“There it is.” K'Chool said pointing. An old and knowing building stood atop a mountain, surrounded by rocks, snow and defiant trees holding their ground. Long forgotten stonework held up long forgotten red tiled roofs, a sprawling mass of buildings, walls, doorways and windows built directly into the side of the mountain. Gravel pathways snaked in between layers of buildings and Xiang noticed some areas were untouched by snow, lush and fruitful gardens occupying large swathes of his vision. Noticing, Khar explained that it was where they grew their food, magik domes creating the perfect growing conditions for all their needs. The plane banked so that they came to the other side of the mountain top, revealing more of the same structures.
“There, is where we land.” K'Chool shouted, gesturing towards a large open square with high walls.
“When we touch down, follow our lead Xiang.” Focus in Khar’s voice drawing his attention to the gravity of the situation. “Drop your parachute as quickly as you can and then head for the northern wall of the training square. Hopefully we can get to Mo without interruption. We must be as the wind, if the conspiracy runs as deep as we think we’ll not be welcome. Who knows what’ll have changed over the last few days.”
“What about your parachutes?” Xiang asked K'Chool.
“Don’t need them.” Khar laughed before taking a couple of steps towards the door. He turned, a childish grin spreading across his face, and then fell out of the plane backwards into nothingness. Xiang made a start towards the door, but K'Chool cut him off and performed the exact same manoeuvre as Khar. Same body shape, arms outstretched. Same grin. The ex-special ops agent had seen many things, rarely being surprised, but this particular show caused a childish grin of his own to appear as he followed his new-found friends out of the plane, two already small black spots in his vision.
Khar delighted in the speed of falling, streamlining his body as much as possible and feeling exhilaration flow through him. K'Chool followed suit, catching up to him and them sharing a knowing smile, distorted by the air morphing their faces unnaturally. In unison, they pulled themselves up and drew their limbs into extravagant movements, chanting the spell they needed to land safely. Xiang watched the performance, awed by the skill and how fast the gravel square was coming up towards them. He pulled his shoot, slowing his descent and angling towards the northern edge of the training square. Pulling gently on his control lines he found the line and pace he wanted to land safely, enjoying the calm of the last stages of his descent. Meanwhile, the two figures below him flung their arms wide, straightened their left legs and bent their right legs slightly, their speed decreasing dramatically as they came within twenty to thirty feet of the gravel surface. Judging the last moments before touchdown, they looked up and saw a monk standing there all alone. His hands were clasped gently in front of him, concealed by long orange sleeves and his face displaying no emotion. Two sets of feet gently touched down, Khar and K'Chool melting immediately towards the ground, bending a knee in respect.
“Master Mo.” Khar offered, eyes at the man’s feet.
“Where have you been?” Mo calmly asked.
“To the old library.”
The old Sojela’s face betrayed a small amount of annoyance. “Why?”
Khar swallowed before responding, taking the time to compose himself. “We went to investigate The Last Word-”
“The Master forbade you from doing any such thing.” Mo interrupted. “I was there when you told him your little fantasy, Weyaal.”
“Skell.” Khar muttered to himself.
“What did you find?” Mo asked, his eyes flicking to Xiang as he landed a few feet behind Khar and K'Chool. “And why is there a Naïve here?”
The second question igniting irritation within Khar. He stood then, taking a step towards his mentor before laying out the events of the last few days, only leaving out how they got to the library, but including all the other details, spending a long time on his vision and what they’d surmised about The Master and the order.
Mo patiently listened to everything, not moving a muscle or stopping the story, waiting for Khar to finish. When he did, Mo sighed deeply, shaking his head.
“You should trust in The Master, Weyaal.” He said sadly, Khar incredulous at Mo not showing them the support they thought they deserved. “There is more happening here than you realise.”
“You’re taking his side?” K'Chool said, standing up and frowning hard at the man.
“Sides are for small games and small minds, Weyaal. You should not have disobeyed your orders.”
“Take us to him.” Khar said defiantly, Xiang walking up beside him in support.
