by Marc Watson
He sipped his hot tea, far from the others. By this point in the journey he'd taken great care to establish himself as a man who wished to be avoided in no uncertain terms. After a few lame attempts at persuading him otherwise, he was now left alone whenever they stopped. It gave him plenty of space to clear his mind of the racket.
This night was not to be so peaceful it seemed, as he heard the footsteps approach him in the loose rock scattered around the area. “Fools and their needs for togetherness,” he spat to himself as the steps came closer.
A figure circled around him and took a seat just beyond the firelight. In the poor light, it was impossible to see if it was man or woman, old or young. They were wrapped in a loose blanket that hung over their shoulders like a shroud and wore what looked to be a pack of some kind underneath it.
“Be gone, ya stupid fool. I don't care a shit about the things you have to say and why you have to say ’em. If you don't leave me now, I’ll teach you a lesson in personal space you won’t forget!”
The figure didn't move an inch. More surprisingly, the blanketed head rose slightly, showing a youthful mouth that had the wickedest smile the old man had ever seen. It was a smile the man knew very well. It was the smile he was so desperate to run away from back to his shanty home as quickly as he could.
”Now now,” the newcomer said in a pleasant, yet disturbing voice. “I had heard you were a man who enjoyed the art of conversation. Did you not just have a whole bar close down to host one such moment?”
It was the stranger that had made the deal with the old man weeks ago: the one who promised the lands he came from would not be touched in return for the favor of delivering the demon-thing into their apparent waiting hands in the south.
“I was hoping we wouldn't meet again. What business do you have with me?” The thing across from the old man scared him beyond belief, but he held his ground. The fire-demon had intimidated him with its sheer power and presence. This thing was worse. It was disgustingly pleasant and far more ruthless.
“I wanted to talk to you about what I asked you to do. More to the point, I was hoping you could explain why you failed.”
“Failed! Bah, I put that godless beast right into your hands! If you failed in doing what you had to when he got there, that's none of my business. I did my part.”
“Your part, sir, was to send him south to the village where he was to be apprehended or dispatched, depending on the situation. Tell me then why neither of those things happened?”
The old man laughed a dry, mirthless laugh. “I tell you, I did as you said and I did it perfectly. The demon was sent south and that is that. Judging by the activity everyone saw there, you got what you wanted.”
The teeth of the creature under the blanket were white as pearls, straight as a razor, and perfect in every way. “That was nothing more than a test of his durability. Some in my ranks believed it would outright destroy him. I knew otherwise. He was badly damaged, but he lived. However, this does not change your failure, sir. You were to send him south, to the home of the winged boy, where we could take them each and complete our business in this land.”
“Winged boy? What winged boy? Look, all you told me to do, I did. I don't know a lick about a kid with wings or some such nonsense.”
The smile, in all its perfection, faded. “You don't know anything about a boy with wings from Tan Torna Qu-ay?”
“That's what I said, isn't it? No wings. No boy. I haven't got a clue what you're talking about.”
The old man knew a little, but nothing about wings. He suspected now that it may have something to do with that depressed young man he saw at Ollie's bar a few days back, on the night before he left with the caravan. The same caravan the old man had taken up with now. An amused, gap-toothed grin came to his face. He remembered who he was and what he possessed.
When the thing across from him had threatened him into conversation with the beast, they hadn't been specific on the how, leaving the details in the old man’s hands. When the old man saw the fire beast enter, talk to Ollie, then produce the terrifying blade for all to see, the old man jumped at the sight of it; the terrible and glorious aura it emitted telling him instantly it shared a bond with the knife he'd given to the village, and thusly, the boy from Tan Torna Qu-ay.
It was that connection that gave him the chance to talk to him, telling him where he must go. By the gods, the fire beast had wanted to go south. It was the easiest deal the old man could have made.
Now, sitting with his cooling tea across a fire from a smiling fool, he realized two separate and very important things. The first was that they had no idea the weapon the boy had in his possession and the kinds of damage it could do if used properly. The second was that he would never live to enjoy this thing’s misery when it found out. If they were here, asking the question it had, there wasn't much hope for the old man. The smiling creature was angry that something beyond the old man’s control had gone wrong. The old man was about to pay the price for it.
At least he'd die knowing his last act on this earth would cause the thing across the fire untold amounts of misfortune, given the hope that the boy could figure out what to do with the knife in time.
“What's so funny, you old fool?”
Was he smiling? He hadn't realized it, but it was too late to hide it now. “I just can't believe my luck, I guess. I did all you asked, and you failed, so you're here to blame me and do me in. I guess no matter what I had no chance of winning, did I?”
The smile, seemingly buying the story, grew and nodded. “So it would seem. I guess you weren't the right man for the job.”
“Ha, well, you picked me, so one wonders who the one is doing a poor job.”
The thing was at his throat in an instant, leaping the fire like a cat and squeezing down with a strength one wouldn’t expect from a frame so small. “You are not near as wise as you believe, you worthless old man.”
