Chapter LXXV: Inside the Maw

It felt like stepping into a dream. All sense of reality fell away like a serpent shedding its skin. Visions of ephemeral things with no form or substance drifted in and out of view. A mist crept through the area like a thing alive, snaking and crawling through basalt walls, gently brushing the stone before speeding away into the darkness. Darkness enveloped the room in a halo. The floor was strangely illuminated, but the corners of the room and the vaulted ceiling were wrapped in a quiet, pulsing shadow. It advanced and retreated in a steady, even measure. It was breathing, Hiraiko realized. The darkness was breathing.

Her path was dimly lit before her. Beneath the mist was a black stone walkway, leading her forward towards a vast, circular ledge. The voice had gone silent, but she could still sense its presence. Rather than lurking inside her head, however, it was now all around her. Watching her, and waiting. She stepped forward ,unafraid. Clutching the Astral Signa like a battle standard, Hiraiko strode down the black steps, towards that which she had sought out. No, she corrected, towards that which had sought her.

Betrayil stuck closely to her side. He was not in a defensive stance, though his two katana were gripped beneath bloodless knuckles. If anything the Ninja seemed strangely at ease. Hiraiko could feel it, too. This place was like a part of a dream which had stumbled into the waking world. Despite the unsettling surroundings, one could not help but be at peace. It felt like being asleep, yet totally aware. The Shrouded Maw was a lucid dream come to life.

Hiraiko took her first step onto the ledge. Beneath it was an open, rectangular chamber. Large granite slabs hung suspended in the air, forming a floor. She could see from her vantage point that they were not connected by any mortar or concrete. They simply hung in place, a pit leading down into darkness clearly visible beneath. A large chamber lay just behind the room, but its entry was barred. The mists surrounded this place, patiently waiting as Hiraiko searched for any sign of life. There was nothing to be found besides her and Betrayil. Even the Astral Signa had fallen silent in her hands.

She edged out closer, peering down into the ominous chamber. Her breath felt stopped in her throat. The presence of the darkness was all around her now. Betrayil reached out to grasp her shoulder. Hiraiko turned towards him, but then he was not there. She gasped, having the sudden sensation of being picked up and tossed. In an instant she realized Betrayil was above her now, several dozen feet above her. Confused, the Summoner cast her head about, and saw that she had been drawn in to the pit below her. She hung suspended in the air, facing that enclosed chamber. Atop the ledge, Betrayil called out to her, but some unseen force prevented him from moving forward. She saw that just as she was being held in the air, so too was the Ninja being held back by the mist circling on the floor. No more visible than the fog rising from a lake in early hours, it was nonetheless restraining the both of them. Betrayil continued to call out, but Hiraiko turned back to face front. This is what she had been waiting for.

Summoner.

The voice was softer now, but still a ferocious growl. It came from everywhere, echoing through the room. Betrayil went still, searching for a source to the disembodied call.

“I have come to you,” Hiraiko cried out, “just as you have asked me.”

Yes. You have done well to make it this far.

She cast her eyes upwards. The darkness still hung, unmoving save for a steady pulse. “You are one of the terrestrial avatars.” It was not a question. A low rumbling responded.

I have become the victim of forces set in motion by the Children of Altana.

“How?”

They caught me unawares.

She touched down on the floor, not even realizing she had been lowering down. Her balance came quickly, and she set herself aright while clapping the shaft of the Astral Signa to the ground.

“Why have you brought me here, Diabolos?” Hiraiko called to the darkness.

The rumbling growl responded with what sounded almost like a laugh. Only throatier, more like an animal.

You have a dangerous task in front of you.

“Is that it?” She shouted back. “Did you bring me here to tell me what I must do?”

You are here, Summoner, that I may start you down your path. And before that can happen, you must set me free.


Two demons collapsed into shrieking heaps of melting fat and flesh. Vile strode through their burning bodies dismissively. A third demon tried to ward him off with lightning, bursting from the tip of a twisted staff. The Black Mage swatted it aside with his hand, responding with a bolt of his own. Electricity shattered the Kindred’s blackened stick in its hands, and it fell crying out in pain. Vile made a sharp hand gesture, and the air solidified into a block of ice around its head. He left it there to suffocate and walked on.

His teeth ground together as he caught sight of the secret, hidden, completely concealed entrance to Pso’Xja. It was, naturally, completely ajar.

Vile did not wait to see what was up there. He clenched his fingers around his staff and thrust it upwards. A tongue of flame shot forth through the open gate, expanding to spread fiery death in every direction outside the doorway. Water streamed into Pso'Xja in thick rivulets as the permafrost outside melted down in seconds. The Black Mage maintained the white-hot blast a moment longer, and then drew his staff back. The air went still, save for the intense lingering heat. Vile watched the doorway. Nothing outside the ruins moved. The only sound was the gentle trickle of freshly-melted ice dripping down onto the ancient stone floors.

Then, a blizzard slammed in from outside, a salvo of ice and wind spiraling directly towards Vile. He quickly brought his arms up defensively. The ice sizzled as it struck his defensive wards, with the air around him blinking green and blue. Hailstones the size of Vile's fist streaked by, striking chips off the wall where they struck. The wind seared his skin, and the ice brought a bitter chill to his bones. The Tarutaru snarled, struggling to fight against the onslaught. With much difficulty, he finally extended his hand into the driving frost, and an orange light erupted through the tower. Flame and heat dissolved the ice into nothing, and then once more the ruins went silent.

"Found you, found you, found you," a high-pitched voice screeched from outside. "Stupid old man, foolish, foolish old man. Dumb old man! Kill you, kill the other winds, kill them all! You're mine now, mine mine mi - "

The speaker burst forth from the gaping entryway and stopped. His large black eyes went wide momentarily with surprise, and then came alight with a burning hatred. His fingers clenched beneath the thick, purplish gloves he wore, biting into his pitch-black robes. The Tarutaru who appeared in the gateway was garbed entirely in purple and black, from his boots to the tip of his conical hat. Vile could have retched. It was like a beast trying to dress like a man. It had been a long time since he had seen the outcast who called himself Attack. He decided to make this their last encounter.

