prioritized his concerns. The cause of his predicament could wait. He knew the repercussions would be much more pressing. Hiraiko had unleashed an incredible amount of power, enough to burn through ice hundreds of years old and over a dozen feet thick. She had done so in the heart of a land infested by the Kindred. Her actions had also dispelled the charms Lethe was using to keep them safe and hidden.

Betrayil inched closer to his goal, but Rykoshet wondered if there was a point. They were all going to die.

He didn’t hear any demons yet, and he knew they weren’t shy about making themselves known. Lethe, he realized. He had to find Lethe. Every movement felt impossible. His skin was cracking and his throat was like a desert in summer. Rykoshet took a moment to appreciate the humor in dying of heat stroke on a glacier, and then summoned his strength anew. He had to get the others out of this. Even Battousai, though he was somewhat less of a priority. The Elvaan rolled onto his stomach, putting his elbows beneath him. Lethe could still fix this.

Rykoshet heard a faint noise through the storm, something nearby. Already the snow was starting to accumulate around them. Slowly, the Dark Knight began to feel the cold creeping in. It was a sweet relief to know he could even have the sensation. His strength beginning to trickle back to him, he moved towards the sound. It wasn’t a demon. Not yet. The sound came again, and Rykoshet brushed away the white snow driving into his eyes to try and get a clear look at what was causing it.

Some feet away, slumped to his knees with eyes staring, Lethe kneeled mutely. In front of him, his tiny fists clenched in rage, was Vile. The Tarutaru was still standing where others had fallen, and he angrily shouted at the unresponsive Herald. Lethe’s blond hair bristled in the cold, tinges of white forming on his beard.

“Snap out of it!” Vile was demanding. His fist came up, striking Lethe across the chin. The Herald gave no reaction, save to mumble something Rykoshet could not hear. Struggling to increase his pace, he moved closer to the two, trying to make out what Lethe was telling Vile.

An anguished cry came from behind him, and he knew Betrayil had reached Hiraiko. He still had not seen any movement from Battousai at all. Desperation began to sink in. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of howling. There was no way the Kindred were not aware of their presence now. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered. Whatever was wrong with Lethe, he had to come back to his senses, or they were doomed. Vile had already come to this conclusion.

“Graah!” the Black Mage snarled as he backhanded the blonde-bearded Hume. This time, Rykoshet could hear a snippet of what Lethe was saying. His eyes were wide and unblinking, and he kept staring at his hands, confusion gripping his expression.

“The water,” he mumbled, Rykoshet now practically next to him, “who did that to the water? I can’t . . . I’m lost.”

“What,” Rykoshet said, and then coughed violently. Talking through his barren throat felt like trying to speak through a knife. He let his jaw go slack, and welcomed the freezing wind and snow which assaulted him. Vile paid him no heed.

“They’re coming, you imbecile,” Vile told Lethe, gathering the Herald’s lustrous blue-and-white robes in his fists. “I don’t care if something happened to the water, something happened right here, to Hiraiko, and if you don’t fix it now we’re all going to die.” Lethe was unresponsive, muttering to himself still. “Is that what you want?” Vile demanded, violently shaking the Herald. “Without us, that’s the end for your precious North Wind!”

Lethe suddenly blinked, gasping at the sound of his master’s appellation. His head turned quickly from one direction to the next. Realization began dawning upon him as he shook Vile’s hands away. All at once, the snow which had been accumulating upon him vanished. The ice sunk into his very body, and the snowflakes which touched him now being absorbed rather than sticking to his robes. Shakily, the Herald of the Four Winds rose to his feet. In the distance, but closer than it had been before, another fiendish howl bellowed.

“The water,” Lethe said, looking out in the distance. “Someone has shifted a part of the entire ocean. It’s . . . . it’s thrown me off.” The admission came with a startled look upon his face. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in the middle of a fucking ice field about to get us all killed if you don’t suck it up!” Vile shouted. “Now man up and put your spells back up before we’re swarmed over!”

