As one Eblani ninja fell blindly, deliberately, into the abyss of pure rage, the father of that Eblani stood atop the walls of stone, head tilted back, watching as a huge, gray-skinned dragon descended at high speed from the skies. Bahamut. King of Dragons, Lord of the proudest race of beings on the face of the planet, he was essentially all they had, now, to base their hopes on. The troops were being driven back, and though the tiny single-rotor Stingrays picked away at the enemy, it wasn’t enough to turn the tide.
And from up here, Edge could see what nearly everyone else had missed. They were outnumbered, and outnumbered heavily. The former residents of Baron Town now fought for their enemies.
Bahamut cupped his wings and thrust them downward just above the wall top, bringing himself to an abrupt and almost instantaneous mid-air halt. The sudden rush of air nearly knocked Edge off his feet as Bahamut dropped the remaining three feet to the stone parapet, landing with a loud thump. The old dragon’s greeting was little more than an indecipherable grunt.
"What took so long?" Edge asked. His voice grated, and well it might; men were dying in a battle that could have been over by now, if Bahamut had been there.
Bahamut ignored the question. "Where is Rydia?" he demanded.
"Out there," Edge responded, pointing out towards the plains where the relief troops were. "I didn’t want her joining the battle."
It was hard to read the expressions on Bahamut’s face, but if Edge had been a judge of such things, he would have said Bahamut approved. He didn’t have the chance to ask, though. The old dragon cupped air with his wings again, lifted himself over the side of the wall, and dropped with a second thud to the courtyard below.
When Edge followed, taking the thirty foot fall easily, there were two dragons.
One, of course, was Bahamut. The other was no one he recognized. Of course, there were no other dragons he recognized, so that didn’t say much. The courtyard had suddenly been cleared for a distance of about a hundred paces around the two dragons. Unsurprising; Bahamut alone was enough to instill fear. Two dragons would be even worse.
The other dragon, a being that looked as if his skin was perpetually frosted over, then made a peculiar gesture. Making a long step forward, he dropped to one knee, dug his foreclaws into the stone, and raised his wings as far as they would go. Edge assumed it was some sort of salute.
Bahamut didn’t acknowledge it; Edge wondered if it required acknowledgement.
"What are you doing here, Vor?" Bahamut asked in a sour tone.
"You know my name," the other dragon noted.
"I know every one of my people as if they were myself. You know that. Why are you here, Vor?"
"I was summoned," Vor said, as if that settled the matter.
And apparently it did, because Bahamut nodded and turned away. "You can help, then. Go to the...."
He didn’t have time to finish. Edge certainly didn’t have time to call out a warning when Vor lifted his head and a strange frozen fire billowed forth, so cold that edge, ten feet away, felt it like ice sliding across his skin.
When the cold wind cleared away, Bahamut stood encased in solid ice.
Edge blinked, twice. The sight was so sudden, so completely unbelievable that it was almost surreal. He thought his eyes would fall out of his head and roll across the floor.
And Vor laughed.
Edge stared at him a moment, then drew his twin swords. He didn’t think they would do much good, but he had to try.
Vor advanced, and Edge backed away, slowly, ready to leap to either side at the first hint of frozen fire. Vor laughed again.
"You’re a fool, you know," he said. "To gamble everything on him. That was easier than I would’ve thought it to be. Bah. He was a damn fool, too, to turn his back."
A loud crack! rang out in the courtyard, loud enough to hurt the ears.
A loud crack, followed by a flapping wing. And when Edge looked up again, he would have sworn he was dreaming.
Inside his prison of solid ice, ice several inches thick in most places, nearly a foot thick in others, Bahamut was still alive. And by some effort of superhuman willpower, he had torn one wing free in the mere seconds that Vor had been looking away.
As Edge watched, Bahamut flexed muscles that must have had the force of...of he didn’t know what, behind them. Ice slid free like falling glass shards, shattering on contact with the granite stone beneath it.
There was something in the old dragon’s eyes. Edge couldn’t tell what it was, but the mere impression made him not only want to run away, but keep running until the castle had long vanished over the horizon.
"Eslerel," Bahamut said. The word had a dark sound to it, and his voice was like metal scraping across gravel. "Achame ire, dalem eleme."
It was no human tongue; Edge understood that instantly. Whatever it meant, though, made the dragon named Vor snarl and back away. He didn’t move fast enough. In that moment, Edge found out exactly how much strength a dragon used to fly. More specifically, he learned that the strength behind one of Bahamut’s wings, when swung in an inexorable arc of motion, was more than sufficient to hurl Vor against the inner side of the walls. So much beyond sufficient, in fact, that the wall caved in slightly under the impact, making a permanent impression.