"Kindred!" Attack snarled, practically foaming at the mouth. Vile took aim, electricity crackling from his palm. Eyes glowing with arcane lightning, he released the lethal charge directly at the Tarutaru's chest. Attack caught the bolt in his palm, dispelling it with a grimace of pain as it raced up his arm. Vile prepared to strike again, but then the demons came.

They all brandished weapons, Vile saw right away. He skirted back along the wall as they charged towards him. The Kindred who used magic all carried gnarled canes like the one he had killed earlier. These were simple, bloodthirsty hack-and-slash demons. A half-dozen of them brushed by the black-robed Attack, howling in their revolting demon language. There was no way Vile could take them all on in these cramped quarters. He had to think quickly.

With a gesture towards the ground, a smattering of the stones burst upwards at the demon's feet. The spell wasn't nearly powerful enough to hurt them, but it threw the fiends off-balance long enough for Vile to put some space between them. The gateway outside was blocked, so he had only the hallway he had come from to retreat into. He ran as fast as he could, knowing they would already be after him. Attack's voice echoed down the halls, calling for Vile's head. Judging himself far enough away, the Black Mage closed his eyes, and began chanting as quickly as he could. The demons appeared at the entry to the hall, shouting at Vile with unrestrained fury. Their claws took slices out of the stone as they charged for him, cruelly hooked axes and massive swords gleaming. His tiny Tarutaru legs had not gotten him nearly as far away as he had hoped from their long demon strides.

The one leading the pack, yellow eyes like torches in the darkened hall, burst out ahead and violently swung his axe downwards. It connected directly with Vile's head, the blow powerful enough to crush the wizard where he stood. Flecks of stone dust swirled into the air as the demon's axe cleaved directly through Vile, colliding with the stone floor underneath.

Withdrawing his axe, the demon stepped back, startled. The Tarutaru was still standing, unharmed. He appeared unaware the colossal axe had even come his way. A moment later, he blinked out of existence altogether.

The demons contemplated this for an instant, and ultimately decided to sleep on it.

Vile's invisibility faded as easily as his Blink spell had. The insubstantial double of himself had captured their attention while he finished weaving the sleep charm which even now had the demons falling over themselves in enchanted slumber. The Black Mage immediately took off back towards the gate.

A blast of wind struck him so hard in the chest that the air rushed from his lungs. Vile was buffeted back against the stone walls, protective spells shattering as they struggled to mitigate the damage. He ended up scraping across the floor, clutching to the stone as the magicked gust blew past him. Struggling, he rose slowly to his knees, knuckles on the ground beneath him.

"Yes," Attack's shrill voice called out from the end of the hall, "Vile on his knees before me. This alone was worth the trip!"

Vile responded with a snarl and a burst of liquid flame. Attack gave a surprised shriek and leaped aside. With a crazy bellow, the Tarutaru smashed his fist downwards. Quickly pulling himself from the ground, Vile dove away as a ripple of earth magic sent a fissure streaking across the distance between them. Attack did the same, and rose to find the other Black Mage rushing towards him, teeth bared and fist drawn. Inches from Attack's surprised face, Vile opened his palm and released a jet of fire. Attack arched backwards, wincing as the heat blistered his flesh. With a howl, the other Tarutaru released a burst of his own magic, and a flood of condensation rippled together in the air. Vile's flame was extinguished, and both Black Mages went tumbling head over heels, scratching and clawing at one another.

Attack managed to wriggle free from Vile's grasp, spinning to face him with a visage full of hatred. "I don't know why you're here, but I'll kill you, kill you!" The ground began quaking at Attack's feet. Vile stared him down, his aura flaring to life with a pulse of red fire.

"Try," Vile hissed.

"I hate you," Attack's voice was as venomous as a scorpion's bite. "You've always thought you were better, better and stronger, and oh-ho-ho, you think you're so much smarter." His eyes narrowed into slits, a dark glow radiating from them. "But I'm the one with the demons, Vile. I'm the one with Dynamis at my heels, and that's just the start. This is only the start, Vile-Revile!"

Vile eyed the Black Mage cautiously. "What are you talking about?"

"You'll never live to know."

Simultaneously, both wizards let loose the magic they had been gathering. The stone began to melt and bubble as Vile's fire was unleashed. The temperature spiked, and the air itself turned red as a flare ignited in the center of the chamber before the gateway. At the same time, every hair on Vile's head stood on end as electricity channeled by Attack erupted in a shocking, violent burst, directly overlapping Vile's fire. The sheer energy being released convalesced, both mages pouring their reserves into destroying the other. Two ancient spells went off simultaneously, and the resulting explosion tore the room, the gateway, and the pair of Black Mages apart.


Rykoshet stood stock still. Battousai was beside him, uncertain whether to remain where he was or make a dive for his weapon. At the doorway, which was the only exit to the room, Rennie watched them dispassionately. Wordlessly, he drew forth his weapons. The black-bladed axe and slim, blue sword which had pierced Rykoshet's leg. He outstretched his arms, the folds of his forest-green cloak rippling as he did so. An orange glow illuminated his dark blonde hair as both weapons burst into flame.

"Well, that's not good." Battousai observed.

"Go for your sword, Battousai," Rykoshet said calmly.

"Do not move." Rennie's voice was the same baritone timbre as Rykoshet remembered from his last savage beating. Steady, emotionless, hollow. "I only need that one," he pointed his fiery sword towards the elder brother. "You may go."

Turning his head, Battousai looked his brother over. Rykoshet was half-standing, the pain in his hip and leg almost crippling. The spear he had brought with him was buried beneath the rubble, only the shaft protruding. He was injured and defenseless. The scarred Elvaan turned back to Rennie, staring at them steadily, a flaming weapon in each hand.

"Okay, counter offer," the younger brother said.

"Are you serious?"

"The man's giving me a good deal, Rykoshet."

"Ugh," the Elvaan thought for a moment, "alright; you stay and help and I'll give you back your chocobo."