“It’s too late,” Lethe responded as his demeanor turned grim. “They know exactly where we are now.”

“Then what – “

Vile’s sentence, which he was going to accentuate with electricity crackling through his fists, was cut off by another cry, one much closer.

“Hiraiko!” Betrayil’s stricken voice came through the howling blizzard. “Please, we’ve got to help Hiraiko!”

Rykoshet managed to get up to one knee. From where he had come from, Battousai was now stirring, shaking snow out of his shaggy hair and trying to get his bearings. Vile gave Lethe a burning glare, and the Herald immediately crossed the distance to where Hiraiko lay. Rykoshet strained to follow after, cursing the magic users for being so damn unaffected by things physically. By the time he reached the Summoner, his younger brother was practically back on his feet. Hiraiko, unfortunately, shared no such powers of recuperation.

She looked frail on the ground, cradled in Betrayil’s arms. The Astral Signa was still in her grasp. The flesh on her hands had blackened around it, and even now it pulsated with something monumentally potent. The woman holding it, on the other hand, was in the grip of a convulsion. Water was coming from her mouth, and she was not breathing. The look of despair in Betrayil’s eyes was heartbreaking. His gaze was a plea to the Herald as he tried to cradle the Summoner’s body closer.

“I . . . I need a moment,” Lethe pleaded, visibly disoriented. “Please, I just . . . can’t seem to collect my thoughts . . . “

“Leth – “Rykoshet started again, fighting back the pain in his throat. “Lethe, we’ve,” he stopped, coughing. Specks of red flew from his mouth to blemish the snow beneath. The Dark Knight realized that with Lethe’s wards broken, the spells which had been repairing his body after the fight with Rennie were gone as well. He suddenly understood why everyone else was so quick to recover. He fought to make his words come out.

“Lethe, we’ve got to escape,” he gasped, “they’re coming. We can’t stay here.”

“We have to save Hiraiko!” Betrayil bellowed at him.

“We’ll all die if we don’t leave now!” Rykoshet countered. “Lethe, do something!”

“The water,” he repeated, “they moved so much water . . . it’s all wrong. It feels all wrong.”

The howling came again, closer than before. Much closer. Battousai hobbled near to Rykoshet, using his great sword as a crutch to stay upright. There was nothing even close to confidence on his face. He looked at his older brother for reassurance and found none.

“This is serious,” he admitted. “Rykoshet, this could be really bad.”

“No,” the elder brother countered, “Lethe, you have to focus. You know this place. Your master lives here. You can get us out of here, Lethe, stop thinking about the damn ocean and think about right here!”

“It’s all connected!” he roared back, hands clenched in impotent rage. “It’s like trying to find east when you’ve no concept of what “east” means! I’m trying, I just . . . I need some time!”

Hiraiko gave another spasm, a choking sound bursting from her throat. Her eyes rolled back into her head. There was howling all around them now, getting louder, more fervent. Rykoshet and Battousai shared a glance. Nearby, but away from where the others had gathered, Vile angrily began focusing his power. Lethe pleaded silently with himself to regain his connection to the water. Betrayil gave a cry of frustration as the woman in his arms began to go limp. Straining, Battousai managed to lift his great sword, and tried to turn to face the incoming rush.

Lethe gave a primal, furious cry, dropping to the ground. The demons were only yards away now, beginning to take shape in the darkness. No, Rykoshet realized, they were the darkness. They were one great, swarming mass, crushing down upon them. The crater Hiraiko had burnt into the ground was ringed with them, and they showed no sign of slowing as they rushed down into the center.

Then another howl overpowered them.

The wind swirled around in so concentrated a burst a tornado of ice and snow formed around them. It rose, a wall of wind, spiraling up towards the pitch-black sky. Rykoshet couldn’t hear anything anymore, just the wailing of the gale as it pressed in upon him. Then, all at once, it collapsed in around him, and the rest became darkness.


When he opened his eyes again, he knew his situation had become markedly different.

