KOMBG Crisis - Fan Fictions
The Shallow Guild of Bleak Sunrise:
vs. The Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Preperations
The figure crouched on the
rooftop of the LotMU subway station, staring into the darkness to
allow his vision to adjust. He had been out in the city for some days
now, merely watching and listening to the goings on in Khazan and
trying to decide if he was a fool for coming here. It was too much, he
thought. One couldn’t plan here. Everything happened so fast that it
was all done in the heat at the moment, every solution ad hoc to the
problem, chaos invading every pore of existence. No place for an
ancient being who really should be looking for a place to die.
He stood slowly, allowing his
old muscles time to stretch. The night air was cold on his face, his
parchment-thin
skin offering scant protection
to his old bones, and his cloak, which was , at that moment, making so
half-hearted an attempt at flapping in the breeze that it bordered on
sarcasm, did not help at all. As a protection against the twin ravages
of the forces of physics and the sands of time it was relatively
faultless, he had to admit, but against the elements, it’s failings
as an actual cloak were all too evident.
His bones creaked as he
straightened himself out of his gargoyle-like pose. It was definitely
a rum night; there were, without a doubt, some strange goings on. The
electricity had been building in the air all night, the same as it
sometimes did on the hallowed e’en when the spirits really did come
out to play and hug the life out of their lost loved ones. But it was
something else.
The machines had been
patrolling the streets, he knew that much. Huge things, bristling with
guns, covered in armour, and, it seemed, seeking battle. He disliked
such complicated fare and foolishly wasting time and energy, and so
had chosen to avoid them simply by allowing the cloak to wrap its inky
blackness around him so as to remain unnoticed in the shadows as they
passed.
Nonetheless, the pervasive
atmosphere of something going
on could mean business. Guild business. He wondered if now was the
time to go back and officially offer his services once again. Or
perhaps he should just find a quiet spot, set the cloak aside, and
face whatever gods were prepared to sit in judgement on him. As he sat
pondering, he noticed a warmth on his cheek and a light glow. He
turned towards it.
* * *
"This appears to be the
best spot, Broakenho".
"I suppose it will have
to do, then".
Skual pulled the bundle out
from under her robes and set it on the ground. As she carefully
unwrapped the cloth, Broakenho stared around the square, trying to
locate Gate. The square itself, located in one of the older parts of
the city, was not a bad spot for arcane reasons; not only were they on
a slight ripple in Khazan’s reality, allowing for both good energy
generation on the compressed inside curve and faster summoning on the
stretched outside, but they were also on top of a burial ground. On
the other hand, it was not good from a military point of view. Were
they to be surrounded…well, she was just hoping that the Horsemen
would theatrically ride from one particular direction rather than
doing the tactically sensible thing. Not a bad assumption, as they had
every reason to be overconfident.
What worried her more was the
idea of the Sons of Sin being involved as well, no to mention the
KOMBG rank and file. A war with too many fronts, too many enemies, and
not enough soldiers.
" Where the hell is
everybody?", yelled Broakenho.
"Soliss can’t be relied
upon. You know this", said Skual as she placed the now unwrapped
yellow cylinder on the ground and stared at it.
Broakenho sighed. They were on
their own. Gate had gone to find Sam, and The Baron had tipped her the
metaphorical wink minutes later and had gone off to feed. He had not
said as much, but it was generally wise not to question or discuss the
culinary requirements of lords of the undead except behind closed
doors, and even then, from a purely administrative point of view.
People would die tonight to feed The Baron, but he was bound to be
discreet and would need the strength. Chakos, GreyMalkin, and
Bloodstain (still accompanied by the restraining Luna Gray) had gone
to get patched up.
"They’ll return soon. I
shan’t start this off until at least one of them is back, but I
sense that they, and by that I mean THEY, will be here in an hour
whether we "invite them" or not. And they’ll be here even
sooner if Sam arrives". Skual shrugged at Broakenho’s
thoughtful expression and did a clairaudial scan for The Baron (and
was pleased to hear the sucking sound, exactly like drinking the last
of a milkshake out of the bottom of a glass with a straw, that
signified that he was enjoying a meal) and for Gate (which produced
nothing more than a deep thrumming sound and the whooshing of air).
