by Earl, Collin
“What happened?” asked Cyann, her voice calm as ever. “Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know.” Monson started to search through the rubble. “I think the better question right now is what do we do now?”
Cyann bit at the nail on her pinky finger. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Monson weighed their options. “We should probably get out of the apartment—actually, out of this building. I don’t know what caused all this, but seeing as you just got attacked last night, we shouldn’t take any chances. Then we figure out what happened to everyone else.”
Cyann removed her pinky from her mouth. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“Call them of course. Casey is never without his phone.”
He showed the phone to Cyann, who just rolled her eyes.
Monson smirked, then tried to turn it on—with no success. He tried several more times, holding down the On button as hard as he could. When this yielded no results, he removed and replaced the battery. Finally, he came to the conclusion that—
“It’s dead,” he said, throwing the phone down on the floor. “Probably fried, if the TV and stuff are any indication.”
Monson mentally kicked himself for not thinking of that before.
“I guess we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way and actually look for them.”
Monson glanced down at Cyann’s feet. “We need to find you some shoes first. You can’t walk around barefoot.”
Cyann pointed downward. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea for us to return to my room. I have a pair of shoes in the lockers down by the laundry room. We should try to get down there and then take to the woods.”
Monson rubbed at his face. “It’s as good a plan as any. I would say let’s make our way to town but we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Who knows who did this or why.”
Cyann motioned to the door. She moved through it. “I think it’s about time we find out.”
Monson hurried after her.
***
Cyann in the lead, they stepped to the Horum Vir’s private elevator, both moving cautiously and instinctively glancing around for any signs of life. They made it to the elevator without incident and rode down in silence.
The ding that marked their arrival on the bottom floor seemed to echo like the gong of a church bell. The sound made Monson’s fight-or-flight response kick into overdrive. He breathed a little easier when they exited and saw no one around. Cyann again took the lead, advancing swiftly and silently through the Atrium among pieces of the broken fountain and vegetation strewn about the floor.
A cracking noise brought them to an abrupt stop.
“Do you hear that?” whispered Cyann.
“Yeah,” answered Monson, inspecting the room for the slightest movement. He heard the cracking again, only this time louder. Monson and Cyann turned slowly and watched as the enormous statue of Jupiter standing atop what was left of the crushed fountain stepped down from his perch.
“Oh my g—”
Monson grabbed Cyann’s arm and tugged. “Now is so not the time to take God’s name in vain. He’s probably already pissed at me enough as it is. We need to go, now!”
The ground shook as the apparently living statue’s massive stone feet met the ground, creating a shockwave that threw them both off balance. The statue of the King of the Roman gods looked around the room, or at least Monson thought he was looking around the room; it was difficult to tell as his eyes did not seem to be moving. He was sure, however, of the massive hand that launched straight for them. Monson and Cyann ran, taking off at a speed that neither of them thought possible, hurdling over small shrubs and grow boxes in their haste to retreat. The statue’s hand took a mammoth swipe at them right as they jumped into an adjoining room. The living rock bellowed an angry war cry as its hand met only metal and glass. Monson and Cyann landed in a crumpled heap on the ground, the former peering over his shoulder just in time to see the giant furiously pound his foot. Additional cracks and crashes sounded as it became apparent that the Atrium floor was not prepared to handle the beating that the giant statue was delivering. The floor buckled underneath the giant’s weight and caved in around him.
Monson hung his head in relief, but instantly sat back up. Cyann was pulling at his sleeve.
“What, Cyann?” he said absentmindedly. Monson blanched as he adjusted to face her and realized why she was pulling at him.
Black-clad commandos scurried frantically around the common room, collecting misplaced weapons. Apparently, they had heard the statue’s attack. Monson upbraided himself. He had led Cyann right out of the caldron and into the fire.
He did a quick scan of the room. It appeared as if they had stumbled into some sort of base of operations. There were maps scattered everywhere, not to mention all sorts of sophisticated equipment. The pounding of the massive statue coupled with their sudden appearance had thrown the commandos off balance and they had yet to truly comprehend what was happening. A fact, it seemed, they were getting over fairly quickly. The men armed themselves with the guns and the large, wicked-looking hand-and-a-half swords from the night before, all of which were now pointed at Monson and Cyann.
They were coming from the left, the right, the front and from behind. Great. They were surrounded even before the fight started.
Monson slowly rose to his feet and then helped up Cyann, who whispered as she took his hand. “If we survive this, remind me to tell you something important.”
Monson cocked the eyebrow. “You’re saying that now?”
Cyann raised an eyebrow in return. “Do you know a better time?”
Monson rolled his eyes. “You know we did just sleep in the same bed.”
Cyann blushed. “This is serious, Monson. Is everything a joke to you?”
Monson smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, sort of.”
“You’re hopeless.”
More shuffling indicated the intentions of the commandos. They were about to make their move. “I tell you what, Cyann. If you and I survive this then we can have a nice long talk. I’ll even rent an island or something. How about that?”
“I’d like that.” Cyann turned so that her back was to Monson. “Now all we have to do is survive.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Monson. “I’ve got it under control.”