All the old man could do in the face of such evil was laugh. “Nor are you, my stupid friend. You think yourself to be the one in control, but you haven't got a clue.”
The hooded thing was certainly not smiling now as it uncovered a shiny, mechanical hand. It reached up to the old man’s face, gripping it like a vise as it pulled him forcefully from the ground and released his neck. The quiet air filled with the soft crack of bones breaking to accompany the pop of the fire.
Still, despite the pain, he laughed harder and harder, the situation too amusing to be ignored.
In a rage, the thing tossed the old man back through the tips of the flames. He landed terribly on the other side, his old body nowhere near the shape needed to escape such a forceful and malicious toss unscathed. Still, broken and dying, the old man laughed harder than he could ever remember. He laughed hard enough to erase his pain. This thing had no clue what it was up against.
The thing was livid now, annoyed and consumed by hate for the old man and his useless laughter. He realized the stubbornness and senility of the old bastard would never let him tell it anything it needed to know. He was far too pleased with himself. There was nothing left to do but finish him and be done.
With its other arm, one of natural flesh and bone, it produced a sword, the likes of which the old man had never seen. It was long and thin, curved all the way to the tip. Where a normal metal blade would be was what looked like the purest diamond or crystal, so clear and perfect that it was almost invisible, were it not for the distortion of firelight as it moved around. Another weapon of Power? Perhaps, but different. The others he'd seen were both good and bad; here there was more than bad. Here there was absolute nothingness.
The nothing consumed him, breaking him into a million shards of emptiness. The feeling so all-consuming in its vastness that it made him want to die just to escape it. At least in death there was the hope of something more. Here, facing this thing and its horrible weapon, there was simply a void. And that scared him terribly.
“Oh no, old man,” the thing said, reaching into his
mind. “With this, there is no death. Nothing beyond. Nothing but… well, nothing.” It laughed as it spoke. What did it mean there was nothing? Please, gods who hear his prayers, don't let this feeling last! Please let it be over and never come back!
Again, the thing saw his thoughts in his terrified eyes. “God can't hear you. God is dead. Prepare to enter my fate for you, as I am the only god you need to fear, and my fate for you is an eternity within the hell you feel right this moment. Behold! The all-encompassing void that is the Est Vacuus!”
The thing was at him again, blade in hand, stabbing the end deep into the man’s body. It never came out the other side. It just seemed to disappear with every inch that was plunged into him. The action brought more of the same, disgusting emptiness. If the creature said anything else, he couldn't hear it. All he saw, all he heard, all he tasted, all he felt, everything about him was filling with a crippling sense of nothingness. No hope, no joy, no fear, no pain, nothing beyond nothing, and back to nothing again.
His head felt as if he was falling in every direction at once, at speeds faster than he thought possible. Each iota of his being was consumed by the feeling of destitution as he went. He could barely get the thought through his head that this kind of torture was not worth the joy he had just felt at his attacker’s ineptitude. A joy he couldn't remember feeling anymore. There was only the clarity of the void.
To his enemy’s eyes, it appeared the opposite was happening. Each part of the frail body collapsed towards the hole made by this terrible weapon. Soon, his feet left the ground, hanging lifelessly as his torso fell inward into nothing. His head, once full of mirthless laughter at the misfortune of others, began to shrink and condense like air from a balloon until it fell into his chest as well. After a few moments, the blade devoured the man like the bottom of an hourglass consumes the top until all that was left was the attacker and a dying fire.
To the victim, there was only nothing, until even the acknowledgment of the sensation was lost to the infinite expanse.
Soon, the void that is Est Vacuus, unable to support anything within itself in any capacity without losing what it is, allowed the infinitesimal something that had just entered its expanses to be obliterated and consumed until it returned to its natural state. For such a thing to happen to a living creature, even the smallest single-celled organism, torture is an incredibly useless word. One is never so certain they have a soul as they are the moment it is ripped from their body and destroyed.
The assailant, confident the deed was done, drew back the perfect blade and sheathed it beneath the blanket, careful to not let others see the action or the face of the one who had committed it. They were angry at themselves more than anything. They were well-trained in the control and manipulation of both people and situations, but the old man had struck a very sensitive nerve. The old man was in no way worthy of the destruction he had just endured. It was simply an over-reaction to a fool. Still, it was upsetting even now that the bastard was gone into the nothing. How he had laughed! How he mocked them right to their face! What had he known? What didn't he tell them?
There were no more answers here.
They left the scene of the horrible crime they had just committed. Once they had traveled down the road enough to be gone from the light of the fires and the range of the scouting parties each caravan had established to protect the others while they slept, they cast off the blanket, exposing their twisted visage to the night.
He had been human once, many years ago before the foolishness of mankind tried again to destroy itself. Now he was a terrifying mix of flesh and metal, a hybrid of all the fears of the people in these lands, because not only was he an advanced and efficient machine, he was also a human that possessed the Power on an unrivaled level. Only his right arm, upper torso, and head were still fully human, each being a part of himself he refused to have altered. His arm was toned and strong, his body hard and muscular, his head youthful, but not too much so. His eyes dark and narrow, the head smooth and hairless. His face was handsome once. Now it was scarred and battered, each wound telling a tale of unfathomable evils committed in another life.