“I cannot do that. What I can do though, is take you to the cells whilst you await his judgement. You have gone too far this time Khar and dragged the wrong people down with you into this made up drama.” He made sure Khar saw him look and K’Chool and Xiang.
“We swore we’d protect the light.” Khar uttered to himself, then repeating so Mo would hear.
“We do, and The Master knows exactly how we are to continue doing that. It is not your place to decide what should or should not be done. Now follow me.” Mo made to turn but Khar scoffed, stopping the man from turning.
“You’re in on it too, aren’t you?” Khar accused.
“I am not in, on anything, Weyaal. Now do as your told and follow me.” Mo made to turn again, this time Khar stopping the turn by shouting no at him and adopting a fighting stance.
“What are you doing Khar?” K'Chool said, Xiang also adopting a fighting stance.
“Something stupid.” He responded with, launching forward towards his mentor. Something had changed in Khar since the library, his mind focused and his actions deliberate. His attack was swift, faster than K'Chool had seen him move before, an edge of something else controlling his body. Xiang attacked at the same time, impossibly quick himself and beating Khar to the punch, much to her surprise. Mo blinked, K'Chool swearing that she saw disappointment and pain in his eyes, then emotionlessly avoided both attacks without removing his hands from his sleeves. Both men passed him by, a swift kick meeting Xiang’s side and flinging him like a ragdoll into the stone wall ten feet away. Khar just about managed to block the kick aimed at him, his heels grinding into the gravel to stop him sliding too far. Rubbing his forearm, Khar rounded on Mo and went in again, some discipline in his attack this time, but the Sojeladhan was too skilful, landing a violent kick on Khar’s lower thigh, forcing a grunt from the young monk’s lips as he fell to a knee briefly. Khar looked up at K'Chool, pleading for her help and she couldn’t ignore it. Emotion took over and she manifested her Guan Dao without thinking, mechanically performing the movements and incantation required. Mo still hadn’t removed his hands from his sleeves, choosing this moment to do so whilst shaking his head.
“You know what this means, Weyaal?” Mo asked her, some disappointment in his tone.
“I do.” She said stoically, thinking about the history of the blade and how she learned to wield it. Hours and hours spent with her father learning how to move with the weapon, smiles, frowns, sweat and tears casting their relationship in iron. The same amount of time, if not more, was spent discussing their family histories and those of this tool of destruction and elegance. She loved her father then, in those times of learning. She loved her Guan Dao just as much and she still did. Bringing it to bear on her fellow monk however, was not a path she could easily un-tread should she have to and seeing it now scared her a little.
“So be it.” Expecting Mo to summon his own weapon with his own elaborate dance, K'Chool was surprised to see him slowly lower his hands out of his sleeves, making a few finger gestures and saying one word to himself that she couldn’t hear. He flicked a finger in her direction and a bright white blast of energy shot towards her. She watched it in slow motion, taking in the fluctuations of light and shadow dancing across the balls surface as it relentlessly flew towards her, mesmerised by its beauty and devastating force. At the last moment she pulled h
er Dao back towards her chest, the flat part of blade catching the full force of the attack and flinging her a few feet into the air onto her back. Gasping, she raised her head to look at Mo, not knowing that the man had mastered short form magiks. The histories told of wytches and wyzards that didn’t need words or body movements to cast magik, and she’d heard of some who only needed one or two words and smaller gestures, but neither had been seen for generations.
“Careful Khar.” She shouted from the rough ground, pain in her chest from the blast. “He doesn’t use full forms.” Khar looked over at Xiang who wasn’t moving and saw K'Chool getting to her feet, stiffness holding her back.
“Surelikai give me strength.” Khar whispered to himself before attacking Mo again. Mo weaved in and out of Khar’s attacks like sand passing through fingers. When K'Chool joined the fight, they both felt outnumbered by the Sojeladhan, hope fading fast. Swipes from her Guan Dao met shadows of where Mo used to be. Punches and kicks from Khar met Mo’s past self, always shifting and melting away from them, constantly moving and unpredictable. It was two against one, but the two didn’t feel like they had the advantage. The Sojeladhan was a true master of his craft and didn’t need to make any attacks of his own, or block any advances from his adversaries. He was mist and phantasm. Untouchable.