"Go," Bahamut ordered. "This is a blood duel between dragons. Neither he nor I may leave this place until one or the other is dead. Leave. I will join you when I have finished here."
Edge stared at him, not comprehending for a moment. Then, he turned and ran back towards the bloody din of the battle. His twin blades hummed with power as he disappeared into the enemy midst, power reciprocated by the armor that twisted blades and arrows around it, as if it were a fold in reality. And a fold it was, in truth.
He entered the battle, but even the noise around him was nothing compared to the roars of two murderous dragons, locked in combat to the death.
The light was blinding. The colors were an endless array of rainbow hues, the sounds and the colors and the smells and the sense of the battle, all of it, blended together like watercolors. The only thing that was really real were the swords in his two hands.
The light consumed his entire being. All of it, everything, was nothing compared to the light.
The light....
The light was gone.
Corvin opened his eyes. The fury, the rage, the anger, the emotion. It was gone. It had burned itself up.
He looked down at himself. Only then did he realize that he wasn’t standing, but instead lying back on the ground. Surrounding him, for ten paces in any direction, were bodies. Grotesquely dismembered in most cases and almost unrecognizable in others, only logical thought told him that this was his own work. Not all of it was done with a sword, either; the rotorbow slung at his back was gone. He vaguely remembered tossing it away, its cartridge empty. The remaining bottle bomb inside his vest was gone, too. So were most of his throwing stars. The small, but horrifically potent mining bomb remained, though.
He was covered in blood. Some of it was his own. Most of it wasn’t.
"Well, I see you’re awake," a voice said above him. He struggled a moment to place it. Of course. His father’s.
"What happened?" he asked. "No, wait...I remember...."
"Too bad. From my own experience, I would imagine it’s better not to remember. Can you stand up?"
"Yeah."
It was a struggle, but he managed it. Barely. Next to his father stood Ophelia, staring at him with concern in her eyes. And perhaps something more? Corvin didn’t know. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either. But she was unharmed. That was the important thing.
Jurgander had flopped to the ground at her feet. Crusted blood covered his shell, but there was no wound still bleeding. Ophelia's work, Corvin thought. He wondered how she'd summoned the strength for it, already exhausted as she'd been.
"Are you all..." he began, but before he had the chance to finish she grabbed his head in her hands. There was a surge of magic, and Corvin gasped. Wounds he hadn’t even noticed in his berserk fury, nor been able to see under the blood that matted down his clothing, closed themselves over. It took years; it took less than a heartbeat.
His vision cleared shortly, and she stepped back. Corvin sagged slightly, but only for a moment. The effort of the healing dropped Ophelia to her knees, and she visibly had to struggle to get back to her feet.
He wasn’t sure what to say. So he stood silent. All of them stood silent.
Some sixth sense told him it was coming. About three seconds warning; enough time. Enough time for him to tackle his father, forcing him away from a sword strike that didn’t exist, or at the very least wasn’t seen. Not quite soon enough though; the sword broke through the already strained magic that sustained Edge’s armor, and drove deep into the ninja’s side. Very deep.
It only took moments, but it seemed an age. Edge fell to the ground, bleeding heavily from his side. Corvin fell on top of him, got up, whirled. And stopped. Because there was nothing to strike at. His eyes roamed the area, but there was nothing.
His father spoke in a rasping voice. "Who?"
"Vashin."
It was Kain Highwind’s voice that spoke that name, put a name to their enemy. Or perhaps, gave a new title to a supposed friend.
It fit. Corvin stared up at the Dragoon commander, clad in his blue, Lunar-forged steel, and knew it for true. How, he didn’t quite know. Nor why. But it fit.
Even that shock, though, couldn’t capture his attention for long. "Help him!" he ordered, gesturing to Edge. The order wasn’t directed at anyone in particular; rather, at the world in general.
It was already done, though. Ophelia stood over him, and worked yet another healing. She cried out this time, halfway through, and collapsed again. But it was done; Edge stopped bleeding, though it was plain looking at his face that the injury remained.
The screams of battle were still in the air, too. A wonder that they had gone unnoticed this long. Or maybe not so, as they stood right under the gate. No one was fighting there any longer; the Baronian forces had been driven out into the field beyond, though they were still holding together, and were by no means beaten.
Corvin also noted roars and bangs from inside the courtyard, but his brain passed over them without thought.
Kain spoke again. "There’s more bad news, if you care to hear it."
Corvin nodded uncertainly. Edge coughed an affirmative answer while lying back on the stones.
"I know what happened to Caitlin," he said.