He was indoors, he realized. There was no snow, no cold or heat, and no encroaching demons. The walls were some sort of thick stone, pulsating with a soft red light. He was in a hallway, two open rooms on either end of him, both devoid of illumination. He knew this place. When the Tenshodo had first allowed outsiders through its doors, Rykoshet had been there, though never in this part of the labyrinth. There was no mistaking the interior of the ancient ruins of Pso’Xja though. Not once you had seen them yourself.

The others were around him, all in various states of consciousness. Vile stood nearby, his eyes wary. An astonished Lethe knelt on the ground, absorbing the moisture around them. Battousai was on his feet, but looked dazed by what had just happened. Then, down the hall from where Vile stood, Rykoshet saw Betrayil. The Ninja was on one knee, and judging by his expression, nearly struck dumb. Directly beside him, Hiraiko was sitting up, still coughing up water, but alive. She was panting heavily, her breath obviously gone, but she was struggling to regain it. Whatever enchantment had flooded her lungs, the tornado that had formed sucked it straight from her. Rykoshet breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lethe,” he said, turning towards the Herald, “You did it. You saved us.”

The Hume looked at him with unreadable eyes. “Not I,” was all he said.

“Then . . . . how did we get out of there?” Rykoshet asked,

Before Lethe could answer, a burst of wind surged down the hall, sweeping over all of them. Rykoshet raised an arm to his face for protection as he was overtaken by it, grimacing at the force. The others braced themselves as well, Betrayil taking a protective stance in front of the still-recovering Hiraiko. They all stared down the hall towards the source, and from the darkness two gleaming white eyes appeared. A figure drew near, a man shrouded in robes of green and blue, runic markings the likes of which Rykoshet had never seen before stitched through every inch of fabric. When he spoke, no words came from his parted lips, but rather a sound carried on the wind which reached all their ears.

“I am Kita, the North Wind,” he declared, stretching a hand out from the darkness. “Lord of Pso’Xja, Keeper of the Eternal Ice.”

He moved forward from the shadow, the red light of the walls sweeping down over him. The winds died, and the man touched down lightly upon the stone floors. Lethe had risen, and gently pressed a fist to his chest and bowed. Slowly, he reached up to the hood of his voluminous garb. Pulling it back revealed a set of deep, ice-blue eyes, and a kind, brown-bearded face smiling at the small ensemble.

“But what am I thinking?” he asked, speaking from his own mouth now. “You’re guests. Please, just call me Fill.”

Chapter XLIV: Snow Dyed Red

The people of Vana’diel were diverse and numerous, each person possessing a different potential amount of energy within them. Some would never realize their true power, others simply did not possess much to begin with. The spark of Altana’s gift blessed everyone differently. The practice of finding and harnessing chi, the spiritual force residing within all living things, was the fundamental aspect in almost every school of combat. It was the various ways in which people learned to access that divine spark that set them apart.

A Paladin could draw upon his spiritual force to defend himself and others. From the moment one began walking the path of the knight, their energy was devoted to perfecting themselves as a living bulwark, the first line of defense for those in need of defending. A brief glimpse at the true power of a Paladin had been afforded to Those Guys when Fated achieved invincibility for those fleeting moments in Garlaige Citadel. The shield they were trained with was a key part of their repertoire, but the truth of it was that they themselves were the shield, harnessing the power of their chi towards the defense of others.

Mages used their chi to focus and utilize the powers of magic running free through the world. A White Mage could draw upon the healing forces of the spirit and transfer it unto others, as well as weave protective spells meant to prevent harm before it ever happened. Black Mages, on the flip side of the coin, affected the world around them by using their chi to manipulate magic in such a way as to command the very forces of the elements. They used magic for completely different functions, but their ability to wield magic rested solely on how much of their own spiritual force the mage could draw upon.

A Warrior’s mastery over weapons, the bond between a Dragoon and a wyvern, the techniques of a Ninja, they all drew upon chi in some form. The way a person was trained to use their chi made all the difference in what path they walked in life.

A Dark Knight was, at its core, vampiric in nature.