"Fortune Runner?! You told me she died!"

"Nah, I sold her to a farm so I could buy this really sweet Zweihander . . . "

"Well, where's the sword now?"

"Man," Rykoshet sighed, "I don't even want to talk about it."

"Enough," Rennie interjected, and he crossed the blades of his two weapons.

A salvo of fireballs rocketed out as he drew the two weapons across one another. Both brothers leaped aside with a shout as they exploded, leaving blackened scorch marks on the debris. The scent of melting stone and burning demon carcasses wafted through the air. Rykoshet came down, twisting his weight in the air so as not to connect with his injured hip. He had been in no condition to fight Rennie the first time around, and that was completely uninjured. Now he knew he was in trouble.

Battousai was more fortunate in his landing. With fire raining down over him, he managed to successfully dive for his fallen great sword. Swiping it from the ground, the Elvaan rolled to his feet and charged. He thrust out his hand first, a jolt of dark magic preceeding him as he rushed towards Rennie. Grasping the hilt of his weapon in both hands, he leaped upwards in a sensational cleave.

Rennie brushed aside his Stun spell, and merely leaned backwards, avoiding the strike even as he put his own hand forward. It wrapped around Battousai’s ankle as he gained height, and then the Hume casually tossed him aside. Unwavering, he strode towards Rykoshet, one blazing weapon in each hand. The elder brother scraped himself into a sitting position, watching the grim advance of his foe.

Then suddenly, Battousai was there again. Rennie casually put his sword behind his head, parrying the crushing blow he was about to be delivered with one hand. Spinning around, he slashed at the younger Elvaan with his burning axe, but Battousai nimbly avoided it. Again, he took a swing at Rennie with his great sword, and this time the Hume caught it between his two weapons. With a heave, he again threw the Elvaan back, but Battousai managed to stay on his feet and strike once again.

“You look remarkably similar,” Rennie commented as he brushed away another blow from Battousai’s great sword. “If not for that scar, you’d be identical.”

“Yeah, the scar really was the best thing that ever happened to me,” the Dark Knight replied, conjuring a minor fire spell. Rennie dispelled it with a wave of his palm, and then sidestepped yet another two-handed chop.

This time, Battousai was not fast enough to move as Rennie counter attacked. The hilt of his slim-bladed sword smashed into the Elvaan’s chest, and then the axe took a piece out of his armor. Shuffling backwards quickly, he gasped to catch his breath, but Rennie was relentless. Twin streams of flame overtook him, and the Elvaan fell writhing as he was entwined in magical fire. Wordlessly, Rennie raised his axe, preparing to finish the job.

He spun at the last moment, but was too slow to stop Rykoshet’s spear from making impact. Having freed it with a Tractor spell, he had done the only thing he’d been able to. Tzee Xicu’s weapon, hurled as fast as Rykoshet was able to throw it, collided with the Hume. He prevented it from piercing his armor, but the force knocked his deflecting axe from his hand. Both weapons fell to the ground, clattering against the stone. Rennie seemed unperturbed, and changed his stance to walk towards Rykoshet. One stride in he halted, and then ground his teeth with a gasp.

Battousai had grabbed hold of his leg. Right before Rykoshet’s eyes, he could see the life being drained out of his foe as simultaneously, the younger Elvaan’s burns began to mend. Gathering up what force he could muster, Rykoshet joined in as well. The dual Drain spells caused Rennie to cry out. His hair began showing streaks of gray as lines of age and care appeared on his face. He dropped the sword he carried as his hands withered and the muscles faded. This had been the only tactic which had gained him any ground in their previous encounter. With two of them now, Rykoshet knew they could drain the life right out of him.

Lightning filled the room, striking both of the Elvaan. Battousai released his grip as an electric convulsion wracked his body. Rykoshet was blown backwards by the force, landing several feet away with a smoking hole in his breastplate. Arcane lightning danced around them, piercing them like knives and pinning them to the floor. Rennie stood unharmed in the maelstrom of his creation, the power stolen from him gradually returning. As his hair returned to its natural dirty blonde, he leaned down and bodily heaved Battousai above his head. He hurled the Elvaan like a rag doll, and sent him crashing to the ground beside the stunned Rykoshet.

As he picked his weapons off the ground, they burst into flame again at his touch.

“No more delays,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

Rykoshet was too weak from the lightning to even call for help as Rennie advanced to collect him.


“Please,” Hiraiko asked of the voice, “tell me what I have to do.”

A great many things.

“Hiraiko,” Betrayil’s voice cried out. He was still atop the ledge, trying to get down. The mist prevented him from moving. Hiraiko knew why. This conversation was meant for only two. Summoner and Avatar.

“Where do I begin?”

You must master your burden.

“My burden?”

Only then can you face what lies in front of you.

Hiraiko let out a tiny gasp. She clutched the Astral Signa tighter, raising it to her chest. “How, Diabolos?” She pleaded. “Tell me how I can control the Signa as Tzee Xicu did.”

Inconsequential.

She was momentarily taken aback. “How? How can you say that?” Tears began to sting at her eyes. “I am crippled by this accursed staff. Reality is a constant blur! I can no longer discern between the voices of real people and those of bodiless eidolons not even occupying this realm! I hear their whispers while I sleep, I see visions they send me with no context or reason! This damnable object is stifling my soul, and yet I cannot even let it go, so great is its control over me! If I do not learn to control it instead, how can I do anything? How can I help anyone? If I am not to – “

Silence, whelp!

It was the blood-curdling, animalistic growl behind the words that made Hiraiko fall over. She landed on her palms, shaken by the voice as it echoed around her. Such ferocious anger as she had never dreamed filled the darkness. She could feel it seething for a moment before returning to a semblance of calm. Not once in the course of their brief acquaintance had she been afraid of the voice. She was deathly afraid now.

I did not bring you here for your mewlings.

Slowly, the Summoner regained her composure. Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, she examined her palm where the basalt beneath her had scraped the flesh. Blood was already clotting the wound. Her other hand was frustratingly still wrapped around the Astral Signa. Straightening herself, Hiraiko faced the voice as best she could.