"The Baron’s feeding.
Gate’s travelling. The Baron will return quite soon".
"This is ridiculous. We
can’t fight these odds. If Sun Tsu were alive today, he’d wish he
wasn’t".
"Sun Tsu never fought the
Horsemen of the Apocalypse", Skual pointed out.
"A sound testament to his
great wisdom and our lack of it, don’t you think", Broakenho
replied tersely.
"All you’re worried
about", Skual said as she sat down on the pavement, "is that
you won’t get to fight War one on one".
Broakenho spun round.
"That’s ridiculous", she insisted.
"Oh, don’t try to fool
me. I know what you’re like. Ever since we came to Khazan, you’ve
been itching to get involved in every brawl you can. It’s hardly
likely that you’d turn down the opportunity to duel with the very
essence of war", Skual waved her finger, "a fight that you
cannot, by the way, possibly win. Besides, you…oh, good news,
Broakenho. They’re here".
"Who, the
Horsemen?", said Broakenho, wide eyed.
"No", she said,
indicating towards the approaching figures of Chakos, Luna, GrayMalkin
and Blood Stain. They stopped in front of Broakenho.
"Why did you bring
him?", Skual said, waving a hand at the furious but still held
figure of Blood Stain.
"She insisted",
Chakos said, rolling his eyes towards Luna.
"He is powerful",
volunteered Luna.
"He will not fight for
us", retorted Skual.
"Does that matter?",
replied Luna, wide-eyed.
"He will fight for his
life", said Broakenho. "Blood Stain, if Vadakhan wins, you
will be hunted down and destroyed. And as far as the horsemen are
concerned, you are nothing more than a particularly interesting piece
of sport. If you help us, however, then you may survive to continue
your battle with Chakos and GrayMalkin. If, on the other hand, you
attack us, you will come to the top of our list of creatures to be
destroyed, and vampire hunting is what we do best". By this
point, she was almost nose to nose with the vampire.
"You may hunt me all you
wish, witch", answered Blood Stain, "it matters not a whit
to me. Look what I have done to two opponents". He flicked his
eyes over to Chakos and GrayMalkin. "Imagine what I would do if
you sent more. I do not make deals with scum". He spat.
"Of course, if you’re
scared…"
"Nor am I stupid".
"Very well",
answered Broakenho dryly. "Luna, dress the marauder in a tutu and
dump him in Scorpio’s".
"WHAT?".
"You heard".
Blood Stain grumbled for a
moment. Then The Baron appeared on the square, his normally dry and
yellowed bones pinkish from his recent feeding. Blood Stain’s eyes
flicked up to him for a moment, then returned to Broakenho. "I
will be the enemy of your enemies for two hours, starting from now.
But you have made yourself a mortal enemy in me, witch. Remember that.
One day I will come for you, and I will make you scream".
Broakenho smiled. Making an
enemy of a powerful, and more importantly independent vampire as Blood
Stain wasn’t a wise move, but the necessary course was clear.
"Such threats have been made before, and will no doubt be made
again. I am still here. If you come for me, then it is you who will
scream, Blood Stain". She extended her hand to the big vampire.
"Luna, release him".
Luna gently lowered the
creature to the ground. He ignored Broakenho’s hand, and turned
away, "Two hours, witch".
"Two hours it is. Skual,
you’d better get started".
* * *
The horsemen had been in the
lobby of the Khazan Hilton for little more than ten minutes, but in
that time had not only had time to reduce it to a smouldering version
of hell, with the surviving staff reduced to whimpering wrecks, but
Famine had had a chance to polish off every bit of food in the kitchen
(which was so well stocked that he had, for a moment, seemed that he
might burp) and left the kitchen staff in such a state of hunger that
they were now crawling around on the floor, searching desperately for
the merest scrap of food. The only people who had put up any
resistance, the two security guards, had had their arms and legs
broken by War, who now stood statuesque on the reception desk,
absolutely still save for the slow turning of her head as she surveyed
the room.