Rykoshet had never seen the vampires from the legends of the Near East, nor did he particularly believe they existed at all, but he understood the concept. A vampire was a being that survived by draining the life from others so that they might sustain. The idea of one who fed off of other living things for strength was not a new one. The Dark Knight simply encompassed the idea made reality. There was one important difference which set the vampires of myth apart from the Dark Knight, however.

Dark Knights fed upon their own lives as well.

Rykoshet was panting with effort, beads of sweat forming on his blood-soaked brow as he drew deeper and deeper upon the reservoir of his own life energy. The dread spikes flared around him, dark threads of energy coursing through the air around him. The Hume stepped back in the snow, wary of this new development, while Rykoshet’s voice rose into a guttural growl from the back of his throat. His eyes were bulging, glowing black with the power he was calling forth. The halo of darkness surrounding him lashed out in tendril-like surges, thick chords of it enveloping him within their inky embrace. The air around him steamed as his body temperature grew hotter, and the Hume bared his teeth, raising his weapons to prepare for anything.

Rykoshet’s dread spikes would provide him protection from harm, but if he could not attack his opponent, they would simply fade away, leaving him more exhausted for having maintained them. This Hume was far too smart to go on the offensive after a spell like this one was brought into play. He knew he only had to wait Rykoshet out, and was confident that he was too fast for the Elvaan to strike should he try.

Sweat beaded on Rykoshet’s brow, running down an eyelid closed tightly due to blood running into it. His other eye was open wide, and fixed itself on the stranger as a red flash of light flared out of it.

The leader of Those Guys renewed his grip around the enormous spear of Tzee Xicu. He would have less than a minute before his body ate itself alive maintaining what he was going to attempt.

The snow flew up at his heels as he rushed forward, slashing towards the stone-faced Hume. The blade of Tzee Xicu’s weapon met only air, the Hume easily sidestepping the strike, a quiet sigh of exasperation escaping his lips.

The breath choked in his throat as the shaft of Rykoshet’s spear caught him full on the side of the neck.

He spun with the impact, eyes bulging as he fell to the ground, rolling as he did so. Immediately he rose, raising his axe and sword and resuming his offense, not wasting a moment. Once again, his axe fell downwards towards Rykoshet’s head, forcing him to block, while the piercing sword searched for a vital spot to puncture.

Both weapons flew from his grasp as he was stopped dead in the snow, the flat of Rykoshet’s blade cracking against his skull with enough force to break the skin. A spot of blood formed between his eyes, droplets filling the air as the Hume arched backwards, his green cloak flaring out before him. Back-first, he landed in the snow. Eyes wide, he struggled to lift his neck, staring at the foe before him.

One of Rykoshet’s eyes was sealed shut, dried blood and a bruise on his cheek from the Hume’s axe keeping it closed. His other eye was wide open.

The whites of the eye were jet black, the iris and pupil a gleaming red. Faintly, the Hume could see a symbol etched inside, something like a star within a circle, and he could swear he saw his own face in the middle of it. The diabolic eye never wavered from him as Rykoshet launched himself forward, snarling as he closed the distance between them, the blade of his spear screaming as it sliced through the air. Rykoshet, driven by the pain, adrenaline, and the sinister magic feeding him power, closed the distance between himself and his foe in the span of a heartbeat. His blade flashed down, and struck the Hume directly in the chest.

There was a jolt up Rykoshet’s arm as he felt the force of the impact travel back up to his wounded shoulder. The Hume lay on the ground, uninjured, a stoneskin spell hastily woven around him saving him from the killing stroke. He took advantage of the moment, slicing his arm through the air to release a wave of flames, driving Rykoshet back. In a rage, he defied his own self-preservation instincts and charged through, catching the Hume with a lightning-fast thrust which sent shockwaves through the both of them. Rykoshet teetered off-balance as the Hume stumbled backwards, the power of his spell already being taxed. Rykoshet stomped his foot back down, steadying himself, and then felt his legs quaver. He did not have much longer.

