by Marc Mulero
They stopped.
That’s when he shoved the sharp side of his broadsword forward with perfect timing. Clash. Metal on metal. Once. Twice. Then it became too fast to count. How was it that every rapid strike, every single one was miraculously met? The weight differential of the two blades should never have allowed this. It should’ve been a butcher slaughtering an animal, but it wasn’t. The stream of Cryos surrounding Halewyn’s arm spiraled to his bicep, granting him the strength needed to shift the load of his massive sword to either side.
“Our enemies grow in number and in strength,” Orin’s deep voice surrounded Halewyn with no sight of a body to accompany it, almost like a vortex was speaking to him. He refused to let up his blitz. He couldn’t. Only a trail of blue air lingered after every swing. Neck, groin, heart, all of his attempts were to critically injure his master, to compel him to disengage. But no blood was shed. Still, each advance was rivaled.
“We believe in your son,” Halewyn bellowed triumphantly. “We loaned him our strength to stop his brother. Do not forget it!”
Orin’s boots suddenly dragged against the summoned floor, shrieking to a hard stop, until clouded eyes met shimmering ones, until he faced his old master. “It is not enough,” he proclaimed. “He will fall without the Society backing him in full.”
Their staring contest lingered. Another stand-off, until Orin took a fast knee and twisted his blade to deliver a rising slice. But the burden of the opposing weapon was great. Heavy. And when it dropped, all momentum was ceased, keeping Orin’s katana shakenly in place.
Cryos brightened around Orin like an electrical storm to bolster his strength, like a flame in the deepest of night. Even with all of that though, it wasn’t enough. In the end, he knew that contesting Halewyn’s brawn was wasted effort, same as Halewyn trying to match his own speed.
And so with a defiant grunt, he disengaged by spinning away from the clash, shifting his gravity, changing his tactic.
The next swipe was carried on a wide angle, and then another, meant to expend Halewyn’s energy by forcing him into far spread parries. Another. Another. Another.
It was working. Every clash was driving the Neraphis back as his broadsword whirled to stop Orin from cutting into him.
This was his chance to use the power of his bond to defy physics with each successive strike. Orin picked up speed. Faster. More succinct. Painted stars of Cryos trailed after every barrage, melting into the air just for the next to take its place. Flashes of light, pokes of metal, the blur of an old man moving like a young one. Halewyn was becoming worn… it was working. The chaos was finally beginning to dizzy his vision, Orin could tell his steps were more hesitant, less sure.
This was the endgame, where every incoming thrust became harder to read – Cryos tricks learned in the outside world – shadowy, misleading swipes that dazzled until the sting of a primordial blade cutting into knuckle reawakened something that was long asleep. The misstep ignited Halewyn’s eyes with a pulsating radiance, marking the skirmish over.
Now the true battle had begun.
The Eldest evaded the next incoming slash with frightening speed and grappled Orin’s arm, leaving him dumbfounded, before dragging him off balance like a tornado meeting a tightrope walker. The Neraphis then swung his colossal sword into a blurred spin.
Orin would’ve been cut in two for sure if he hadn’t met the strike at the very last second. Wham. Metal rung for a mile, the pressure from the blow driving him back, way back, ten feet into the air before landing less gracefully than he’d intended.
It was in this moment of regaining balance that he remembered his master’s unmatched power, something he hadn’t felt in years.
What now? Orin narrowed his eyes, readying himself as he witnessed cerulean silhouettes flicker into existence behind Halewyn, accentuating his shape like there were two ghosts whispering in his ear. Now it was clear. He’d seen this before… the Eldest was calling upon his ancestors to aid him.
A bond that preserved his youth, that counseled him, now worked to do more.
Halewyn’s summoned ground cracked at his feet as he announced his assault with a herculean roar. He pushed off hard and closed the gap faster than Orin would have liked, his footsteps strong and pounding. A wraith unleashed, with demons shadowing his every step. He was a nightmare.