Their rampage had been a long
one, and they were so far ahead of the Sons of Sin in a deadly
competition of destruction that they had decided to take a rest break
here. Besides, Famine had been hungry.
Pestilence, however, sat
reclined in one of the lobby’s comfortable armchairs, his legs
crossed and feet on the coffee table, watching Khazan Today. At the moments
when his lips were fleetingly in the sort of position that lips should
be on a face, it was obvious that he was smiling. They’d just made
top news item, beyond the KOMBG rampage (which was clearly what had
kept every super-goon in Khazan of their backs) and, more importantly,
the Sons of Sin (which was still ranking third). They’d just smashed
a small resistance group which was trying to stop KOMBG from taking
over something, but just as the reporter was about to explain, Famine
walked in the way of the TV. Pestilence kicked at him.
"Hey! I’m trying to watch TV here!".
Famine was wandering around
with his head in the air and an expression of total concentration on
his face. "Do you smell something?", he asked.
Uriel, also watching TV but
still standing so as to not get any blood on his perfect suit, tipped
his head back, sniffed, and shook his head.
"Like, food", he
continued.
Pestilence rolled the one eye
that he possessed at that moment, and turned back to the news.
"No, I mean, real food". He looked at Pestilence. Pestilence looked back. He
sniffed. He looked out of the window and saw the little spire of
glittering light reaching up into the sky.
"Ah", he said. "An invitation. Possibly a
challenge. To us. In any non-moron’s language, a trap. Sam’s
involved".
Uriel looked up. "Really?
What are we going to do?".
"We’re going to walk into it, of
course. Sam’s there. He’s hiding, but he’s there. I can smell
him". Uriel sniffed the air again, and shrugged. Pestilence
got up and walked over to the least-smouldering payphone. "But we’re going to drop a dime
first".
* * *
"Soliss, we need to talk
about this. What did you get from the hound?".
The two brothers were walking
briskly along the street towards the dim spire of light.
"As far as it can tell,
the power source we detected was around Vadakhan", answered
Soliss. "It followed the trail to a KOMBG teleport satellite,
where it was attacked by the automated systems. They detected it as a
nonliving ambulatory being, incorrectly deduced that it was a robot,
and tried to infiltrate its systems with their own. Once they
discovered they weren’t getting anywhere, they threw it back.
Anyway, basically KOMBG’s got hold of some pretty potent power
source from somewhere". He rubbed his eyes. "Which is not
good. Perhaps we should move away, after all".
Restfel moved the bundle of
heavy iron posts from one arm to the other, and then said, "Maybe
you’re right. The trooper that I performed a suggestion was so loyal
to KOMBG that he was going to kill himself in response to the
inference that he was actually an enemy of the organisation. Same with
the other troops that faced off against the demon. This is not good.
If we can’t use The Voice against them, we’re sunk".
Both men walked in silence
until they came to the square where the various guild members were
waiting. As Restfel walked around the square, placing his five iron
poles as if at the points of a pentagram, Soliss approached the group.
"About time you got
here", grumbled Skual. She was passing her hands over the
cylinder at her feet, which was, in turn, sizzling and popping. It
sent a spire of glowing smoke into the air. "Stalk of
mushroom…", she started.
"From the fifth level of
Hell", Soliss finished. "Yes, I know. Excellent plan. Should
bring them right here. They won’t be able to resist the
opportunity".
"So you did actually make
a deal with Sam?", asked Broakenho.
Soliss scratched nervously
behind his ear. "Did I not mention this?".
Broakenho glared.
"No".
"Any sign of him?",
he asked, shaking his head lightly.
"No".
"Ah. I’m sure he’s on
his way".
"He’d better be here
soon".
"Tchuuu?".
"Not so much as a
flowerpot", said Skual.
"Oh dear. Never mind.
Probably a blessing, really", he said in an offhand way. "We
have a plan", He volunteered brightly.
"What is it?".
"I think you’ll like
it".
"What is it, Soliss?".
"Well, basically",
he said, "Restfel, right at this moment, is pegging out an area
which squashes all realities into one. Since the horsemen are
generally impossible to destroy because they exist on numerous reality
levels at once, the negation of that fact should make it possible for
us to beat them".