His eye could read every movement the Hume made almost before he made it. The slightest shift in body weight or fluctuation of an aura was plainly visible to Rykoshet. No amount of speed could protect him when the Elvaan was able to tell which direction he was about to run before he even began moving. Staring at a man of such power was difficult, it felt as if he corneas were burning trying to take in such a presence, but he forced himself to keep his eye trained on him, the force within glowing like torchlight. The Hume’s shoulder twitched, and Rykoshet landed a blow to his side before his mind had finished telling his body to dodge right. He staggered, and his leg was swept out from under him without any chance being given for him to regain his balance. The snow collapsed around him, forming his icy tomb as Rykoshet reared over him. His startling blue eyes fixed on Rykoshet’s demon gaze, and without a word the Elvaan brought the spear down again, seeking to split the Hume’s head like a melon.

There was an audible sound of stone shattering as the spell reached its limit. The blade of Rykoshet’s weapon bounced off a final time, and a thin white line appeared down the Hume’s cheek from chin to brow where he had been struck. Roaring with fury, Rykoshet spun the spear back, arching it high over his head, and brought it crashing down on his defenseless foe one more time.

Before it could find its mark, his dread spikes flared up, like a star going nova, and then blinked out with devastating finality. The spear found only empty snow as Rykoshet collapsed to his knees, the energy drained from him. He had no fuel left to feed his fire. His weapon tumbled from his grasp, his fingers suddenly too numb to hold on to them. He choked on the coppery taste of his own blood, his entire body on fire with the pain from his wounds made worse from his exertions. The Elvaan turned his head, the glow behind his eye already faded away. The Hume was behind him, upright, a weapon in each hand. He’d never seen him move.

“You fought well,” he conceded, “now it’s time to go.” He addressed the entire matter as a foregone conclusion from the start.

Rykoshet did not respond. He couldn’t make words form in his throat. The Hume began coming closer, as Rykoshet watched his own blood fall from his face, dripping onto the open palm of his gauntlet. His left arm barely responding, he dragged it to his right, covering the sight of his crimson-stained armor. Closing the eye he had left open, he let his back rise and fall, desperately sucking in air.

“If you can’t walk, I’m going to have to knock you unconscious and drag you,” he explained, nearly on top of him, “and if you can, I’m going to have to cut your legs off so you don’t run away.”

Rykoshet turned to face the Hume. Besides a few wounds, he looked as pristine as ever. His adaman armor was still burnished and unmarred, his energy undiminished; there wasn’t even a thread loose on his woven green cloak. After everything Rykoshet had done, he was still practically at the peak of his power. The Hume was bursting with it, and Rykoshet was bone dry.

He had only enough left for two things. Breathing, and the stun spell which burst from his open palm.

As feeble as Rykoshet’s power was, it only unbalanced the Hume for perhaps a second at most, but it kept him from moving. Even as he felt the darkness slipping in around him, he used his body weight to throw himself forward, outstretching the hand he had been bleeding on, removing his left arm from it to reveal what he had traced upon his palm, etched in his own blood.

The eldritch seal of dark magic glowed with thirst as Rykoshet pressed his hand into the Hume’s exposed face, clenching his jaw. When a vampire ran out of his own power, he had to seek it from other sources.

Once again, a Dark Knight was much the same.

The force of Rykoshet’s drain spell, enhanced by the dark seal he had writ out in his own blood, struck the Hume with jarring results. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as the dark magic Rykoshet unleashed fed hungrily upon the Hume. The cuts lining Rykoshet’s face began to seal themselves over, the wounds on his arm and leg closed, and the bleeding staunched. His eye opened, bright and blazing, and with each passing second, his grip on the Hume became tighter and more crushing. The effects on the Hume were equally as dramatic. Lines began appearing in his face, his shoulders went slack, and streaks of gray began forming at his temples. It was temporary at best; energy stolen would always find its way back eventually. That didn’t matter to Rykoshet. He intended to drain the Hume until he was a withered husk.