The first attack came with the might of Zeus – a backhanded swing that arced his broadsword from the ground up, meant to cut Orin in two once more. But edges found each other again. Wham. The clap of metal thundered; the intensity of the clash so great that it lifted Orin off of his feet. And what’s worse, when he thought he’d defended the strike, blue shades of Halewyn’s forefathers mimicked the same moves to pound against the ancient steal, over and over.
Now Orin was the dizzy one.
Vexed and winded, he was out of options. He had to run.
But the onslaught kept on. Every attack that Halewyn dealt echoed: once for his father. Slam. And again for his grandfather. Crack. Orin was challenging generations of tradition, and now they were fighting back.
“You dare trespass into our Citadel!” Halewyn’s swing was wide and mighty, easier to evade than to block. “Demand our aid.” Another that Orin barely dodged. “Insult us. The very ones that granted you long life.”
He cut through the Cryos plane below them like butter, creating voids that were quickly replenished.
How was his master’s attunement with these chemicals that powerful? Managing three minds, an opponent, and the very arena in which they fought on was a sound source of intimidation. The stuff of legend. And to boot, his huge blade boomed every time the ground was struck, looking less like a hunk of metal at this point and more like a wing of pure energy.
Orin knew the strikes could not meet his skin, for it would be the end of the duel, or death.
Back behind the glass chamber in the Citadel, Aslock folded his arms within his sleeves. “Ah, this brings me back.”
“They fought often, I take it?” Blague asked, still entranced by the epic display of skill.
“For years, Blague. Halewyn worked to train your father, to rein in his curiosity, but you know your old man: true to his values, refusal to accept our way of life. Some would even say he is… stubborn.”
They both chuckled.
“One thing was sure… he did always give Halewyn a run for his money.”
Blague fought to take his eyes off the fight, eventually looking to Aslock.
“Do not be mistaken though, adept, he was always an ally to us. Funding our research for as long as he has known of it. We owe him as much as he owes us.”
“For infusing my mother into him, you mean?”
“Of course. A gift, especially in such harsh circumstances, is invaluable. He received your mother when he thought all to be lost. It was the only thing that ever broke him, that made him admit he had much to learn from the Society.
“But, and it is a big but, he never placed our values above his, which was something that came so naturally to everyone else.”
The glass suddenly panged with vibration, drawing them back for a moment.
Aslock cleared his throat. “I admire a man who can make Neraphis as archaic as us question all that we do.” He turned to face Blague fully. “Your father is the only one who ever challenged Halewyn to this degree, and put up this much of a fight.”
“What about you, Elder?” Blague mocked playfully, suspiciously, knowing deep down Aslock would stand a chance as well. “Aha, I see it in your face. Your humbleness precedes you.”
“Hmph,” Aslock looked away. “Not my place to duel our Eldest. Your fath-”
“Yes. Yes. My father. It’s not surprising that he challenges your ways, really. He had the same temperament regarding the outside world. His practices always seemed eccentric to me growing up, whenever he was around, that is.” Blague thought back to his childhood. “Always shrouded in mystery, working to figure something out on his own. Always exploring some unbeaten path.”
“He is as strange as any of us. But there is one thing I am certain of - his defiance makes us stronger, and Halewyn knows it too.”
A deafening boom shook the windows before them, startling the two and compelling their focus back to the duel.
The connection between Orin and his weapon, the enchantment… whatever it was, appeared to be alive. He was an artist with it, altering the canvas and the arena as he saw fit… painting stripes of Cryos that drifted through the air like floating jellyfish. Outlandish manifestations. But Halewyn wasn’t about to let his space be overrun with them. Smash. A molecular clash rattled the area. Again, thunder. But Orin didn’t stop – every artful twirl unfurled new matter shaped like a Chinese fan, only for it to be shattered.
Halewyn was losing patience, his movements speaking to annoyance as he dashed through the dematerializing Cryos already mid-swing to take off Orin’s head.
Whoosh.
Orin felt the immense wind over his white hair, keen to what was next, and setting more of the ethereal blockers to continually slow momentum.