"It’ll do the same to
Sam".
"Yes". Soliss
grinned.
Chakos spun around.
"They’re coming. They’re…oh my God, they’re coming".
He was saucer eyed. "They’re really, really coming".
They could all hear the
roaring of engines, a sound that raised the hairs on their necks.
"Yes they are", said
Broakenho. The sudden flash of pinkish light lit up her face as she
smiled.
Entree
There
was something in the air. Even though there was no sound save the
roaring of motorbike engines, there was definitely a flavour of Wagner
to the atmosphere as the four riders entered the square on the
opposite side from the guild’s forces, circled each other for a few
moments, and then came to a halt, side by side, facing the group. They
all dismounted at once and just stood, staring.
Soliss
let out a brief “Hmmmm” and scratched his nose.
“Are
they going to come at us on foot?”, asked Chakos.
“It
appears so”, replied Soliss thoughtfully.
“Why
would they do that? Do they want to talk first?”.
“THAT
WOULD BE RATHER OUT OF CHARACTER”, replied the significantly more
bony of the two latest arrivals.
“I
suspect that they’re stalling for a moment”, suggested Soliss.
“FAMINE
MUST BE GOING MAD BY NOW”. It was amazing how much expression Sam
could wring out of a classically inexpressive visage. At the moment,
he could almost have been salivating in the face of the sizzling
mushroom stalk. As with catnip to cats, aniseed to dogs, so was
mushroom from the fifth level of hell to angels, fundamental beings
and the like. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest of dishes.
Indeed,
they could see that one of the four now slowly approaching figures was
looking uncharacteristically jittery.
“Stalling?
Why?”, asked Gate.
“Reinforcements”,
replied Soliss again, not taking his eyes from the approaching
figures. “I suppose. Which is annoying, to say the least. And
it’ll take three of us to do the chant to compress reality, one for
each physical dimension. If Broakenho weren’t champing at the bit
then we could stop time as well, but I doubt that would bother the Hor…”.
“SOLISS”.
“Yes”.
“EXPLAIN
‘REALITY COMPRESSION’”.
“Oh
yes, well, what we’re going to do is, compress all the
coughplanarlevelsofexistencecough, excuse me, it’s the cold night
air, so as to make it possible for yourself and our allies to beat the
horsemen”. Soliss pouted and waved the palms of his hands as he
spoke.
“YOU
REALISE THAT THIS WILL AFFECT ME ALSO?”.
“Yes,
I, ah, suppose. Will that be a problem, do you think?”.
Sam
stared.
“There
are more of us, Sam”, interjected Broakenho.
“It
evens the odds generally at greater risk to yourself”, Soliss
pointed out. “It is the best way”.
Sam
stared.
“Anyway”,
said Soliss, trying to make light of the physical effort it required
to break away the inky well of Sam’s gaze. “We’ll need some
protection”. The Horsemen were getting close. “Broakenho, can you
take on War, do you think? Good. Chakos and, err, BloodStain, is it?
Good, I think you can take on Uriel. Baron, my dear fellow, you’re
looking almost portly. I think that you could give Famine a degree of
trouble. Would you mind?”.
“I
WILL SEE YOUR HEAD ON A STAKE, SOLISS”.
“But
for now, Baron. Famine?”.
The
Baron nodded slowly.
“AND
I WILL HAVE PESTILENCE”.
“That
would be ideal, Sam”. Soliss beamed. “Luna, Gate, GrayMalkin, if
you wouldn’t mind protecting us”.
GrayMalkin
shrugged, Gate bowed, and Luna…well, Luna just floated.
Soliss
rubbed his hands together. “We’d better get started then”.
“I
agree”, said Skual hurriedly. The Horsemen were in the center of the
square. They had spread out. They seemed to be similarly contemplating
a one on one situation. War had come to a halt on the eastern side of
the square. She stood, every muscle visibly taut under the tight
leather. She appeared to be staring fixedly at Broakenho. Famine, on
the other hand, had eyes only for the sizzling mushroom stalk. Uriel
was standing slightly back from the rest and fairly close to
Pestilence, who was gazing fixedly at Sam.