With desperation in his eyes, the Hume’s palms opened in front of Rykoshet’s unprotected face and a river of flame shot forth. The Dark Knight cried out, shrinking away and releasing the Hume, who dropped like a corpse to the ground. He sat on his knees, waist-deep in the snow, a rasping, hollow breath rattling from him. Rykoshet fell backwards into the snow, unmoving, the flames quenched but the damage done. The Hume watched him for a long moment, his ragged breathing unheard over the howling winds.

Rykoshet sat straight up, dried blood caking off of his face as singed hair smoked upon his head. His hand snatched blindly in the snow, somehow finding its mark, and drawing Tzee Xicu’s spear to his side once more.

“I’ve been set on fire by better than you,” the Elvaan growled, forcing himself to his feet, the Hume’s own drained power sustaining his body.

The stranger gave no response. He dragged himself to his feet, and the two regarded one another. The distance between them was a mere few meters at most.

The aura of their shared power burst to life around them, and with mutual cries, they both rushed forward, weapons swinging.

The Hume swung his axe, and Rykoshet thrust forward his spear. They collided, deflecting off of one another, but even as the point of his weapon was forced towards the ground, Rykoshet recoiled it, lancing it forward once again, only to be defied as the Hume brought his black-bladed axe back the way it came. Swinging the massive spear around, he thrust forward a third time, but was caught once again by a slice meant to tear his chest open. A fourth thrust, and a fourth swing, rattled each other in mid-air as both fighters draw back one more time. Rykoshet thrust forward with all the strength he could muster, and the Hume responded with a blow which could shatter stone.

The weapons, five times each having met one another, snapped free of their owners hands upon impact. They twirled in opposite directions through the air, settling down and sinking into the snow, out of sight and useless. The Hume had dropped his sword when Rykoshet had drained him, so both were now unarmed, bones still rattling from the blows they had just struck against one another.

Neither hesitated. The Hume threw the first punch.

Rykoshet knew from the first blow that his strength was returning. Even looking at him he could see that his hair was all blonde once again, and his face was slowly returning to the smooth, unlined visage it had been before. If he was going to hurt him, it had to be now. He took the first punch in the gut, his armor straining against the blow, and returned with a backhand blow to his opponent’s face. Blood shot from the Hume’s mouth, but even as it did his foot lashed out, striking Rykoshet just over the knee. He buckled, and the Hume clenched his fists together and unloaded with a devastating uppercut. Rykoshet nearly sailed head over feet with the blow, landing on his stomach and rolling to his side as fast as he could manage.

The Hume pounced on him, but Rykoshet spun to meet him, elbow cracking against his attacker’s chin. He rammed his fist into the Hume’s gut, but the strength of his incredible armor braced him against the attack. He used the moment to deliver a palm-thrust to Rykoshet’s chest, a burst of chi at the end of it telling Rykoshet that his foes strength was returning faster by the second. He could not afford to squander that which he had stolen. His fist drilled into the Hume’s jaw, and then the other hand repeated the feat. The Hume fell, but as he did he hooked a foot behind Rykoshet’s knee and dragged him down with him. The two tumbled into the snow, gnashing and clawing at one another as ice and wind bit into them both.

The Hume raked Rykoshet’s eyes, Rykoshet clapped a fist against one of the Hume’s ears. The Hume scrambled away, but the Elvaan tackled him, clawing his way onto his back and slamming him face-first into the snow. The Hume reached back, taking hold of Rykoshet’s arm when his hands found it, and squeezing a cluster of nerves with force enough to make the larger Elvaan release him. When he rolled up, his foot scissored outwards, and an armored boot sliced out a chunk of Rykoshet’s cheek. Viscera spilled onto the ice, and the Dark Knight clutched at his wound as the Hume stood, drawing back his fist. Rykoshet’s own hand shot out, and he caught the Hume’s punch against his gauntlet, immediately wrapping his hand shut over his knuckles and squeezing. Through the Hume’s own armored mufflers it would be useless trying to break his hand, but it was a grip Rykoshet refused to release. That arm belonged to him now.