“Enough.” Mo said to himself, deliberately catching K'Chool’s blade on his forearm and grabbing Khar’s wrist. The fingers on his free hand moved as he said a word under his breath, a wave of energy forcing its way outwards from his centre and throwing his two attackers helplessly into the distance. Moving towards them, his fingers moved again and all they could do was shield their faces from the next fury. They were beaten. Both of them were no match for the old cleric, having given their all, so they resigned themselves to their fate. They looked at each other from the ground and managed a smile, both of them enjoying their own memories of their relationship, happy to have known each other. Mo voiced his word and they expected the worst, but nothing happened. Whilst they were fighting, Xiang had regained consciousness and made his way towards their judge, jury and executioner, grimacing with the effort.
“Interesting.” Mo said looking at his hands and turning at the sound of gravelly, shuffling noises. He looked at the man staggering towards him and admired the effort. “A Naïve void. You must be a descendant of Artoor Moniin’s honour guard. Well met warrior of light.” He bowed his head with respect.
“Stop, Mo!” All four people in the courtyard froze where they were, surprised by the new voice joining the fray. Looking towards the source of the sound, Khar recognised the woman. She was of average height, with shoulder-length black hair, bright blue eyes and the hint of a birthmark on the side of her neck. She stood there fiercely, hands glowing and ready for a fight.
“Eve?!” If it were possible to freeze twice, all four people would have done so, only to be joined by Eve as the fifth frozen statue. They were all surprised by another voice joining the fray. A door sized window had appeared on the other side of the training square, five people and a black shape standing on the other side of the portal, staring at the scene in front of them. The tall, dark, bearded man with strong, broad shoulders and soulful grey eyes was staring past the fight at Eve, tears running down his face. An odd black thing was bristling next to him, purring with delight. A man stood on his other side, bleeding from the ribs, his modern Kimono style outfit torn in many places. Two women and a man were stood behind him, all wearing similar outfits in similar states of disrepute.
“Tor?!” Eve exclaimed back, her hands glow fading to nothing, tears beginning to freely run down her face.
CHAPTER FIFTY - COLLARS
The spell Rosalind needed to cast would take time and she was looking forward to the process. The quiet. The Concentration. The result. Discipline was required, a characteristic she’d nurtured in the Monastery and in her studies, something she was proud of. The book in her hand whispered to her as she looked down at her feet, nestled amongst some leaves, the oranges, browns and yellows creeping into the edges of her boots, blending her in with the ground. Drifting out of focus, she pulled one of her hands into her eye line and took in the lines that marked her life’s passing. It wasn’t old, it wasn’t young. It just, was. Her hands had done so many things and were about to do so many more. She reached out to touch the edge of a shimmering piece of air, the book whispering louder in her ear as she got closer. It danced when her fingertips met the surface, shifting and moving like oil on water. They were about to cross over, back into the Lucid world. They were about to cross over and make their way to Sahld’veba. Before walking through, she turned to look at the group she had with her, counting heads and hearts. Her twelve Detka stood there dutifully, staring at her, or staring at something near her. Their white eyes betraying nothing. Not like Christophe’s eyes, she thought, they betrayed everything.
“Were we right to have sent him away?” The Diplomat offered to herself.
“Yes.” The Rage hissed back.
“He is essential in hiding our intentions children.” The soft voice of The Mistress taking charge.
She stood there a little while longer, thinking about Christophe. Imagining him beside her. Imagining how he felt, how he sounded. When she was done, she would find him. When the worlds were in chaos, they would rise together to rule. He would help her end The Protectorate and The Balance. She didn’t need to do this all alone. She couldn’t. Her Detka weren’t enough. She needed them, and him. The thoughts brought her comfort and she resisted going to him right now, pushing herself to carry out her plan. Some whimpering from the group broke her concentration, her mind and her sight moving towards the back of the group. Kane and Abel were there, odd bulging masses of muscle, bone and raw energy. Of all her Detka, only those two made noises, partially from their constantly shifting insides but mostly from trying to communicate with her. Maybe she did love them more than the others. The whimpering didn’t come from them though, it came from one of the group of Naïve’s an unnamed Detka was keeping hold of who couldn’t control themselves.
