Silence confronted Velerin Ascavar as he stared unrelentingly at the darkened walls of Castle Baron. Most especially at the gate, but also at the black archer sniping holes that had been converted into cannon pits. His eyes searched, and his mind, as was so frequently the case these days, was occupied with hunting out every weakness. For example, the narrowness of the holes prevented canon firing angles more than a few degrees in each direction.
Assuming the cannons would be firing at all. Those that were nearest the gate were the first target of the Eblani, even before the gate itself. They had entered the underground pass almost an hour ago; they ought to be in position by now. The gate would open at any moment. If it had been timed right, it would open bare minutes before the sun peeked over the horizon. Even now, he could see the sky to the east changing shades from dark black to pale gray.
A fire arrow streaked up from the battlements. That was the signal - burning by King Edge’s own limited magic, it would not go out even in rain. Assurance that it would be seen.
Velerin readied his spear, and heard a rustle and light clangs behind him as his contingent of Dragoons, in their dragon-modeled helmets and blue-tinted armor, followed suit. His men. Two weeks ago, he would never have dreamed of commanding more than his own squad. Now, he led half an army.
He swung his spear in a tight arc before him, and called out a soft command. The wedge formed, with one man just ahead of him, another ahead and to the right, and a third to the left, the rest extending around him and out to the rear in a V-formation, three men deep. In the center of that V were more dragoons, ready for swift offensive action. The men in the wedge wouldn’t even have to break ranks for them.
Velerin himself would be one of those men. It was probably unwise for a commander to take himself into the midst of the fray, but he had never claimed to always do what was intelligent or rational. He would find the man that had done this. And he would destroy him.
There was the screeching sound of metal on metal, and the iron portcullis slowly rose. There was a thunder of clawed feet as the cavalry rushed in from each flank, rushing for the door, aiming to reach and secure it before the enemy had the chance to recapture and close it. Velerin didn’t think the cavalry would be much use inside the castle grounds, but they needed speed for now, and the riders could always dismount and defend themselves with those massive oversized pikes.
He saw the first of the chocobo-mounted men disappear through the gate. It was time. He reached his spear back over his shoulder and swung it forward. It was the signal for the charge.
"They’re on their way," Palom whispered in the shadows of the darkened hallway. In his deep blue robes, so deep a blue that they were almost black, he was nearly invisible in the darkness.
It occurred to Corvin to wonder how the wizard could possibly know. But his father, standing nearby, simply nodded; Corvin supposed he would ask him about it, later.
Four live Eblani, one Black Wizard, and one Mysidian sorceress occupied what had been an archer’s port. Two dead cannon operators occupied the floor, and blood stained the smooth granite that they had stood on. It had begun. It would be over before the day was done.
He heard the muted thunder-sound of Chocobos, somewhere below them, rushing through the gate.
"Shouldn’t we be going down now?" he asked.
"He’s right," Edge said. "Which way, Palom? You know this place better than I do."
"We take this corridor, then go down the staircase to the right. This area inside the walls is fairly easy to find a path through."
Corvin felt magic crackle around him as they moved away from the now empty archer’s post. He knew the feeling well enough by now: one of Ophelia’s spells, a protection magic. She walked just behind him, and just in front of Palom, who guarded the rear. Corvin wondered why she had decided to come along; after all, they only needed one wizard.
Of course, Palom’s magic was solely Black. Maybe that was the reason. Either way, he’d be damned if he would let her die.
The sun would be up soon. That fact slid across the surface of Corvin’s thoughts, for some reason.
They found some more of the mind-warped men at the bottom of the stairwell. There wasn’t even any need for magic: The four Eblani killed them quickly and efficiently, Edge and his two men with swords, Corvin with his knives. Today, he fought the way he knew.
He wiped his bloody knife on the body of one of the fallen, and looked up. Edge stood by the door, and looked ready to open it. His swords were bared again; strange swords, swords that each seemed wrapped in some ethereal substance. One of them projected an aura of shadows and inky night, the other a cold, white glow. It wasn’t anything visible, just a sensation, but those swords made Corvin shiver.