"What?" Corvin said. "That’s not bad news, that’s...where is sh-?"
"She is his," Kain stated bleakly.
Corvin’s face went to stone. He felt the feeling, the feeling he still was unused to, well up inside him again. But it was cold, now. Not hot. Not rage. Hatred.
Edge struggled to get up, cursing for all he was worth, but Ophelia held him down; more by simply putting her weight on him than anything else. She was too tired for anything else. It showed.
"Let me up, woman!" Edge shouted. "Let me up! I’m going to find him and make him wish he'd been roasted by Bahamut’s fire! I’ll make him beg for a torture chamber! I’ll make him--" he broke off with a racking cough.
"Dad," Corvin said calmly.
"What?" Edge snarled.
"He’s mine," Corvin snarled right back. He felt that black feeling weighing down on his heart. Hatred. He tried to let it consume him again, like it had before, but it wouldn’t, not like the anger. Too cold.
Edge nodded reluctantly, then pulled one of his own swords free from its scabbard. "Here," he said, holding it up hilt-first. "At the very least, use my sword when you kill him."
Corvin stared at the blade for a moment, the one that seemed wrapped in ethereal shadows, as opposed to the one that seemed to glow with a cold light. He nodded solemnly, dropped one of his own blades carelessly to the ground, and grasped the hilt.
The blade turned dead black, coal black, in his hand. He wondered what it meant; but again, only momentarily. Almost as if he knew what he would find, he turned to face the door to the gatehouse. The torch outside it was missing. Their assailant had gone in there.
Vashin.
He didn’t bother to speak, but left the four of them there beneath the gate. None followed, and he was glad of it. This was his fight. No one else’s.
The back of the gatehouse had an opening that led inside the walls. Corvin didn’t bother with a torch; his eyes were sharp enough, even in near-pitch darkness. Smoke stains on the ceiling with a sooty, recent look showed the way. He ran without thought, holding the two blades, one normal metal, one dead black Lunarian steel, in guard position. There was exactly one image in his mind, a picture of that black blade sliding through Vashin’s heart.
Strange, that the friend of yesterday was today a sworn enemy. The thought slid along the emptiness of his mind for less than a second, before it was erased by a noise.
A footfall.
That was all. A shoe impacting on stone.
He came to an abrupt halt. There was another footfall, this one softer. An invisible enemy.
Vashin.
The next time, he caught it. The sound of a footfall, and dust drifted up off the floor.
He looked at that dust for a moment, then brought his eyes up, to where he knew Vashin’s face would be, if he were visible. Corvin sheathed his left sword, the normal one, and slipped a hand inside his vest. From it, he drew the mining bomb; his only remaining explosive, of any sort. It was similar to the smaller bombs he had used out in the battle; this one, though, would annihilate anything within roughly a hundred feet. He brandished it like a knife.
"One more step," he said - deliberately, implacably - "And I drop this. And you, me, and anyone else in this room dies in a heartbeat. Drop the spell."
A moment’s silence. And Vashin appeared out of nowhere, five feet in front of him, sword in hand.
"You’re smart, you know," Vashin said. "Too smart, I think."
"Shut the fuck up. You have my sister."
Vashin flinched, slightly. Corvin wasn’t impressed.
"Yes, I have her," Vashin said, after he had recovered.
"Let her go."
"No."
"I’ll kill you if you don’t."
Vashin cast a wary glance at the black sword in Corvin’s hand, but eventually shrugged. "You’ll kill me anyway. I’d rather die fighting."
Corvin shrugged. "Suits me," he said.
"Go to hell."
Another voice, a female voice, spoke. "You go to hell, Vashin. I’ll not be a part of this any longer."
And in the corner, a woman appeared. Not quite a woman, though. The eyes gave her away; solid, obsidian black. Corvin recognized her, remembered her, but couldn’t put a name to the face.
Vashin cast the woman an irked glance, and raised his hand. Corvin could feel magic streaming from it, Caller’s magic. He recognized the pattern instinctively, and shuddered; it would bend a monster to the user’s will. Taking advantage of a Caller's bond like that was a vile thing to do.
"Hapheera, you will do as I say," Vashin ordered. That should have been the end of it. The spell allowed no restraint. But by some inhuman willpower she resisted.
Hapheera screamed, and Corvin winced, momentarily forgetting Vashin entirely. The blade in his hand changed back to the gray of steel, but he barely noticed it. Hapheera screamed, and the backlash of magic made Corvin scream, too, a scream to rattle the windows. Of course, there were no windows, but if they had been there, they would have rattled.
So he reached for the one thing he could think of to make it all go away: his magic. A Caller’s magic. He didn’t think; he only acted, speaking the words without being aware of it.
