The House of Grey- Volume 6

by Earl, Collin

  “So the makeover here at Coren, the Artificial Inland Project, Baroty Bridge, all of it—the whole thing was in preparation for this plan? This plan that will what, kill all the other races?”

  “Of course not, I am not so much of a barbarian to propose the genocide of my own people. No, this plan is a simple one to make this world as it should always have been, an existence unto its own.”

  “‘An existence unto its own’…so Earth and these other worlds are connected and you plan to sever that connection?”

  Baroty’s silence was a clear enough answer.

  “I think I see. You, as a power user, plan on separating Earth and its people from the other races.” Monson laughed. “It’s not hard to see where that’s going. But here’s what I don’t understand. The bridge. If the bridge was connected to this plan to extract living Kei from people and bring about this great separation, why did you destroy it? Why did you kill all those people at the bridge? Aren’t they more valuable to you alive?”

  Baroty’s twisted expression was becoming more than a little amused, and his tone matched his expression. “That is where you are misunderstanding, O Being of Seven Bloods. It was not I who destroyed that bridge or the people on it. That little feat falls upon you…and you alone.”

  The simple words bore into Monson with profound effect. When he answered, he sounded stronger than he felt. “Another one of your lies, Baroty? I’ve fallen for them once, I won’t make that same mistake twice. Why would I kill those people and destroy that bridge? I’ve no reason to do either.”

  “The Pathway to Power is a fickle thing, Monson Grey, filled with obstacles, trials and evils that only the very elite understand. You, a child, were never meant to have so much power at your disposal. Only the genius, hardworking and talented should have your levels of Kei release. Call it the rule of destiny, call it the curse of fate, call it an unnatural and disconcerting phenomena; call it what you may, but regardless, unimaginable power resides in you, Monson. Power like I have never seen before. But alas, power is not everything. The fact that you have a fully developed path speaks not to your Messianic state but your monstrous nature. The Natural Man is an enemy to the gods as he is a monster built upon nothing but instinctual emotions and carnal cravings. It was that monster that possessed you at my bridge. He is the reason my beautiful machine festers in ruins at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean and why your grandfather and so many others perished. That silver light of yours was born of all the bloods of all the races but it is not the calming radiance of Heaven. It is the burning glare of Hell, striking forth to bring death and damnation to the world.”

  “You’re lying,” repeated Monson, this time with less conviction. The truth was, he had considered this possibility, and even at one point in time accepted the idea intellectually. But to have it spoken aloud, to have the dreaded reality plainly exposed, struck him like nothing else could.

  “I have no reason to lie to you.” Baroty chuckled. “Here, in this place, the final steps of my longstanding ambition will be complete. The path of my own rebirth is near its end and the final traces of the Magi on this planet will vanish at the hands of the Midday Darkness. Even you, the heir of my greatest friend and rival, the legendary Being of Seven Bloods, shall fall. So why now, at this final hour, would I lie to you?”

  Monson did not answer, could not answer. In a flood of disgust, he felt the ember of not only belief but also guilt—overwhelming, enduring guilt–start to kindle inside of him. He forced himself to maintain control.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, but you do, Monson. You believe every word I am saying, as surely as you can hear the screams of the men, women and children filling your mind. I can see the fear and guilt in your eyes, Monson.”

  Unbidden, the image of a silent black and white video screen appeared in his vision. A young girl with a blade at her throat, a screaming mother choked with fear, an angry father swearing in frustration at his own helplessness, and the horror and disbelief of a restless crowd, among whom stood a single individual wrapped in a whirlwind. Monson suddenly felt the sensation of whipping air on his face.

  Christopher Baroty repositioned the blade, not in an offensive stance, but it was not particularly neutral, either. He slowly and deliberately stepped towards Monson. Monson knew…this was it…his moment. Baroty was going to kill him. Monson weakly attempted to summon his blade. The Breath of the Dragon; he could feel the tug of the blade as it bade him to call upon it. But it was no use. The blade would not come to him, it would not save him. The warmth of the blade, the warmth that seconds ago he could feel rippling along his body merely sputtered as it pushed to hold on. Baroty was now standing right above him, though Monson had no recollection of any movement. A strange sense of defeat enveloped him. For some reason he could not stand or even look up. What was this strange feeling?

  “Guilt,” whispered Baroty, the sounds of fighting coming ever nearer. “Guilt, because you know I speak the truth. Let me ask you a question, Monson. Do you know what kind of sacrifice has gone into the perpetuation of the facade that is the Being of Seven Bloods?”

  Monson shook his head weakly in response.

  “Countless lives, Mr. Grey, all of them in pursuit of some Messianic figure when the races, the Magi, the Brotherhood—all mortal beings should have known that the power to change the future lies right in their own hands. To believe is to become but only if followed by action. That is the only real truth I have ever encountered. But for the Magi and the Brotherhood, they are content to allow others to dictate their actions and their future. They are content to allow others to be sacrificed for the sake of their vision. My question for you, then, Monson Grey, is this: Are you like them?”

  Monson had no answer; all he could think of were the words of Damion Peterson…as he finally understood….