The door swung open, and they were greeted by the roar of battle. The cavalry had dismounted and was struggling to hold the gate...long pikes barely sufficed, when the enemy seemed nearly suicidal. Those cannons that remained untaken could be heard firing, again and again.
The six of them seemed only of passing interest. That ended, though, when Palom began biting large chunks out of the rear end of the enemy forces with fire and lightning. Ophelia seemed occupied with maintaining her protective spell; and it held, as was evidenced by arrows and crossbow bolts that shattered against an invisible wall several yards out. Magic met magic, though, after a few moments; Palom’s spells were absorbed or deflected, and a bolt of lightning struck the ground right at Corvin’s feet. When he got up, dazed, it was to see men fighting men, Edge and his two Eblani escorts meeting steel with steel. Palom and Ophelia had backed up to the wall, both of them chanting. Working Black magic, both of them. Of the ten that opposed them, four were dropped when Palom completed his spell and locked them in solid ice. Ophelia, though, was forced to redirect her own magic at the last moment when someone managed to get around to her with a spear. Fire erupted in the man’s face, and when it faded away, nothing stood there but a blackened corpse.
Corvin reached his feet, and saw a second group headed for them. He grinned almost with excitement. Even as mediocre with a sword as he was, he could still do some good. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a bottle, similar to the one he had used during the encounter in the mountains. He hurled it with all his strength behind his arm, and when the blast faded away, the second group had fallen without even reaching them.
They were in the clear, it seemed. But one of Edge’s men had fallen, one of the Eblani. No time to mourn, though; Edge and his remaining companion headed for the main battle, leaving Corvin, Palom, and Ophelia alone.
And Ophelia was crying.
Strange, that in the midst of a battle, that thought would take precedence in Corvin’s head. But it did.
A remembered conversation: I threw fire from my own hands, fire that burned people alive. I stood with my fellows, and we used our powers to kill. Ophelia’s voice. What this must be doing to her, Corvin didn’t know, but as he looked down at the man she had just destroyed, he knew that something in the act hurt her, hurt her terribly.
Her voice again, a remembered voice, but he heard it as if it only just now spoke:
What if we could have done it differently? What if we could have done it without killing anybody?
Corvin lent her an arm, a shoulder to lean on, and she cried softly, while men died. He looked at Palom, met his eyes, and something in those eyes told him that the old wizard understood. Those that came near, died by Palom’s magic. He didn’t even use words, but was controlling the power by thought alone. All to give her time to cry.
It didn’t last long, less than a minute, and they didn’t speak when she was done. Corvin faced away from her and drew his sword, and looked again at Palom, as if to say, What do I do now? Palom shrugged almost imperceptibly, and twitched his head toward the battle. Corvin understood; what was necessary had to come before what was right.
Corvin hesitated just a moment, and lifted his own voice. He had no magic, but it was time to fight. Jur would be fighting today anyway, had insisted on it, but Corvin wanted to fight at his side. A warrior, a wizardess, and a monster, he thought as Palom seemed to almost fade into the shadows along the wall, moving away. A warrior, a wizardess, and a monster. And himself also an engineer in his own right, if what Cid had told him that morning was to be believed.
The spell reached it’s threshold, the point of contact alone. The words laid out the situation, and Jurgander answered with only one word: Yes. And then it was over, power flowed out of him, and the turtle-like beast coalesced at his side. And they moved forward, without words. Ophelia had taken up her chant again, but this time it was only protective, and not a solid barrier, for such would keep the two of them from doing what they had to. Corvin was glad to see that she could still do what had to be done, even when her mind must still be screaming at her.
He spared the time to wonder how he could know anything about what went through her head, but then the battle was upon them.
"Cecil."