He pulled the Hume forward, an elbow catching him right beneath his crystal blue eye. Again, Rykoshet hammered at the Hume’s face, holding on to the arm he had captured and pressing his size advantage for all it was worth. He could feel the Hume’s aura flaring to life, and he knew that within moments his adversary would begin tossing spells around again. He had to end this fight now.

He brought his knee up, driving it into the Hume’s gut, but once again his armor protected him from the blow. Frustration mounting, Rykoshet sent another punch towards the Hume’s bruised and battered face, but this time the smaller fighter caught Rykoshet at the wrist, holding him there. The two jockeyed for position, glaring at each other as they struggled to gain some advantage in leverage, some position from which they could press their attack. The blood streaming from both of them began forming a hissing red stain in the snow all around them, neither refusing to budge.

Rykoshet’s grip slipped, and the Hume tore his hand free. Elbow cocked, he prepared to let fly a finishing strike towards the Elvaan’s wounded face.

Until the snow rose in Rykoshet’s defense.

“Rennie!” a voice that called out from nature itself cried, and the Hume shrank back, releasing his grip on Rykoshet’s wrist. The Elvaan was about to attack, when an eruption of light burst in between the two of them, blowing them both away from one another.


Driven back into a snow bank some feet away, Rykoshet scrambled to regain himself, to meet this new attack. Blinking the spots from his eyes, he saw a figure, robes flaring in the wind, facing down the spot where the Hume had been thrown. The figure seemed to be comprised of pieces of the snow itself.

Relief flooded through Rykoshet’s heart.

It was Lethe.

The herald of the Four Winds became a solid, blond-bearded man, arms raised menacingly. Though he appeared flesh and bone, a look down towards the snow revealed he was not standing in it, but rather rising up out of it. Several yards away from him, the blonde Hume reared back like a wounded animal, eyes fall of warning.

“Your masters sent the wrong dog, Rennie,” Lethe told the Hume before him. “You will not have him this day.”

Rennie, as Lethe called him, let out a breath, his shoulders heaving. He raised his hand defiantly, but the magic he tried to conjure fizzled harmlessly, and he stared at the granite-hard face of the herald, still dispassionate, still cold and grim.

“Not this day,” Rennie admitted, “but perhaps tomorrow.”

There was a flash of darkness, and the two weapons Rennie had been wielding tore themselves from the ground and spun into his hands, both slicing right by Lethe, who did not so much as blink. Rennie took his weapons from the air, slamming them home into their sheaths at his side, and let his gaze slide over to Rykoshet, just beyond the herald’s shoulder.

He said nothing, but his crystal blue eyes conveyed it all.

In the next moment, with sound like some out-of-tune instrument, a ripple of darkness surged around Rennie’s body, and then he was gone.

Rykoshet let out an explosive breath, nearly falling over. He had survived. Whatever that was about didn’t matter to him as much at the moment as the mere fact that he had faced down such a foe and lived. The power he had siphoned from Rennie’s extensive reservoir was already waning, and it looked like there were two Lethes drifting his way through the snow.

“He tore you from my spell,” Lethe was saying, bracing Rykoshet as he fell. “I saw the others to safety as best I could and began searching for you. I am sorry I could not find you sooner.”

“I managed,” Rykoshet said, skin sloughing off his cheek as his jaw worked. “The others, are they alright?”

“They are safe, momentarily,” Lethe informed him, “but nowhere in the Northlands is safe for long. We must keep moving.”

“Okay,” Rykoshet said, his legs too numb to feel, “I’m good for it, let’s go.”

The blond-bearded herald spread out his arms as Rykoshet fell, and it seemed suddenly he had been submerged in the warmest of refreshing baths.

Lethe’s river carried him onwards, away from the sight of his horrific battle, and consciousness drifted away as the mystic waters lulled him to sleep, rejuvenating, restoring, replenishing as the waking world left hm.

Not even their powers were enough to keep a nightmare of Rennie finding him again from invading his dreams.

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.