Seven women, seven men, bloodied and with torn clothes were huddled together. Her source of strength for the coming casting and a way to keep her hunger at bay. They had no restraints, just slim, glowing collars around their necks. Each one shone a slightly different colour and pulsed with the heartbeat of each captor. The Detka guarding them also had one around its neck, shining white and constant against its purple essence. All of them held their heads low, not knowing where to look, distraught by their ordeal so far. Tears ran down dirty faces, shoulders shuddered with sobs, arms hugged chests. They all felt doomed. They were. She walked over to white collar and touched it gently on the shoulder, tender and loving.
“Are they obeying?” It raised its right arm, fourteen arms raising in response. It raised its left arm, fourteen more arms mimicking the gesture. A man looked up then, rebellion and disobedience emanating from him. Arrogant. Their eyes met, and she didn’t see any fire in them, just a frightened little boy. Dressed in a very nice suit, privilege oozed from him. He’d always thought the world owed him something. He took what he wanted, when he wanted and surprisingly, right then, he took his freedom. It may’ve been the bravest thing he ever did, a lifetime of easy money, easy opportunities and easy women making him soft and limp. With a concentrated effort, suit drew his arms away from where white collar had put them and he ran. Staggering a few paces as he resisted the control of his purple master he found his rhythm, his strength. If Rosalind could’ve seen his face, she would’ve seen joy and fear in equal measure. Driven by thoughts of escape and death he ran away, collar pulsing as his heart pounded. White collar made to pursue but Rosalind shook her head and then the suit lost his. Fzzt. There was no explosion, no drama. Just a sizzling sound of the collar burning through the man's neck and two body parts falling to the ground. The women screamed. The men cried. They all understood.
Rosalind walked back to the edge of the crossing point and placed her han
d on the oily surface. It is time. Her Archfiend stood at her side, whilst Adam and Eve moved to right behind her, her honour guard. Sword and shield, should she need them. White collar started walking up behind them, twenty-six feet matching its steps in unison. Surrounding them were seven Detka, vigilant and loyal. At the back, whimpering, squelching, crunching were Kane and Abel, awkwardly walking on all fours, impossibly strong limbs supporting their bulks. Had they gotten bigger? The book in her hand talked to her of their power and how beautiful they were, saying she should keep them close. Breaking the surface of the crossing point they found themselves on more leaves. Nothing had changed from the Naïve world, accept Rosalind could hear and see more. Whispers of old magiks, streams of energy ebbing and flowing. Half a day’s walk and they’d be at the edge of the void. Another day and a half and they’d be at Sahld’veba where she’d break open the worlds. Where she would fulfil her destiny.
Her feet and hands looked just as they had on the other side, drifting in and out of focus. Staring at one, then the other she wanted to take some time before they began. She wanted to think about her Dyad’s betrayal. Her unrequited love. The book that’d been her best friend and confidant. The soft echoing voice that comforted her in the dark and planted ideas. She wanted to blame the Dyad and the love who spurned her, for her actions, why she felt this way. She wanted significant events to be the cause of her discomfort, but she knew different. Deep down she knew it was more complicated than that. She’d always had this in her, the capacity for evil and it wasn’t the big moments that made her, it was all the small ones. The lies here, the lies there. The small acts of cruelty. The dark thoughts driving her actions. The manipulating of thoughts and feelings, however tiny. They all added up, drowning out the good parts. The parts that wanted to tell the truth. The parts that wanted to take the hard, higher road. The parts that wanted to care and protect. Perhaps the big moments were the ones that crushed her light side. The final blows that carved her out of rage and destruction. Or perhaps they were just more excuses. She thought the light was there sometimes, believing that she chose to join The Balance because it was the right thing to do, but the book, The Rage and The Mistress could be very persuasive when they wanted to be.
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