One word. One name. Only one, but it was almost too bad, really. As Vashin stood there, in that second-story chamber, the one with the stained-glass window looking out over the courtyard and the two of standard glass, extending right to the floor on each side, he wished that he could take back that salutation. Far easier, to hope that this encounter needn’t even happen at all. A futile hope, of course, and as he stood there in standard Baronian half-plate armor, sword in hand and shield on his arm, he knew it.
The old Paladin turned his head from the right-hand window, where he had been looking down at the battle. He should have been down there, with his men. But no; finding the man behind it all was more important, and Cecil had thought that the tower was the place to look.
Well, you were right, Vashin thought.
"Vashin?" Cecil asked with surprise, and relief. "I thought you were dead!"
In a way, Cecil, you’re right. "Why are you up here?"
Cecil motioned toward the window. "See that? I should be down there. But I have to find whoever began this. Maybe if I can, maybe this will stop, maybe the killing will be over."
"Doubt it," Vashin said woodenly.
Cecil sighed bitterly. "Well, you would be the expert on that, wouldn’t you? Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. But I’m close enough, now. I can follow the darkness. Even if it won’t halt the battle, I have to find the person who caused this."
Vashin moved over to the window, next to Cecil. He was close enough, he thought. Close enough to end it now. The old king would have no warning. But no; if he was going to win, he would win with at least some of his honor intact. What little of it there was left.
"You don’t have to look any further," he said, with an almost resigned tone. Cecil looked at him quizzically. Most of his face was hidden by his helmet, but his eyes were clear of it, and it was enough for Vashin to gain some idea from his face, of what he was thinking. And he could tell that realization hadn’t arrived, yet. He had remained hidden to the end.
"I did this," he said. Vashin's voice was so low that he wasn’t sure it was even audible. But from the way the white-armored Paladin leaped away from him, sword being drawn half-free of the sheath at his side, Vashin could tell that he had heard.
His own sword was already free, but he didn’t use it. Not yet. "Well, Cecil? You’re going to have to kill me, of course. Here’s your chance."
"Face me," Cecil ordered, in a tone chiseled from ice. Vashin turned around.
"Why?" Cecil asked.
"None of your business," Vashin snapped. It was enough. He had given Cecil the chance to kill him, the chance to end it for both of them. It wasn’t enough to satisfy honor, but it was the best he could do short of killing himself. And that, he would not do.
Vashin raised his sword to guard position. "You might as well defend yourself, Cecil."
Slowly, with hesitation, Cecil drew his own sword and raised it. But even if there was hesitation in his actions, his voice was carved from stone. "I’ll kill you."
"Maybe. We’ll see."
It was the end of conversation. Normal steel met pure white blade, and the room rang with the sound of clashing metal. Both of them had been trained to the same style of swordsmanship, so it was more of a defensive battle than most; each could recognize the other’s attacks long before it was too late to block them.
Within minutes, Vashin was sweating, and it ran in rivulets down the inner padding of his armor. They traded blows until it seemed his arm was about to fall off. It was more of an even battle than he would have thought; Cecil was a swordsman almost without equal, but he was past his prime, now, and nearly forty. Vashin still had his youth.
But, he thought, when he found his sword torn from his hand by a particularly vicious strike, it wasn’t quite enough to redress the balance. Lunging forward, he slammed Cecil’s face with his shield, knocking him backward, and picked up his own sword again, turning only just in time to catch another strike on his shield. The shield came away from the encounter with a long dent.
A shout rang out behind him: "Cecil!"
He recognized the voice, of course. Kain, of the dragoons. Cecil’s slight lifting of the eyes, looking up above Vashin’s head, was his only warning. Vashin threw himself to one side as Kain Highwind descended, his glowing white spear driving half a foot down into the stone floor.
As Vashin rolled to the right across the floor, he realized moments too late that he had forgotten one thing.
His right side had been facing the stained glass window.
And the window stretched down to the floor.
Vashin crashed through the glass, which shattered as he fell through. If not for his armor, the shards would have torn his flesh to shreds. As it was, he felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, and he fell. There was shouting below him.