Low to his side, across his midsection, and finally high overhead, a shimmering shield was forged by one man and crushed by the other in an instant. There, amongst a colossal bombardment, was an opening. Orin dipped under the wailing broadsword and rose with a torqued swing of his own. He purposely shorted his attack and pulled back his blade to detach the chemical, leaving it to soar forward. The splash of energy pulsed into Halewyn’s side, burning into his oblique and knocking him off balance.
The Eldest grunted and responded in kind, spinning to slam his sword down, the metal tearing through Orin’s flesh. It was a shallow wound from shoulder to belt. Snippets of his cloths flew in the air, shredded from the slice, before poetically swaying between them like feathers of a bird. Orin could feel the blood leaking down his flesh, before the sting of Cryos whacked him in the face. Halewyn’s blade rose again without delay and descended to recreate the same laceration on Orin’s opposite side.
Dazed, bleeding, bested - he fell to one knee, using the hilt of his imbued sword to keep himself up. He looked up, not pleadingly but knowingly, and watched as Halewyn ended his strike with a commanding kick to his chest, sending Blague’s father flying to land on his back.
The audience gasped.
“It is over, Orin. You will stay with us and learn to extinguish threats using our methods, with the virtue of patience,” Halewyn ordered, flipping his massive sword to lie back over his shoulder.
Orin rose slowly from his fall, grasping the translucent platform with the palm of his hand and pushing himself upright. His pupilless eyes didn’t communicate pain however, nor defeat.
“It wanes, but I suspect it will never truly leave me,” Orin’s words echoed in Blague’s mind.
The Ardian got to his feet, picking himself up with a hand on his bent leg. He looked different. His skin… it began to develop a crimson film that matched the blood dripping from his waist. What was happening?
Halewyn only waited, deaf and blind to any transformation. He only waited for the inevitable, for his adept to fall forward from his wounds in humiliation. And everyone could’ve sworn there was a shadow of a grin on his face when he saw Orin’s bright veins dull and his sword’s flame dissipate.
But that smirk was soon wiped away, for Orin Grenich did not fall.
Instead, his body became enveloped in the scarlet-tinted darkness, like a vampire in an endless pool of ghostly blood. Smoke seeped from his pores and his entire body released clouds of air.
Halewyn’s brow grew tense when he realized the truth of it. “You have ingested the heart of Vicissitude,” he said disapprovingly.
“You will yield,” Orin’s deep voice became even more powerful as his appearance changed before their eyes. His wounds closed up and were replaced with renewed black cloths that neatly folded over one another to swath his body.
He doesn’t need the smoke to be present to change. He is the smoke. Blague’s eyes were wide with shock.
Halewyn slid his foot forward again, readying for round two, but when Orin vanished into thin air leaving only a puff of smolder behind, he knew that the battle had turned. And when another waft of smoke appeared in front of his face, the broadsword swung through it to catch nothing. Cryos attunement seemed not to matter in this instant, not at all, for when Orin sprung forward trailing Halewyn’s attack, he slid his sword across a gloved hand, disarming the Eldest instantly.
Another gasp from the audience. And before the primeval blade even made it to the floor, Orin sliced again, gifting his master the same wounds that had been bestowed upon him.
Halewyn collapsed to the floor in astonishment. “Such raw power… unstable…,” he muttered, dipping in and out of consciousness. “What have you done, Orin?” were the last words he spoke before his eyes rolled back, before the field of Cryos beneath their feet evaporated, and the ocean was set free to swallow them.
The rush of water nearly sunk the deadweight of the Eldest, but Orin grasped the ledge of the Citadel with one hand and his master’s collar with the other.
Everyone took a step back, stunned, as Orin entered back into the windowed room. One Neraphis even had the nerve to touch a hand to her hilt, but one look to his frozen audience said it all. Orin tossed the unresponsive opponent to the ground. “Get him to stasis.” He motioned to a Neraphis, who then rushed to have their Eldest transported, while another dove into the ocean to retrieve the primeval sword.
Orin’s black cloths faded to gray when the smoke waned.