“Then speak, Diabolos,” she offered, “and I will listen.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. She could hear the darkness breathing. Her bleeding hand found itself clutching the Signa as well, her only shield against this monstrous presence surrounding her.

This place has become a prison. There is a sinister gathering behind all which has transpired. Their purpose is not known to me. They have gone to inconceivable lengths to conceal their true intent. I do know this – bringing down the barrier between Vana’diel and Dynamis was only a means to an end. The true plot of this assemblage is aimed at a much greater prize than simple destruction. Part of that scheme involved trapping me here. I can guess at why. You must free me, so that the threads of their plan might begin to unravel.

“Will you be able to end this nightmare?” Hiraiko felt bold enough again to pose the question. “If I do this, can you save Vana’diel?”

Such is not my intent.

She gaped openly. “Then . . . what?”

Even I am but a player in a much larger game. I may win this battle, but the war will only grow from here.

“Then why should I set you free at all?”

The mists at her feet suddenly swirled violently, rising up in the air to choke her. She heard Betrayil cry out for her again, but she could not respond. The air itself gagged her, tossing her to the floor in contempt.

I am a terrestrial avatar. I am of Vana’diel itself. Protecting this sphere is my primary concern in all I do. I am, however, wise enough to know my limitations. A lesson you would do well to learn.

Hiraiko choked, clutching at her throat as the mists receded. Gasping for air, she stared up at the surrounding darkness, a mixture of anger and shame swelling uncomfortably in her stomach. The darkness waited as she recovered. It said nothing, only breathed that growling breath.

When the Summoner stood again, anger had replaced fear. Not anger at the voice. Anger at herself. She did want to master the Astral Signa. She wanted to do whatever it took to end this senseless horror Dynamis had brought upon them. Hiraiko was infuriated she had let fear and doubt get the better of her. People were counting on her. She had the power to help and chose instead to cry and struggle.

Hiraiko stamped the Astral Signa to the ground. The mists crawled delicately across its surface. She faced the voice, unafraid.

“I will set you free. Tell me how.”

I do not know. You must do this on your own.

Hiraiko had been prepared for that. Taking a steadying breath, she took the Astral Signa in both hands, and opened herself to what lay within.

She was enveloped in the voices of the avatars. The espers drew her in to the darkness, beckoning to her with words of a language never perceived by mortal ears. Shiva’s words were syllables sounded out in degrees of cold. Ifrit’s voice was the roaring flame. The shifts of Vana’diel’s tectonic plates were the deep thoughts of Titan. Garuda spoke not with words, but changes in the air pressure. Leviathan’s meaning could only be gleaned from the changing tides. Ramuh communicated in the rumblings of thunder and flashes of lightning. They all came to her at once, an overwhelming barrage screaming at her from the Astral Signa. Her hands burned around it, but she could not feel them anymore. Her body stood in the Shrouded Maw, but her mind was somewhere else altogether.

The Summoner could still sense a form, with hands and arms, a head and hair, but these things seemed only ideas now. A phantom body suspended in place in this world of the avatars. She could hear their voices everywhere, a confusing and muddled series of random sensations and images. She had no frame of reference for even beginning to understand how to communicate with them. A Summoner borrowed power for a time, using it like a tool. What she was attempting to do was unprecedented.

She let go of control. She let go of her power. She sank into that other realm the Astral Signa allowed her to hear. And she simply listened.

“Darkness.”

“Seal.”

“Power.”

“Enemy!”

“Life.”

“Death!”

Amidst the endless stream of information which the Celestial Avatars put forward, understanding began to blossom.

“Sealed him in darkness.”

“His power was dispersed by the enemy.”

“Return him to the realm of life, so that he might bring death!”

And with understanding came realization. And with realization came sight.

She was looking through her own mortal eyes again, but the room was something entirely different. The mists, the darkness, everything. She could see it all clearly now. The room was alive with magic. Eldritch force unlike anything she had ever seen. Every corner, every nook and cranny, every shadow was overcome by a sealing spell more complex than any ever conceived. They were chains. Everything in the Shrouded Maw was a chain. Lurking just out of sight, she could see their prisoner. A force of unfathomable darkness, with two eyes glowing like the full moon peering forth from within.

“The darkness is the seal, dispersing his power. The enemy has chained his essence here, in this state between life and death.”

Hiraiko stared into the endless depths of the blackness around her.

“Yes,” she said aloud, “I hear you.”

Her consciousness flooded back into her body. She raised the Astral Signa over her head, and did what came naturally.

She summoned.

A circle of light appeared at her feet, a black halo surging up from nowhere. Ancient runes formed intricate patterns, spurred forth by Hiraiko’s calling. The sealing spell braced itself and shook, causing the entire chamber to tremble. The Astral Signa grew hot in her hands. Hiraiko ignored it, redoubling her efforts. She could see as the Avatars saw. The chains were visible to her now, and she weaved her power through them deftly. She wove through the strong, thick links and chipped away at them as she passed. She ran directly into the weaker snags and tangles, breaking them apart. The darkness grew closer, louder. Behind it, the two eyes shone brighter. At her feet the circle grew all the more intense, new sigils appearing, written by the unseen hand of Hiraiko’s power.

Dust and debris fell as the Shrouded Maw quaked. The great door in front of her began glowing red. The spell was unwraveling upon itself now. The Astral Signa amplified Hiraiko’s power beyond that of the hands which had woven this spell. The mists were receding. Light began creeping into the chamber as the darkness roiled and heaved, gathering in a single spot before her. As more and more facets of its intricate design unwound, they brought other pieces down with them. She marveled at its ingenuity. Nothing bound by that spell could hope to break free. The locks, however, were not so tight from the outside. Whomever put it in place clearly had no expectation of anyone ever finding what was trapped in Pso’Xja.

But Hiraiko had found it. With an explosive burst of dark forces beyond any realm of mortal man, she set it free as well.