Soliss clapped his hands
together, and as the three brothers started chanting, the ground and
all five horsemen past and present glowed for a moment, the foes moved
towards each other, and the dance began.
By Chris Moore
Chakos & Bloodstain vs. Uriel,
Pseudo-Archangel of Death
Chakos looked at Bloodstain.
He wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was about to fight against the
almost-personification of death, and his ally in the fight was a
vampire that had attempted to kill him a few hours before. He sought
for a word or phrase, something meaningful and profound, that could
bridge the gap of hate between vampire and hunter long enough for them
both to survive, something that could pierce through to the soul and
make a connection with a being who’s very nature he despised.
“Well.....”
That was it? Chakos hated when
he didn’t think before he spoke.
“Don’t worry Hunter. I’m
sure you’ll find something meaningful to say moments before I crush
your throat with my bar hands. In the meantime, get ready. And give me
my stones.”
Chakos remembered the gems he
had taken from Bloodstain in the alley; they gave him his super-fast
reflexes and movements.
“Ah, no. You’ll have to do
without them, vamp. They’re mine now.”
Bloodstain roared at him.
“Are you MAD?” “We’ll
need everything we have against...” Bloodstain paused, fuming, as he
sought for the name. “...Uriel! Fool!”
Bloodstain took a menacing
step towards him, but Chakos didn’t waver. The stones were the one
thing that he had over Bloodstain. He’d trust the vampire’s desire
to help in order to get its stones back more than any promise it may
have made to the brothers.
“You’ll get them back when
the battle is over.”
Bloodstain raised an arm to
snatch away Chakos’ coat, but Chakos grabbed it in mid-air. He
brought his face within inches of the burly vampire’s.
“After the fight, or I
swear, I will smash them on the street right here and now. Choose.”
Bloodstain stared into his
eyes for a moment, and then took a step back.
“There is no time for this.
The enemy is nearly upon us. Save your own neck, if you’d like, but
after this fight I will kill you and have my gems back..”
With that, Bloodstain whirled
to face the approaching archangel.
Uriel stopped a few feet in
front of them, and cocked his head to the side. He straightened his
cuffs and in a casual tone, spoke.
“This is it?”
Chakos and Bloodstain said
nothing. They had to wait for the brothers to finish their chanting.
Once the Horsemen were grounded in this plane, they could be defeated,
but not before.
“Well ugly, you first I
suppose.”
The archangel looked straight
into Bloodstain’s eyes... The air around him vibrated with power,
and there was a crack, and Bloodstain.... blinked.
“Huh?” Uriel shook his
head, confused.
“Good luck extracting a soul
from a body without one. He’s a vampire, Uriel. I guess you still
have to learn all the ‘catch 22's’ about being death, don’t
you?” Chakos replied smugly.
Bloodstain said nothing. The
brother’s chanting grew in cadence, and the reality around the
square rippled. Uriel smiled.
“You human, are not
exempt.”
Uriel began to glow alabaster,
and leapt forward impossibly fast. Chakos ducked and rolled out of the
way at the last moment. Without missing a beat, Uriel turned a flip
using his forward momentum, and he landed over Chakos before he even
had a chance to reach for a knife.
“Nice try, but you must
realize that I can take your soul.
After that, I will proceed to rend your friend limb from limb. Thank
you for attempting to fight a Horsemen of the Apocalypse, better luck
next time.”
At that moment, Uriel flung up
his left hand to stop Bloodstain’s attempt at a surprise attack. He
caught the vampire’s right wrist, but didn’t manage to stop
Bloodstain’s left leg as it crashed into the place where his kidneys
would be, were he not an angel. The air shuddered with the sound of
the impact, but the only effect on Uriel was a slight tightening
around his eyes. Uriel grabbed Bloodstain’s leg with his left hand
and leapt into the air. He twisted his body in such a way that he was
holding Bloodstain above his head by the wrist and ankle. As soon as
his feet touched pavement again, Uriel planted them and flung
Bloodstain across the square.