Of course, there was also the smile, a glistening beacon of dubious intent. Even small dimples accentuated the edges.
Just like his father.
The rest was extremely similar to the monster that had ordered the destruction of Tan Torna Qu-ay. It was only fitting. It was designed in his image. Right down to the perfect, pleasant voice.
The most non-human part exposed itself. From his back unfolded his large, thin, nearly indestructible mechanical wings. Wide and skeletal, like a synthetic version of the ones belonging to the young man he had been hunting. A young man he had apparently just missed thanks to the interference of the phoenix at the last minute.
This evening’s task was complete, and he had to return to the south where the great army he commanded awaited his next set of orders. He had to ensure the proper next move was made. The wings, in what could be described as a perfect harmony of strength and motion, had him airborne instantly.
The old man was on his mind the whole trip, his laughter echoing like shrill background noise as it went.
He knew something, and it was important enough to defy the creature until the moment of his destruction. That said something very powerful to him as he flew. The old man was a fool, but not so foolish as to laugh at nothing while facing his death. Nor was he insane. Indeed, it was the amount of wit the man had about him that led to him being the one chosen to send Nixon. Damn it, why had he chosen to manipulate such a person. No good could come of it.
Oh well, lesson learned as he carried off south to where his word was law, and no one would dare laugh.
The weapon at his side and his readiness to use it was testimony to that.
Chapter 12
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The Power and the Foolish
From the time they had landed and set camp in the shade of an old cherry orchard he could begin to feel something powerful, but more disconcerting, he could hear the voices that flowed with it as well. This made the phoenix very sad. This was a sadness it had felt before, when last it was awake to clean up the mess of Tokugawa Ryu and his foolish actions.
These were the voices of the past. The lost and trapped. The fallen. The remnants of the powerful souls Ryu had purged. The voices on the edge of the Omnis.
Aryu was a complete wreck by this point in the trip. Nixon had maintained a hard and exhausting pace. Although he was much faster than even a few days ago, he was still nothing compared to Nixon.
The nights and moments of rest were almost as bad. The two unlikely compatriots were through the feeling out process of one another and had begun what could best be described as a very young acquaintanceship. For Aryu and Nixon, it seemed to be more of a teacher and student connection. Nixon told his stories and tried to express to Aryu the needs and morals of each. Aryu listened, enjoying the story more than the message, and took a little something from each one.
On day two, the question of the sword was asked.
“Do ya know how to handle such a thing, Aryu?” he was asked. “Could ya defend yerself if ya needed to?”
Aryu, unsure of the answer, vaguely said, “maybe, if it came up,” and left it at that.
“Well, it came up a few days ago, I'd say. If ya want t’ rejoin yer friend and be of any use, I'd suggest ya learn. It's a powerful weapon. Possibly the most powerful ever, but tha’ can only get ye so far. With it now, ye can use it as ya would a regular sword, with the added benefit of its near invulnerability. Ye can still be a very dead young man if ya can't handle tha’ thing as a weapon in its most basic terms.”
Aryu had handled weapons before, but he didn't need to be told the places he was going to would have situations beyond those he'd encountered.
“So what do you propose?” he'd asked at last, knowing the answer, giddy at hearing the words from Nixon.
“Simple. Each day between her
e and when we reach our destination, ya listen and follow while I show ya some of tha basics. Pray my small amount of instruction is ne'er needed, though.”
Aryu agreed instantly, elated at the thought. This had been Aryu's intention all along: to accompany the beast and learn anything he could about the sword and its uses so he could make himself a stronger fighter for the battles to come.
So it had been for days. Hard flying topped off with a few hours each day learning some basics from Nixon. Aryu learned that strength had little to do with it when it came to the Shi Kaze. With a simple thrust or wrist flick, he could drive the point into a thick rock or fell a giant tree effortlessly. The memory of the mechanical man who had almost abducted him and the ease with which the sword had taken its arm or the slick and graceful way it had cleaved the Ark 1 in half (results of which notwithstanding) were made clearer as he learned more.
At times, the obvious question of whether it was pure coincidence that he had found it rolled through his head, though he never voiced them.
After practice on the day they reached the Napponia border, Aryu returned to the camp to see Nixon lost in his own mind, his deep black and red eyes saddened as he stared deeply into their fire. Anyone could see that more than usual was weighing on Nixon’s mind. Aryu questioned him about it.
“So obvious, am I? Well, this is a very sad place fer me. A place of death and lost voices. Ryu was a very po'erful man, and I can only assume by tha fact I ne'er 'ad to hunt him except fer the last time, he was a good man to many people. He was also foolish in his actions, a man lost t’ his own powers. With his final act, an act of unspeakable maliciousness, he attempted t’ purge all the users of Power from the world, not fer any matter of control, or t’ become the strongest person alive, as he likely already was.