Pso’Xja itself trembled to its foundations as a howl echoed across all of Beaucedine Glacier. A force larger and more terrible than anything Hirako had ever felt shattered the last of the chains which bound it.

She heard it whisper in her ear one last time.

You have taken your first step.

Your journey has only just begun. Destiny awaits you in Tavnazia.

Then, with a blast of might both ancient and overwhelming, the entire expanse of Pso’Xja quaked as the darkness broke free.


“Ah,” Fill said, lifting his head towards his rumbling ceiling, “that is what I was waiting for. Time to go now.”

“As you say,” Lethe acknowledged, and in a flash the both of them were gone.


Rykoshet’s hands grasped the shaft of Tzee Xicu’s spear as it shot towards him. Together, he and Battousai rose up, both great weapons poised for their attacker. The Elvaan brothers crashed into Rennie’s axe and sword, both held at bay. For the first time, anger crossed Rennie’s eyes.

“When?” He demanded. “When will this resistance end?”

“It won’t,” Rykoshet managed to snarl out between clenched teeth.

“My masters have ordered your collection,” Rennie pushed forward with his weapons, and both Dark Knights felt their knees begin to buckle. “I am inevitable. Give up, Rykoshet.”

“Always my biggest failing,” the Elvaan growled, straining every muscle he could to stay upright. “I just don’t know when to quit.”

“Fine,” the Hume withdrew his weapons in a flash, and both Elvaan stumbled forward, landing on their knees. “But I only need one of you.”

Thrusting his flaming sword forward, Rennie aimed straight for Battousai’s throat.

In that same instant, both siblings disappeared.


Coughing, ignoring the burns covering his body, Vile crawled up from the snow. The gateway had collapsed. The same explosion which had left him in his current state destroyed the area which had contained it. He was cut off from Pso’Xja, but that didn’t matter. His body was so mangled that it barely responded to him, which was also not a concern. His power was completely drained, but that was unimportant as well. Nothing had any meaning in this moment except that Attack was laying face up several feet away, and his chest was still moving.

As his hands clamped down upon the other Tarutaru’s throat, Vile made it clear he intended to remedy that problem.

Like a vise, he squeezed, and Attack’s eyes popped open as he gasped for air. He struggled feebly beneath Vile’s grasp as thumbs were pressed into his trachea. Unintelligible gurgles came from his mouth. Vile ignored them as he went about his work. There was enough strength in his body for this. He was going to end this atrocity of a Tarutaru once and for all.

He realized things might not go his way when Attack wrapped his own hands around Vile’s wrists, palms ablaze. Conjured fire, growing in intensity, shot its way up Vile’s arms. He stared into Attack’s reddening eyes. He didn’t care. He was so close now to putting this rabid creature down. If that meant his end as well, so be it. Worth the cost, he decided, to see this miserable thing off to its death first.

Their gazes locked. A hatred and malice like none other passed through their eyes as they both poured everything they had left into making the other one a corpse in the snow.

Air came flooding back into Attack’s lungs as Vile disappeared, fading into the wind as if he had never been at all.


A blast of arid mountain air brushed against Rykoshet’s cheek. The temperature was his first clue. The enormous spiraling sight of the Crag of Mea was his second.

He felt like he wanted to collapse, but managed to stay on his feet. Around him, Battousai was sitting on the ground, breathing heavily, trying to regain his strength. Hiraiko was clutched tightly in Betrayil’s arms, their embrace only slightly interrupted by the former’s grasp on the Astral Signa. They had made it out safely. They were back.

Fill stood behind the softly humming crystal of Mea. The gently-glowing blue rock pulsated as the North Wind, hands disappearing inside his sleeves, smiled gently at Rykoshet.

“Everything has been accomplished,” he spoke aloud. “The power unleashed at Pso’Xja allowed me the cover I needed.”

“You brought us back?” Rykoshet marveled. Then he froze just as quickly. “Where’s Vile?”

Fill’s visage altered only slightly. Stepping aside, he revealed Lethe crouched behind him. Laying atop the cermet spire of the Crag was Vile’s tiny body. Rykoshet almost retched at the sight of it. He was covered in burns and scars. His robes were in tatters, and it looked like his body had been broken apart.

“Is he . . .?”

Lethe shook his head. “His pain was too great. He has collapsed, but not before some choice expletives for taking him away from whatever he was doing.” He caught the concern in Rykoshet’s eyes. “I can heal him,” he assured. “It will take time, as my powers are still not recovered, but I promise you we will restore Vile to as he was before.”

A sigh of relief passed through him. “Thank you,” Rykoshet managed. Then he sat down himself. His hip was killing him.

Fill smiled again. “Thank you, Rykoshet. Healing Vile-Revile is the least we can do to repay you. Because of your efforts, Vana’diel now has a fighting chance. The avatar locked in Pso’Xja has been freed, I have escaped without revealing my brothers, and a course has been set. The winds know not the outcome, but the struggle itself would have been impossible if not for what you did here today.”

His words sunk in gradually. Turning his head upwards, he looked at the brown-bearded wizard with obvious confusion.

“Avatar?” he queried.

Fill only turned meaningfully towards Hiraiko. Betrayil still has his arms wrapped around her, but now she faced away, looking towards the sky.

“Come,” Fill said, “we will find a place to rest this evening. We have much to recover from. Then, we return your heroic group to Castle Oztroja, for there is yet much to be done.”

The North Wind gently descended the steps down to the earth below, gliding over them without effort. Rykoshet and Battousai struggled to follow as Lethe took up Vile’s body, trailing behind Fill. Hiraiko remained where she was as the others departed, enjoying Betrayil’s embrace, but with another thought weighing on her mind far more heavily.

The voices in the Astral Signa were silent. Her perception of reality had returned. The insanity she felt to be so soon impending was gone. The Celestial Avatars were still there to speak with, and she could feel them watching over her. Now, however, they would wait for her to listen. She also felt the absence of another voice. One which even now was hurtling home.

“That wasn’t Diabolos,” she whispered, setting the tip of the Astral Signa down. “That wasn’t Diabolos at all.”