“Now, Halewyn, it is you who will join our fight. The study of the island of Vicissitude will be conducted through me.”
Part II
Shadows and Demons
Chapter 11
Biljin had been hard at work directing the Sin rebellion in all of its progress. Where was Blague? Hmph, who needed him…
Missions under this new command were more aggressive, next level, reaching far past the exiled islands for durations longer than soldiers were accustomed. If Blague was the rebellion leader that rose from the depths, the one who found a home and expanded his little community at a snail’s pace, then Biljin was the conqueror that followed.
He commanded Drino’s division to play to its strengths. Which, you ask? Why brute force, of course. A Sin stampede running rampant through the northeast region of the Old US worked to quell any Hiezer Quarantine supporters in its path. And in the southeast, more traditional measures were underway by Melissa’s Crescent Wings. They proved their loyalty by following their leader to wherever she led them. Together, they took advantage of the Hiezers’ defensive strategy.
And then there was Biljin, all the while sitting pretty in his ivory tower – Senation’s ivory tower – the very one that started it all.
Fools, he thought, land is everything. How could you leave it all up for grabs, Mulderan?
It was there with a pen in hand where he marked his outdated map as radio messages trickled in. Most came from the spy regiment that Volaina had deserted, and others from scouts. The second Quake made things difficult, you see. Understanding the shape of a new world was a rich man’s game, and put anyone in the dark at a stark disadvantage.
But alas, it wasn’t until an item of great value was acquired did Biljin feel triumphant. Finally, he would put Melissa’s reserves to rest. She would see the Sin’s purpose… she would see that she made the right choice.
On a day that all troops were recalled home, he walked toward the fourth floor of the central Sin mansion with victory in hand, in the form of a rolled-up sheet of parchment containing the most sensitive data in the war.
I am the interim commander of the Sins, he told himself, puffing his chest to accentuate his double-breasted jacket differentiating from all others. You don’t know me yet, lowly commoners, but you will.
Curious eyes gravitated toward the sapphire insignia resting at his heart, the one bolstering his status even further than his big head already had.
Bo
th feet planted in front of Melissa’s quarters, behind the door. Click. He entered ready to deliberate, to convince with his godly intellect that they’d come a long way since he played her for a fool. That there was no reason to be on edge anymore. Sure, the strange smoke of Auront and the reemergence of her brother was all cause for concern then, but now?
It seemed that she was singing a completely different tune. The change in her demeanor immediately noticeable, maybe even a little suspicious. He slowly closed the door behind him to shut out the noise of those working, all while he scanned the room. Her shield was tucked away in a far corner, breastplate resting on a stand. Eyes then snapped to her - her arms were draped in soft fabric rather than armored steel, and against all odds, she was enjoying a hot beverage.
What is this? he repeated in his mind. Her defenses are actually down. She even appears calm. Could it be that she’s finally taking to her new home? Perhaps we don’t have to bicker any longer… perhaps we can make some real progress in altering the outcome of this war.
Without uttering a word, Biljin unraveled the scroll in hand and flapped it down onto the table so it would stretch across the lengthy marble. Melissa was forced to lift resting elbows. A normally hardened face cracked a smile at the intrusion, and the delight spread when she recognized that the scroll was a drawn-up map depicting the current geography of the Earth.
“Now where did you get your hands on that? Unless of course, this is just a topographer’s imagination running wild,” Melissa said, sipping her brew and staring intently at the art.
“No. No, this is a draft of the true world as it stands. Intelligence has it that Mulderan dispersed jets in every which direction after the Quake to capture the Earth’s new shape. And, as fate would have it, one of Volaina’s spies snagged a copy from a highlord. She thought this piece of information so pertinent that she broke cover to get it home. So,” he lingered over her, smirking, “don’t spill anything on it.”
He ran a finger down the most notable split. They both traced it with their eyes – a fracture at the center of one of history’s most prominent superpowers. The Old US was no longer whole, breaking from Old North Dakota straight down through Old Texas, and further into Old Mexico.