Cyann’s voice carried a certain degree of skepticism. “Oh you do, do ya? And what is it you plan on doing?”
Monson raised his arm parallel to the floor as he faced his half of the enclosing commandos. “What am I going to do? I’m going to beat them. I’m going to beat every last one of them.”
The commandos rushed them, weapons drawn. Monson bellowed a quick phrase.
“Combat Spell One: Burst!”
He let out an excited breath. The spell worked—it worked! The spell appeared to be wind-based, simple in formation and effect. A swirling globe the size of a basketball shot out from Monson’s hand. It sped towards a small group of the unsuspecting commandos, slamming into the chest of one of the men. Instead of simply striking and dissipating, the globe expanded and separated into four smaller balls of wind, which then shot out again, striking the commando’s comrades. The action repeated itself again and again until the wind balls were too small to have any effect. Monson looked with awe at the glove on his hand.
Man, what I would have given to have had my hands on this thing a bit earlier in life, he thought.
In a split-second decision, having gained some time from the success of the spell, Monson spun on his heel and grasped Cyann by the waist, thrusting his glove-covered hand out in front of them. Her surprised objection fumbled and died in the wake of Monson’s echoing call.
“Combat Spell One: Burst!”
The globular ball of wind, even larger than before, slammed into the charging soldiers. With the commandos now in disarray, Cyann made her move. Ripping herself from Monson’s grasp, she ran over to a fallen commando, kicked him in the face, and retrieved his sword. With o
ne fluid motion, she slid it towards Monson, who shoved his foot under the base of the hilt and in a ridiculously flashy move, kicked it up into his hands in the nick of time. He parried two strikes from two different commandos then countered with the agility of a striking cobra, throwing a punch to a masked face. The commando dropped with a groan. Monson took the momentum of his punch and followed through with a wild, spinning back kick that smashed into the head of the second commando. Neither man moved.
It was then that something very curious registered in Monson’s mind.
The men—they were actually men. They were not those rock things. The knowledge caused him to hesitate, but he attempted to push it aside when two more commandos approached him from a door on the far side of the room.
These two men were different from the others in everything from aura to attire. They wore blood red masks and flowing fatigues and stalked towards him emitting death and an almost tangible ambiance of natural born killers.
Both men removed weapons that were altogether different from those of their black-clad counterparts. The one closest to Monson, a large man about six feet tall, held a serrated claymore that was so large that Monson probably could not have lifted it. The man attacked with a very savage and powerful style of swordplay. Large two-handed slashes whirled past Monson’s head and chest, tossing him back every time his blade blocked the claymore. The attack patterns were very reminiscent of Artorius’ fighting style, but far less graceful and far stronger. The style came across as a sadistic cut-and-paste version of the Ja-no. Having sparred Artorius many times, Monson was used to the style and was able to adjust his defense pattern. What he was not used to was the combination attack by the man’s companion.
The smaller opponent was predictably faster than his larger companion. That alone was of little concern to Monson. Casey was unnaturally fast and there were ways to deal with such people. The disconcerting fact about the smaller man was his unique fighting style. He held his unique, single-edged sword, which looked similar to a Persian scimitar, hilt down and followed his attacks with lightning-fast kicks.
Monson defended, miraculously, against both men. He dodged the massive blows from the claymore and kept the smaller fighter at bay with kicks and heavy strikes of his own. The flow of the battle was blow and counterblow with Monson in a constant state of defense. The fight began to take its toll on him. These men were good, far better than anyone he had sparred before. Monson knew he was in trouble.
After a particularly violent exchange, the scimitar connected, leaving a large gash on Monson’s shoulder that caused warm blood to stream down the length of his arm. Coupled with the jolt of the blade actually piercing his flesh was a dull, throbbing shock, as if the sword had an electric current running through it. Monson staggered back but pulled his sword up, holding it with his good arm.
The two red soldiers did not press their attack, but retreated a few steps, moving their weapons into a neutral position. Monson’s body coiled like a spring, waiting for the attack he knew would come.
“You fight very well, young one.”
Monson’s mouth slackened slightly. These men had him on the run; why were they stopping?
“Not as well as you.” Monson allowed his grip to loosen; he was trying to focus on the two men, but now that he had a free moment, he was struggling not to turn his attention to Cyann. She was still fighting. He had to find a way to go and help her.
“Ah yes,” answered the smaller fighter. “But that is what happens when you fight for the DaGoons; if you do not become one with the Tripartite, battle will hold neither honor nor victory.”
“You fight for…?” Monson’s voice trailed off as he heard the clink and clang of a struggling Cyann.
The other red-clad fighter spoke up. “Your mate is also very talented. This world is unique, to have such highly developed abilities in the old ways.”
Monson lashed forward. He had had enough of the talking. He did not know why these two men were speaking to him, but they needed to go.
The smaller one disarmed him with a single upward slash. Monson sank to the ground, feeling the despair of his own inadequacy. He could not do anything. He had lost. He had failed his friends. And now…now he would die without even a chance to say goodbye.