Night began stealing across the horizon as she looked out across the Tahrongi Canyon.

“That was Fenrir.”

Chapter LXXIII: Following Your Dreams

The darkness reached out to Hiraiko. All hesitation gone, she reached back.

Descending into the depths of Pso’Xja, the Summoner found herself with little else to greet her. The red-glowing spheres which had illuminated her path downwards had all but faded away. Only darkness remained, pure and still. It called out to her, entreating her to move onwards. Though she could no longer ascertain where her footfalls took her, she pressed on nonetheless. By darkness she was entranced.

The voices which had so dominated her thoughts had now faded away entirely. They remained now as only a dull presence on the outskirts of her consciousness. Only one voice, with one powerful repeated command, echoed in her thoughts. I am coming! She urgently told the disembodied speaker. It did not change in tone or wording. Instead it only dragged out again, in a low but urgent growl, the same three words.

Come to me.

In her hands, the Astral Signa pulsed. The staff seemed alive with power now, radiating a dark force all around her. Denizen of Pso’Xja, ranging from the non-aggressive diremites to the stealthy and deadly Tonberries, curiously sought out the source of this malevolent aura. Hiraiko, her steps guided by darkness, did not put a thought towards eluding them. She only needed to keep on moving. Down, further and further into the ancient ruins she descended. Her destination was unknown to her, but she placed her faith in the dark voice calling her towards it.

With a start, she realized the ground was moving underneath her. Had she the presence of mind, Hiraiko would have marveled at the disc she had stepped upon which now floated downwards upon long-lost machinery. As it was, she only felt her anticipation growing. This machine was leading her towards the voice. And she had to go to the voice. There was nothing else to it.

Further into shadow she delved, chasing that which beckoned her. All the while she remained oblivious to the things now trailing after her.


Betrayil darted out ahead of Rykoshet. Whatever momentary despair had overtaken the ninja was gone quickly as it had come. His katana had been back in his hand before it had even settled on the floor. With Battousai and Rykoshet trailing behind, he now ran recklessly through the halls of Pso’Xja. Paramount in his mind was finding Hiraiko. Stealth, planning, and personal safety were secondary to this goal.

The Elvaan brothers had been quick to pick up the chase. Fill said nothing as they loosened their weapons and took off in pursuit of Betrayil. Rykoshet would not have stopped even if he had. He was not about to abandon Hiraiko in this forsaken hole, but the Ninja was not about to wait in finding her again. He was a flash of black against the dull red lighting of Pso’Xja. Straining his legs to keep up, Rykoshet rounded a corner only to find Betrayil already disappearing behind another. Battousai cursed loudly behind him, shouting at the Hume to slow down. It was a futile effort.

Finally, they found him. Betrayil was stopped, head cocked to face the two of them, at a fork in the path. His eyes were like flint as he watched them, his only motion tightening the grip on his single drawn katana.

“Betrayil,” Rykoshet began, surprised at how out-of-breath he was, “slow down. We don’t know where we are, and we’re getting away from the light.”

“This isn’t helping to find her,” Battousai chimed in. Rykoshet fought down annoyance at how easily his brother was breathing. “She couldn’t have gone far. If we search together it’ll go faster.”

“Neither of you are as fast as me,” he replied harshly. It surprised Rykoshet to hear the normally quiet Betrayil issue such a stinging rebuke. “But I can’t be in two places at once. I’m going left, you search the path to the right.”

“But – “ Rykoshet started.

“Call out if you find something. I’ll hear you.”

And then he was gone. Battousai growled out an oath, violently scraping the edge of his great sword against the dimly-lit stone walls.

“I hate Ninjas, dammit,” he said sourly. The scarred warrior then turned to his brother, eyes questioning.

Rykoshet groaned inwardly. He was tired, beat up, and didn’t have a clue where he was. Both ways he could see gradually descended into darkness. They could go back, but he wasn’t even sure if he could navigate the tunnels successfully, and even if he could there was only Fill to go back to. As long as the North Wind was refusing to leave before whatever unknown task they were supposed to accomplish was done, they were simply wasting time to hang around him.

He hated scenarios like this. No matter what he did there was no guarantee of getting anything done. Rykoshet cursed himself for blindly running after Betrayil in the first place. The Ninja could probably find Hiraiko by himself. All he had succeeded by following him was further splintering their small group.

The Elvaan peered back down the way he had come. They were only running for a few minutes. He could likely find a way back to the chamber the North Wind occupied. He stared down the hall Betrayil had indicated. It wove down several twists and turns before being consumed by darkness. There was no indication of what dangers lay waiting in shadow. The decision was very clear to Rykoshet, if no less painful to make.

“Vile’s back that way, and he’s angry,” Rykoshet said, turning to Battousai.

“Right, so we go down the hall.”

“Right.”

Without another word, the two brothers slid further down the labyrinth, the perils which could be waiting far preferable to that which assuredly did.


“I’m going to kill him,” Vile’s voice was acidic enough to melt stone.

“So you’ve said.”

The Tarutaru glanced angrily at the serene North Wind. The green-robed buffoon was gingerly scratching his moronic beard. He had all the expression of a sheet of glass. Thus far he seemed completely content listening to Vile rage at the revelation of who it was laying siege to Pso’Xja.

“You set this up,” the Black Mage growled suspiciously.

“I would have no reason to hide such information from you, Vile-Revile,” the way he tossed about his full name like it meant something made Vile want to peel the man’s lips off. “Despite you being acquainted with my antagonist, I still know nothing about his identity.”

“Yeah, well don’t waste time learning. It’s about to become a moot point.” The Tarutaru tore the staff on his back free. The black gem affixed to the top began to spit out black flames at his touch. “Where’s he trying to get in from?”

“There is a single weak point in the defenses of Pso’Xja,” Fill began. A weak point other than not being able to use any magic because it’ll tell the enemy exactly where all your friends are? thought Vile. “Lethe can lead you there. If a breach into the ruins is to be made, it will happen there.”