  You weren’t protecting Cyann from everything else, thought Monson. You were protecting her from me…if only the Being of Seven Bloods had waited another generation…if only I had waited one more generation you would not have had to go to such extremes…I get it now, Damion.

  “How many others, Monson, are going to be sacrificed like those on the bridge? How long will it be until the Being of Seven Bloods answers for the sins committed in his name? Thousands of years of murder and intrigue for a being whose purpose is barely understood. Battles fought for your future favor, priceless resources stolen to build palaces and temples in your name, so many lives…. Will you give the fallen innocents no justice, no recompense?”

  Monson looked skyward. He was responsible for the deaths of all those people at Baroty Bridge. He could feel it. Deep inside, the cement of truth weighed him down to the depths of his sorrow. Should the sword of justice not fall swiftly upon him? Should he not at least attempt to atone for his actions?

  “It is not the Being’s life that will bring salvation, Monson Grey, but his death. With your death, you can single-handedly end a war that has lasted for many, many years. You and you alone can end it all right here…right now.”

  Monson collapsed onto all fours, feeling defeat crush him. The fighting was almost upon them but he gave it no notice. He was ready to face his fate.

  Baroty, a triumphant smile on his face, raised the gleaming blade, ready to strike.

  Chapter 61 – True Friends

  Monson sensed the blade getting closer as he reflected on the time spent with friends and loved ones, the many people who had died because of him, and the many other lives lost. He had only one true regret: that he had to leave his friends. That he was going to leave them alone and sad. Knowing that they would not hear him, that they would not understand, he whispered, “Casey…Artorius…I’m sorry…I—”

  A rasping sound from overhead interrupted his thoughts. Monson looked to see three Magi Blades raging against one another, locked in a deadly dance that just happened to be situated right above his head. He became aware of the clamor of gunfire and combat spells mixed with the sounds of injured men. H
.U.M.A.N.E. had broken through the Roman soldiers and the gargoyles of the Midday Darkness and was now storming the football field like the Marines in Normandy, fighting as if the life of the free world, or worlds, depended on it. Baroty’s men and H.U.M.A.N.E. crashed into one another, both jockeying for position. Monson caught the glint of Baroty’s expression. He snarled with all the rage of a caged beast as he struggled with his sword arm while a faint but pure glow warmed the fabric of his black cloak; it looked as if it was the source of his problems.

  A cold, distinctly female voice suddenly broke in, causing Monson to cringe.

  “Casey and Artorius, I’m sorry?”

  Monson twisted his head around, hoping to ascertain the speaker’s identity. Injured and bleeding commandos were lumped in a pile with none other than Taris Green standing over them, a shining hand cannon pointed at the lot of them. Taris stared at him with obvious relief, smiling as he locked eyes with her. She puckered her lips, and Monson’s face burned the second she did this. Then she nodded her head; not in acceptance but as if to point him in another direction. The cold voice spoke again and this time Monson recognized it.

  “You’re apologizing to Casey and Artorius? What about the rest of us? I should just let this moron stab you.”

  Cyann stood over Monson with Damion’s River Serenity in one hand and Monson’s Breath of the Dragon in the other. Quite the magnificent sight, she exuded a regal glow and appeared quite at home with the power of the Magi Blades firmly in her hands. Yet her radiance was not what really caught his eye, but rather the fury in her face. Pure, primal, pulsating anger played upon the usually prim and proper visage of Cyann Harrison. Her anger, surprisingly enough, was not directed at Baroty—but at Monson.

  He rolled out from under the blades of Baroty and Cyann, popping quickly to his feet. Baroty struck right as Monson escaped out of reach. Then Cyann attacked Baroty, wielding the red and blue blades like the true forces of nature they were. Baroty was caught unawares and his balance teetered. In two quick movements Cyann was upon him, blades poised to strike. Baroty stared at her unblinkingly, like he was seeing her for the first time. Surprisingly, he didn’t strike. He didn’t even attempt it. He just stared at her and the weapons in awe.

  Cyann directed her words at Monson.

  “You knocked me out.”

  Monson regarded her seriously. “Yes, I did.”

  “Right after I told you it was not for you to decide.”

  “That’s also true.”

  Cyann’s face brightened, becoming even angrier. “That’s it? You’re not going to say anything else?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “How about why you did it?”

  Monson exhaled deeply. “I was trying to protect us. This is not a fight you should have been involved in. I didn’t want you to see what I would become, to know what had happened because of me.”

  Cyann almost screamed at him as the bubbling of the black tar quickened. “You didn’t want me to see what you would become—what, besides dead? You were going to let him kill you? You were just going to die and leave the rest of us behind?”

  Monson gazed at her imploringly. “Please try and understand…it was—it was my fault, Cyann—all of this is my fault. It’s the only thing I could do to make up—”

  Cyann spit on the ground. “Oh, don’t be so arrogant. Even if it was your fault, one life, no matter how special, would not be enough to atone for the lives of countless others. That’s the thinking of someone who doesn’t understand the real value of life.”

  She gestured at Baroty with a blade. “This man is blaming you, a fifteen-year-old kid who doesn’t even remember half of his life, for the deaths and dogma of a society of different races you’ve never known existed or been a part of. How could you, not yet born, have stopped generations of fighting? How is it your fault that people rationalized horrible behavior in the name of religion, salvation or the greater good?”