Corvin noted the event from just out of the corner of his eye, saw someone - he wasn’t sure who - fall through the second story window. He saw that person drop some fifteen feet to the ground, and land heavily atop a pair of dead bodies. He saw that person stand up, brush himself off, and walk away. His mind filed those images away almost without being aware of them.
And then it was brought back to the present. An unpleasant present. Completely surrounded by the enemy, the three of them only lived, now, because they were hidden behind an impenetrable sphere. A sphere that Ophelia was upholding with all her might, every scrap of magic dedicated to keeping everyone out.
So here they sat. Waiting for their allies to break through the enemy line at some point, hopefully before Ophelia’s strength gave out. But from the way they were being pushed back, almost back to the gates now, that didn’t seem likely. Bahamut could have turned the tide, Corvin thought. But the dragon was nowhere in sight.
Which meant, most likely, they were going to die. The prospect didn’t disturb him as much as it seemed it should.
Jur lay at his side, breathing hard. Bright yellow blood flowed slowly down his shell, dripping off the edge. The stone melted when that blood fell on it. That was how hot it was. The men that had made the cuts had discovered that in the most painful possible manner as spurting blood under pressure sprayed over them, scorching whatever flesh it touched. But the blood had slowed to a trickle. Corvin thought the monster would die soon, from the loss.
Corvin himself sat the stone ground of the courtyard, both his twin blades dripping with blood. His daggers were gone, all of them. He had a bottle bomb left, though, and a much more powerful mining bomb that he hadn't dared use as a weapon. The rotorbow he had brought with him was still strapped to his back, but he doubted it would make a difference at this point. He had lost count of his own wounds; the only ones he noticed, now, were the long one down his right side and the short, deep one in his left shoulder, the one that made it almost impossible for him to use that arm at all.
Ophelia was untouched physically. But she looked on the verge of collapse. All her energy went into the shield.
And she hadn’t killed a man with magic since that moment just outside the walls.
There had been voices. Screams. Blood and fire and death. He met another man’s blade with his own, struck back, killed him. Two more faced him, then three. Too many for him to handle. Too many. He parried the first strike desperately, and the second, but the third broke through and opened the long wound that now decorated his right side. He kept fighting, not even trying to kill now, just struggling to stay alive. He shouted over his shoulder, shouted for her, shouted for help. Shouted for her to kill them. She was to his left, protected by a barrier and yet still somehow managing to put together another spell, still, words pouring from her lips. But her voice caught on the last one, and halted.
"I can’t!" she had shouted.
She couldn’t kill. Not again, not even once more. He understood that the same way he understood how to breathe. Something, something beyond her control, had broken her power. A memory crossed his mind, of her standing over a burned and blackened corpse, weeping. That would be the moment, he thought. No. Not even that. Earlier. It was when she killed her friend in the mountains.
He kept fighting, but his mind called out for Jurgander. The monster, twenty yards away, turned and headed for them. Corvin defended himself as best he could.
Behind him, Ophelia took up her chant again, struggling with it. A good attitude, he thought. Don’t give up, never give up until you die. But not this time. Let it go, you’ll hurt yourself...
She reached that last word again, and this time, she forced it out.
And the spell exploded in their faces.
Corvin spared himself a moment, for the memory. The memory of raw magic detonating almost on top of him. Himself, his three opponents, even Jurgander who had still been seven or eight yards away, were knocked unconscious by the blast. He had woken to a healing spell, a small one. And he hadn’t had time to question before he was forced to fight again.
It wasn’t her fault. Not her fault at all. He looked at her, standing there, eyes closed, given over wholly to the magic. The magic that could keep them alive for now, but not forever. Not long enough. Even now, he could see that her strength was waning.
She knew it too, apparently. Her eyes opened, and her chant stopped. She held the magic with her mind alone, now.
"I can’t hold," she said simply. "Not much longer."
Corvin simply nodded sadly. Jurgander moved over next to him, in that peculiar motion of his that was almost a waddle, and dropped to the ground. It seemed his way of saying, We die together.