The water elemental who called himself the Herald stepped forward. “Wait,” Vile interjected. “What about this spot makes it a weak point?”

Fill nodded, like he had expected the question. Vile doubted the old charlatan had any powers beyond full bore insanity, being cooped up in this miserable den all the time. “Every entrance to Pso’Xja is blocked with a spell. The nature of the enchantment severely dampens the powers of anyone whom passes through.” He gazed meaningfully at the Black Mage. “This affects every entrance except one. It has always remained hidden, but the winds tell me I would be foolish to doubt the ability of the one coming to finish me off.”

Vile made a noise of disgust. “You’d be a fool if you thought he hadn’t already found it.”

“Impossible,” Lethe chimed in. Vile wanted to start a fire and boil the overblown water balloon. “A mage powerful enough to command demons, and seal off the exits as he has done . . . we would know immediately if he entered Pso’Xja itself.”

“Which is why he probably sent in his demons first,” Vile hissed. “I can feel their rancid presence like rotten meat.”

Lethe stared at him, and then turned towards the ceiling, casting his eyes upwards. A moment later he gaped at Fill, but the brown-bearded wizard put up a hand, looking at Vile intently.

“So, Vile-Revile,” he’d make him eat his own lips afterwards if he could, “what is your suggested course of action?”

“Get me to where this entrance is. He isn’t here, but he’ll be waiting. I’m taking the fight to him.”


Rykoshet halted Battousai in their tracks. The tunnels stretched out endlessly into darkness around them. He had long since lost track of which direction they had come from. Everything looked the same now. Light was almost non-existant. Their eyes had adjusted as well as they could, but there was precious little they could adjust to. The Elvaan brothers were stopped now in an open chamber. One path led back the way they came, the other up a set of stairs. Rykoshet had not seen anything which suggested Hiraiko had come this way. He looked from one entrance to the other with scarcely veiled frustration.

“I don’t know where to go,” he admitted.

“Hmm,” Battousai replied, eyes facing out the way they had come. “That’s a problem. Also, we’re surrounded.”

Rykoshet gave an exasperated sigh. “One thing at a time,” he admonished.

“Sorry,” the younger brother said sheepishly. Then both turned, and simultaneously shot a burst of dark magic at either doorway.

A screech of confusion cut off by the impact of their spell echoed from both sides of the room. The duo had their weapons drawn in the next instant. After only a moment, a hose of yellow-glowing eyes appeared from the darkness, flooding into the small chamber. Demons with cruel, hooked scythes, demons with massive axes, demons using only their bare hands; they all swarmed over Rykoshet and Battousai. The brothers stood back to back, letting the wave of Kindred come their way.

With devastating fury, the two counterattacked. Battousai swept his sword in an arc so fierce it cut through weapons and demon flesh with equal ease. Rykoshet lowered Tzee Xicu’s spear and charged forward. His initial thrust impaled a demon, and he lifted it from the ground with monstrous strength, using the writhing fiend as a battering ram. Battousai took hold of one demon looming over him, pressing a steel-plated palm over the surprised creature’s face. Tendrils of black magic shot through the demon and into the Elvaan, draining away his strength and life. With the force of the one he had drained, the younger of the two brothers cleaved two more of the Kindred with a single slash. They still flooded over the two, but Rykoshet twirled the massive spear over his head, creating a whirlwind of death to all that came near.

Then a well-aimed strike clipped Rykoshet’s knee. The Elvaan stumbled forward, giving the demons the second they needed to swarm over him. They clawed and bit at him, stumbling over themselves in their bid to reach him. Battousai ran towards him, but another set of demons grabbed him, shoving him to the ground. He kicked and thrashed, fighting his way free at first, but then others joined in dogpiling him. Several armed demons were struggling to pull their overzealous brethren away so that they might finish the two off with a single blow. One of them raised an axe high overhead, fully prepared to cleave through other Kindred in order to take Rykoshet’s head.

The howl the plethora of demons gave as two sets of Dread Spikes ruptured the air. Those which had been atop the two Elvaan cried pitifully as their own life was drained away to heal the same wounds they had inflicted. Dark surges of energy crackled in the air as Rykoshet and Battousai both rose, weapons in hand. Still the demons pressed forward, thrusting at them from a distance and forcing them backwards one step at a time. At least twenty of them had crowded into the tiny space, howling and cursing in the demon tongue at the pair. Rykoshet shot his brother a glance even as he parried a slash meant to eviscerate him.

“Can you keep this up long?” His own voice was terse. The effort of maintaining Dread Spikes was often not worth the risk.

Battousai only shook his head. Beads of sweat were dripping down his face, cresting his X-shaped scar. The dark force around him wavered.

“Then we’ll end it,” Rykoshet said, thrusting his spear defensively, “I’ll cover you. Now!”

The elder brother cut out in front of the younger, slashing wildly with his spear. He let his spikes drop, and instead focused his energy on driving them back with one desperate charge. A moment of confusion rippled through their ranks at his mad charge. Then, they realized they still had the vast advantage in numbers. They were on him like flies upon a rotting carcass in instants. Fortunately, that was all the time Rykoshet needed.

Battousai came down, great sword first, from his leap. Just as he had done with the Roc, the Dark Knight crashed to the ground with explosive force, striking the heart of the Kindred with a shattering blow. Exactly how shattering he didn’t realize, however, until the floor collapsed beneath them.

The rock and granite surface exploded beneath the force of Battousai’s signature Ground Strike. Cries erupted from the Kindred as the entire room collapsed. In a haze of smoke and a noise which echoed throughout Pso’Xja, the chamber burst apart. Rykoshet and Battousai clung to their weapons as the floor buckled beneath them, and the two plunged downward into a spiral of ever-deepening darkness.


She could hear the voice in the darkness now as clearly as if it were standing right next to her. Desperately, Hiraiko wanted to press forward. One more door and she would finally reach it. All she had to do was cross this final barrier and she would stand face to face with the darkness itself. Consternation was far greater than fear as she stared up at the two demons looming over her, standing solidly between her and the door she sought.