  Monson looked like he was about to interrupt with a question, but Cyann cut him off. “Yes, I heard all that crap that Baroty was feeding you. He’s an idiot for feeding it to you and you’re an idiot for believing it. Only a fool takes responsibility for something he had no control over. And what about those of us who actually care about you? What about Casey, Artorius, Indigo, Taris, Kylie, Molly…and me? You were what, just going to go? Pass away without saying anything—without even trying to remain with us? You are a good person. I know that; even if I do want to punch you sometimes. You don’t deserve to die for the actions of others, no matter how much blood has been spilled on your behalf.”

  Cyann addressed Baroty. “Oh, and you’re full of it. The colors of the people on Baroty Bridge, all of them were extinguished long before the explosion. They were all dead long before the light descended and the bridge fell—and you know it.”

  “Who are you to state that as fact?” countered Baroty in a venomous voice. “You speak as if you can actually see stationary Kei—”

  A geyser blast of tar suddenly erupted from the giant hole in the ground. Miraculously, every chunk or droplet stopped and reversed course back into the source of the ooze, like some sort of invisible force was resisting it. The roman soldiers counterattacked at that precise instant and a large group of commandos appeared out of nowhere, following the orders of Aaron Gibson. Gunfire raced overhead as war cries sang out and the sounds of fighting fell upon them. Distracted, Cyann did not see Baroty’s left hook. His punch was hardly clean but it was enough to force her back. Baroty hurled himself from the podium just as commandos, wielding Magi Blades, attacked it, and Cyann swore loudly as she parried their blows. She yelled at Monson.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Get off your butt and help me!”

  Her words renewed his strength; in one smooth motion, Monson slid in next to her, taking the Breath of the Dragon from her hands. Two more sword strikes flashed in quick succession towards her blind side, both of which Monson blocked and countered with fist and foot. The commandos fell back and melted away instantly, as Monson realized that they were merely—

  “Replications,” he whispered. “Why are these replications?”

  The clangs of magical metal accompanied the strong slashes of incapacitating strikes. Two more of the replications fell as both they and their blades dissipated into nonexistence. Monson surveyed the area. It was time they—

  A sharp pain on the side of his face made him lose his grip on his sword. It didn’t feel like a blade, but whatever had hit him knocked him against the platform’s railing, and threw him off balance. Regardless, Monson recovered quickly, ready to receive the blindsided thrust of a blade. But no such thrust came. Instead Monson heard fevered breathing just above him. Cyann stared down at him, her hand in midair, driving home the fact that she had just slapped him.

  “For knocking you out?” Monson asked in a soft voice.

  Cyann’s expression softened tragically. “No, for trying to go without so much as a goodbye. I will never forgive you if you do something like that again.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  Cyann reached down, bunched up his shirt, and pulled him up. “You’re trying to run away? You feel so much guilt, you live with so many unanswered questions and take responsibility for things you cannot control. Even if you were to die for those people on the bridge, what would that accomplish? Only that you too would be dead, simply creating more people who can’t be brought back and more sad people left behind. If you want to do something for those people, then live; live and find something you can dedicate yourself to. You don’t honor the dead by dying but by livingly fully and righteously.”

  The echoes of war surrounded them, but all Monson could hear was Cyann as her voiced permeated his mind and knocked against his resolve. Did he really have the right to go on living when so many others had passed?

  “I’ve asked myself that same question,” whispered Cyann, her face full of melancholy, apparently guessing Monson’s thoughts. “I don’t ha
ve all the answers, but at least you should ask the question before you pretend to know the answer. Find out for yourself if you’re the villain you think you are, or the hero I know you have the potential to be. And just remember: Wherever you go, I will follow; I will follow and do my best to help you succeed.”

  Monson did not have anything to say. He felt warmth in his gut. He smiled at her.

  “Finish what you started, Monson. Avenge your grandfather. Go get Baroty!”

  Monson’s thoughts turned back to Christopher Baroty, the same man who was making his escape, fleeing with a squad of his soldiers in tow. Monson swore; as he tried to follow, more of the commandos attacked them – unsure if they were some of the real commandos or merely the replicas.

  “Go,” yelled Cyann as she cut clean through two of the commandos. A pile of rocks fell to the ground. “I’ll take care of things here. You go after Baroty!”

  Monson jumped off the platform, albeit reluctantly, and blistered after Baroty who was almost at one of the exits on the far side of the field.

  If he gets to that opening I’m screwed, thought Monson. He’ll disappear into the chaos of the battle. There is no way I will find him again. I need to move faster.

  Monson called upon the Kei that was again flooding over, under and through his skin. He attempted to consciously take hold of the magic, forcing it move according to his will. What he was about to attempt was dangerous; he had to get in front of Baroty and his men if there was any chance of stopping him.

  If his reacquired memories were correct, in theory, he should be able to propel his movements way beyond normal by applying Kei to his own body. Monson continued to work the flow of his Kei, pushing it towards the soles of his feet, willing it to do the impossible.