Ophelia sat down next to him, and he dropped both his swords and put an arm around her. His left arm; it hurt like hell to move it, but right now, he didn’t much care. She leaned her head up against his shoulder.
Something inside of him, something that hadn’t given itself over to quiet resignation, suddenly rebelled against it all, against everything. He ignored it.
When all else fails, get angry. It was his father’s voice, a memory of a training session three years ago.
Go away, father, he thought. Let me die in peace. I have my best friend, and I have...her. It’s all I need.
The voice ignored him. When all else fails, get angry. Rage is a weapon of enormous power. I speak as a man who has used it, used it to its full potential.
Go away, Corvin thought again.
But something had been sparked. That something that hadn’t given up yet. He couldn’t quite recognize it, though. It was just a...feeling.
It’s not something you can learn. By the time you reach the point where you can use it, rational thought will be gone.
He looked down at...at her. He didn’t want to die, but he was ready to accept it. What about her, though? She had come with them for him...he knew that, now. How, he wasn’t sure, but....
He’d be damned if he would let her die for his sake.
How? he asked. Dredging up memories three years old.
There is no how to it. You either do it, or you don’t. Anger isn’t something that can be faked. Blind rage does not come from conscious thought.
That’s not very helpful.
I know.
Corvin sat there, as the barrier grew ever closer to giving out, and he thought. Rage. How on earth could he make himself angry? Was it even possible to do such a thing deliberately?
Another remembered conversation. This time with Cid.
Back during the Second Crystal War - you remember your history, right, Corvin? - back during that war, your mother summoned Bahamut during the final battle, sent him right down into the very center of the fight. Your father didn’t realize at the time exactly what that meant, until Cecil told him the truth: that when a monster dies, so does the one who called him. And even Bahamut couldn’t survive those odds. Your father went berserk. He and Cecil, and Kain and Leviathan, went right out into the fray themselves. I saw it from the walls. That day, Edge fought like a demon...but don’t ever tell him I said that, eh?
He could hear the ghostly echo of Cid chuckling, somewhere in the back of his head. Something in there pricked at Corvin’s mind.
He looked down again, at Ophelia. Could he use her, use the possibility of her death, to awaken that kind of rage, like his father had done?
Did he care that much?
Did he want to care that much? It was a disturbing thought.
He gave it a try. He closed his eyes, and ran the scene over through his head. The barrier weakening, then gone. The enemy recognizing it, forcing their way through. Himself, and Jurgander, rising to meet them, but failing, and once they were dead, he watched men in his mind’s eye taking blades and spears and cutting her down where she stood....
Corvin gasped sharply and opened his eyes. It hurt, that image.
So he did it again, and again. He knew it would work. And after all, it was the only chance he had. He played the scene in his mind, no longer focusing on the image of Ophelia, but instead focusing on the faces of those that killed her. He knew it would work, and it did work. He could feel that something, that small corner of his mind that hadn’t given up, and he saw it, recognized it. Pure, inexorable fury.
It rose in him, rose until he felt that he couldn’t contain it anymore. He stood up, and the other two looked at him.
Now that it was there, it was difficult to restrain, difficult to consciously hold himself just on this side of the edge.
Both of them looked up, the same question in both sets of eyes.
"In about ten seconds," Corvin began. He hesitated, but only for a moment. His voice was frozen fire. "In about ten seconds, drop the shield."
Ophelia opened her mouth - to question, he thought - but one look at his eyes, burning with inner rage, made her silent.
Jurgander saw it too. And Corvin thought he could recognize it for what it was, because he nodded solemnly.
"Protect her," Corvin ordered.
Seconds of silence. He ran the images through his head, again and again, faster and faster, wearing down his own mind. He wasn’t sure anymore, if it was imagination or reality. And then, the concept of imagination disappeared, and it was reality. He heard a banshee scream and thought it sounded like his own voice. Conscious thought left him at last, and the world turned white before his eyes.