The Summoner took a step backwards, and they advanced on her menacingly. They appeared as surprised as she was, but they overcame that almost immediately. Both were standard demons as Hiraiko had always seen before. Tall and lanky with a body segmented by thick plate-like skin over their wire-thin frames. Small semi-functional wings flared out at the sight of her, and two fang-filled muzzles opened as their glowing yellow eyes focused on the lone girl.

Hiraiko raised the Astral Signa in defense. The two demons both brandished long, curved swords forged of blackest steel. They took another step towards her, eyes now glowing fiercely as they determined this would be an easy kill. The Summoner was lost in the haze of her calling. The voice had said nothing about fighting. She didn’t want to fight. She wanted to cross through that door. Curved claws on their hooked feet clacked against the granite floor as they advanced on her. She had to get through that door.

The demons halted, merely a few feet away from her. Hiraiko slowly raised her head, peering at the two mutely. They were no longer looking at her. Instead, their gaze was directed at something just past her.

She looked up at the two towering brutes, still holding their blades aloft. They growled to themselves in their demonic tongue. One of them shouted, bringing up its weapon and swinging it menacingly. For a moment, the true nature of her situation gripped her. She felt the cold grip of fear clutch at her stomach, and her hands trembled on the Astral Signa. The Summoner wanted to throw down the staff and run. But now it was increasingly apparent that there was nowhere to run to. Besides the demons in front of her, something was definitely lurking behind.

Surpressing the urge to tightly close her eyes, Hiraiko turned her head from the demons. Slowly, she let herself look behind her. She gasped as a breeze suddenly struck her from nowhere, and then blinked rapidly. There was nothing behind her at all. Only the empty hallway she had first descended. With a start, she sprang back around as a clatter rang out from in front of her.

Drawing the blade of his katana free, Betrayil stood poised over two dead demons. A river of black blood pooled beneath the two fresh corpses. Their swords had fallen to the ground, useless in their limp hands. The Ninja allowed himself only a brief moment to make sure he had been successful in his attack. With a flick of both hands, a black, foul-smelling powder fell from his gloves. A moment later the two bodies burst into flames. Wordlessly, the black-garbed Hume stepped between the burning demons, sheathing his weapons as he approached Hiraiko.

He reached out a hand for her, and she brushed it away. The butt of the Astral Signa came down to strike the ground. Betrayil stared at her, confused.

“I have to go to it,” she said aloud. The sound of her own voice startled her. It felt like ages since she had heard it last. Since there had been anything besides the one driving voice pushing her forward. “I don’t know why, but I must. I must.”

Betrayil looked at her with a raptor’s gaze. She met his gaze with one equally as intense. She had to reach that doorway. No matter what else might happen, she had to reach the voice.

The Ninja’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. “I don’t pretend to understand everything happening here,” he admitted. “Four Winds, demons, Dynamis – I just take it as it comes.”

He reached out for her, and this time she let him gently slide his hand over hers. She felt her fingers stretch out, removing her grasp from the Astral Signa. It felt as if she had not let go since she first took hold of it. The Summoner’s bones ached as she took Betrayil’s hand in hers.

“But I understand that I am lost without you,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I will not stop you from doing whatever it is you must. But I will not let you do it alone.”

After only a moment’s pause, a smile broke out across Hiraiko’s face. She pulled Betrayil in to a long embrace. The voice had fallen silent. It no longer needed to speak. Her trials were over. It was time, finally, to meet her dark speaker.

“Then come with me, Betrayil,” Hiraiko agreed, raking her hands through his hair as she pulled away. He nodded once, and without hesitation he stepped aside to let her pass.

With the Ninja following behind, Hiraiko slid open the glowing granite door, and together they entered the Shrouded Maw.


Rykoshet groaned as the first hint of consciousness returned to him. His first instinct was to sit up, but pain seared through him when he tried. Even through his armor he knew his collarbone had been bruised at best, broken at worst. It hurt to even raise his head. Still, he knew roughly where he was; atop a pile of rubble an indeterminate number of yards down from where he had been standing before his younger brother had broken through the floor. Other than that, he was lost again.

A weak cough came from his side, and he winced shifting his eyes to find the source. Battousai was pulling himself clear from the debris. His black armor was caked in dust, and chunks of stone and dirt were falling like snow from his shaggy blonde hair. The scarred Elvaan coughed with more violence, hacking up pieces of what had once been a room in Pso’Xja. He hobbled over to his brother, wincing at every step and favoring his right leg. Reaching out a gauntleted hand to Rykoshet, he grimaced against whatever pain he was feeling himself.

“I think we got ‘em,” he said as Rykoshet clasped his hand. The elder brother cried out as he was pulled upwards. He came up staggering, clutching the area near his neck. It felt like his bones were on fire.

Sure enough, the pile of rubble they had landed atop was demarcated with the remains of their assailants. Broken limbs and shattered bones stuck out from the blood-stained wreckage.

“Sweet Altana, that hurt.” Rykoshet braced himself as he struggled to move his right arm. “But you’re right, I guess. We made it out of there at least.”

“No closer to finding Hiraiko.”

“Betrayil probably got her already. Let’s try and find some way back to Fill, then we can – “

He stopped. They both did.

Both of them felt the tremendous, undisguised force coming their way. Rykoshet’s mouth went dry as the familiar aura grew closer, and closer still. The sound of gentle footfalls moving at a gradual, measured pace came echoing down the hall. With every slow, deliberate step it came closer, until the huge chi was right on top of them.

“Oh no,” Rykoshet gasped, more from disbelief than anything. “No, no, not now.”

The footsteps came closer still. The Elvaan’s eyes darted across the rubble, and settled on the shaft of Tzee Xicu’s spear rising up from the debris. It was several feet away from him. There was no way he had enough time.

“What is it?” Battousai’s voice was urgent as he took a step away from the singular doorway leading into the room they had fallen into.

Rykoshet could have screamed in frustration as the source of the aura rounded the corner into the room.

It was Rennie.

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.