He didn’t even know if it would work. But that didn’t matter, either. His spell finished; it wasn’t long.
And the Caller’s net settled around Hapheera. Insanely, unthinkably, he grasped at a Summoned Monster who was already under the influence of a summons.
The three of them screamed in unison. Power leaped in the air, and streams of magic loosed themselves. Purple lightning splashed against the walls, emanating from the invisible ties of the magic.
Even as pain roared through him, Corvin reached out again. Vashin himself was a caller; Corvin knew the man’s magic, could feel that part of it. He couldn’t override the control; he was an intruder in the binding, and Vashin was already established. So, with one spell exerting itself on Hapheera, he reached again into that part of his mind that held the Caller’s gift and tore at Vashin’s spell with every last ounce of his power.
Vashin screamed again, and Corvin felt the power of the spell break. With the bond between Vashin and Hapheera gone, Corvin’s own magic held rule. She was his, now.
Hapheera collapsed, unconscious. Corvin wasn’t surprised in the slightest; even now, his skull seemed about to shatter from sheer pain.
Vashin whistled sharply, and a black-cloaked figure dropped from the ceiling to the floor. Corvin brought his sword up to guard position again, fighting his pain.
The cloak around the figure dropped to the floor, and the one within it stood up. One he knew as well as he knew himself.
Caitlin.
She didn’t speak. Not that Corvin expected it, really; he could see it in her eyes, could see that she wasn’t herself.
Vashin was gone, somewhere. Out the door behind Caitlin, Corvin supposed. Nowhere else to go.
In short, if he wanted to get at Vashin, he would have to fight his own sister.
And win.
Instinct made him bring his blade up, just in time to counter her first strike. He didn’t have time to set himself; Caitlin fought like a snake, each blow coming right on the heels of the one before it. He couldn’t win; he knew it from the start. Hundreds upon hundreds of practice sessions had taught him that. Had taught her, too. Taught her every one of Corvin’s tricks, every counter he would use, every attack he would attempt. She exploited his weaknesses with ruthless efficiency; within seconds, Corvin was bleeding from three separate places. Caitlin made no pretense of honorable combat. Magic came into play almost immediately. Fortunately, Caitlin was weak enough in her power that it didn’t make much difference.
Besides, Corvin was overmatched anyway. And he knew it.
Caitlin dipped her sword low, aiming for his knees. Corvin knew what was coming, now. His response was practically scripted: leap straight up in the air, with both feet. He followed the basic rule instinctively, and knew it immediately for a mistake when she changed the direction of her sword in mid-swing, now bringing it up to smash through his head. Corvin desperately twisted in the air. He felt steel whistle past less than an inch from his ear before falling heavily to the stone floor.
Corvin rolled to one side as soon as he hit, and there was a loud chink! sound, as Caitlin struck the floor where his head had been. He flipped up to his feet in a practiced motion, and went to the offensive. For a period of about five seconds, he had her off balance and vulnerable. It was the first time he could remember that he had had an advantage in any of their battles. Fortunate, too; for this one, unlike all those previous, was real.
Corvin’s advantage didn’t last long. And when it broke, it did so with a vengeance. With a huge swipe from one of her own twin blades, Caitlin sawed off Corvin’s left hand.
It took about a quarter of a second for the pain to register, and another quarter second for him to recognize his own severed hand on the floor, still clutching his remaining sword. A third quarter of a second passed before shock ended and instinct took over. He flung himself backward, to the floor. Caitlin missed taking his head off by half an inch.
But she wouldn’t miss the second time. Swordless and weaponless, Corvin lay on his back, panting. Helpless. Instinct made him scrabble inside his vest with his remaining good hand, hunting for any sort of weapon.
His fingers closed on something - he wasn’t sure what - and he flung his hand out towards his sister’s face. There was a thud and then a detonation.
It had been a smoke bomb.
It had gone off right in Caitlin’s eyes, and Corvin knew from unpleasant experience that that would blind a person for a short time. He wasn’t going to waste that time. Getting up, Corvin kicked his sister viciously in the temple. She dropped like an oversized doll.
Corvin’s skull, his body, and the bloody stump where his hand had been all hurt like hell. He let himself fall to the ground; he would rest a moment, and then go on. Crawling, he reached Edge’s shadowed sword and picked it up with his remaining hand, the right one.
The reality of his missing hand hadn’t quite set in yet. And he consciously decided, once the thought made itself known, that he wouldn’t let himself think on it until this was over.
He got up, stump of his left hand dripping blood across the floor.
"Time to die, Vashin," he told the empty air.
In his right hand, the blade once again turned black.