The two soldiers moved to his side while Monson struggled to look for his blade. Maybe if he could…no, it was no use; the blade was more than a dozen feet away. It was over.
Monson felt the cool touch of the metal glove on his hand. He would have to try to use a spell and pray that whatever he summoned worked.
A whiplash of shining black hair was suddenly in front of him. Cyann, from out of nowhere, jumped into the fray, placing herself between him and his attackers. Now holding two of the black-clad commandos’ blades, she extended herself to her full height, one blade in her fore grip and one in reverse. She positioned them aggressively, waiting.
Monson looked around the room. All of the other commandos were down for the count; the only ones left standing were the two reds. If Monson could somehow get a blade, they might have a chance.
“Peace.” The two red-clad fighters bowed. “There is no need; we have acquired what we came for. The Being of Seven Bloods is a strong one indeed.”
Cyann relaxed her stance just a bit. “The Being of Seven Bloods? What’s—”
“We shall meet again, young ones, even as the Augur wills it. We shall meet again.”
The larger soldier started tracing his fingers through the air, leaving yellow streaks in their wake. The runes lit up brightly in front of him as the two commandos took a step back and waited. In mere seconds, the entire rune began pulsing, and grew larger and larger before their very eyes. In one quick motion the large man punched it, bringing both the rune and himself to the floor. The smaller commando uttered a phrase.
“Specialty One: Folded Space.”
Monson and Cyann shrank back, Monson scooting on his butt cheeks while Cyann danced backwards on tiptoe. They felt the small of their backs bump against the wall as the very floor at their feet opened to reveal a glowing yellow nothingness. Without a word, the commandos jumped into the hole, disappearing within its depths. Then, the space closed up after them.
Cyann crumpled to the ground next to Monson, breathing hard, her eyes wide and unseeing. Monson did not feel any better than she did. They had just come really close to dying; if those two had not backed off…they would be goners. A pulse of anger shot through Monson as he grabbed Cyann. The far-off look in her eyes cleared once he did.
“What the hell, Cyann?”
Cyann’s face changed, mirroring Monson’s anger. “What do you mean? What’s your—”
“Why did you jump in front of them?” Monson gripped her arm.
Cyann’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean what was I doing? I was saving—”
“Cyann!” yelled Monson. “Don’t you get it? What’s the point of me surviving if it just gets my friends killed? I won’t allow it. You should have run. You should have run and not looked back.”
“And just left you to die?” snapped Cyann.
“Yes! Run and live.”
Cyann yanked herself from his grip. Two small fists connected to his chest in rapid succession, followed by a powerful smack. Monson felt his body lean back and a sharp pain bloom across his face.
Cyann had slapped him just like she slapped Boston Timberland. It was apparent that she was no respecter of persons. Monson cupped his reddening cheek.
Cyann’s voice resounded like the growl of a beast of prey. “Leave you? LEAVE YOU? You want me to leave you and just run away! Like hell I will. I don’t know what’s going on but I’m not letting you face this alone. If you ever tell me to run away again I will do more to you than just a small slap. Remember that.”
Monson’s body sagged as his energy left him. He whispered, “Idiot girl, your life is worth much more than mine.”
Cyann leaned down right next to him. “Idiot boy, that’s not for you to decide; no
w let’s take care of your wound.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, his wound bandaged and wrapped, Monson and Cyann started searching among the equipment and maps, trying to find anything that might explain what was happening to Coren. Despite their best efforts, the commandos’ purpose in being at Coren remained a mystery. It was like a puzzle with missing pieces and no matter how they arranged the remainder of the puzzle, the missing pieces obscured too much of the picture to allow for any clarity. They were also running out of time. Monson did not know how many more of those commando guys there were, but if this was in fact their home base, sooner or later the others were bound to return. There was also the issue of the Jupiter statue. They had not heard a peep from the giant since his dramatic fall earlier, but Monson had a funny feeling that it was not over for the big guy. They had already tarried here too long. It was time to go.
“Cyann, we need to leave,” said Monson, almost pleading with the girl. “There are probably more of those commandos around here. We don’t want to meet up with them.”
“Not yet Monson,” answered Cyann in obviously irritation. “I want to know what happened to everyone and why none of the phones are working.”
“We don’t have time for that. Those commando dudes could come back at any moment. We should take to the woods like we planned.”
Monson touched her shoulder. “I understand your reluctance but—”
“No you don’t!” snapped Cyann. “You don’t understand at all. I can’t lose Indigo, Monson, I can’t….”
Monson put his hand on Cyann’s. “Listen to me, Cyann. The answers that we’re looking for aren’t in here. I know how worried you are. I’m worried too. But we can’t stay here. We just can’t. They’ll find us and then we’re no good to anyone.”
He started to pull her up. “Please just trust me on this one.”
He felt her body go limp and knew that she had finally acquiesced to his request. They stood up and started to move around, gathering weapons. Cyann strapped two of the smaller blades to her back. They were very much like the kodachi, or at least the wooden version she used. That was definitely a good thing to have if they became entangled in another fight. The weapons also appeared to have a calming effect on her, which helped Monson breathe a bit easier.