Chakos was back on his feet, a
stake in each hand. He threw one at Uriel’s back, but it glanced
harmlessly off. Chakos looked around for help, but knew he would get
none. He noticed Broakenho walking towards War. As much as he disliked
her, he would give anything to have her alongside him now.
Just then, the brother’s
chanting reached a crescendo. Reality squashed down on itself like a
wall collapsing under its own weight. To everyone within the area
affected by the spell, it felt as if a thick, warm towel had been
draped over the universe. Every movement seemed to be slow;
exaggerated and heavy. Each twitch of muscle was an epoch, important
and drastic; as if it spread across infinite realities and effected
all of them in a profound way. Chakos knew what was happening. For the
moment, they were all existing pan-planar, like the horsemen. Then,
the heavy weight of multiple realities was lifted off of them, and
everything was completely normal. Well, normal for the mortals at
least.
By Chakos
Broakenho vs. War
Broakenho
broke from the group, and paced slowly towards the poised figure of
War. As she walked, she shed her own weapons. The mirror-like
shortsword that Skual had slaved for months to create was the first to
fall to the ground, not with a clatter, but a single clear ring as if
made by a tuning fork. The twin daggers stolen from the shadowlands
were next; good for infecting the soul of an opponent with the
lassitude of death, completely useless against War. She allowed the
perspective whip to slide through her fingers to join its allies on
the cold tarmac. That would have been useful, but it was necessary,
under the circumstances, to discard it. But the hardest item to part
with was the other sword. It was a heavy, old, iron-hilted sword,
broken in the middle, the two parts held together only
by the scabbard. But it was the first weapon she had ever been able to
call her own, and she always carried it into a battle so serious as
this. But effect was too important. It let out a large clang as it
fell.
Some might consider it madness to discard
every single weapon on entering battle with such a fearsome warrior as
War. But it was as much the fearsome weapon that her opponent carried,
still sheathed, that was of concern to Broakenho. Her gamble was that
if she faced off against War unarmed, then she would be honour-bound
to not draw the glittering sword that was reputedly sharp enough to
slice a gap in reality.
And
indeed, it appeared that the ploy had worked. As Broakenho moved
towards the lithe entity, the trail of discarded weapons behind her,
she made no move to draw the sword (nor, Broakenho noted grimly, did
she choose to discard it), but just stood a few feet in front of a
large statue of Whisper, erected after his hand in the repulsion of an
alien invasion.
War
started to move slowly as the two circled each other. Her movements
were so liquid and smooth that it seemed like she was not moving at
all; it took a degree of concentration from Broakenho to actually
track where she was. She shifted her perceptions slightly so that
there was a certain amount of residue from previous frames of vision,
leaving, in her eyes a trail identifying where War had been, and where
she was now.
When
the horseman first struck, it was with a lightning speed and
razor-sharp precision that took Broakenho almost completely by
surprise. As it was, she managed to block the right foot as it sped
towards the side of her face, and planned to hold it and drag the
nimble being to the ground. However, the left swiftly followed,
smashing her in the cheek and sending her flying five feet through the
air. She spat blood and two teeth as she slumped to the ground.
Fantastic, Broakenho thought as she felt the jagged roots of her
missing teeth with her tongue. She can kick with both feet at the same time. She got back to her
feet. Live and learn.
She
turned. The horseman was standing a few feet away, just waiting.
Broakenho saw her own face mirrored in the helmet’s visor. It was a
mess. Broakenho dropped into a fighting stance and moved closer. Her
face hurt, but the pain was a goad.
The
second time they fought, Broakenho fared better. War’s speed was
incredible, but she was unused to the heaviness of limb that the
enchantment on the area had brought to her. As it was, Broakenho
managed to block a dozen lightning strikes before a punch to the
midriff brought her to her knees once again. War automatically brought
her own knee forward, but Broakenho caught it and pushed her whole
body weight up against the much lighter being, lifting her off her
feet and slamming her against the statue. She quickly straightened,
grabbed War’s helmet under her arm, and twisted hard to break her
neck. Less than a moment later, she simultaneously felt an agonizingly
hard jab in her lower back and the helmet snatched out of her hands.
As she crumpled at Whisper’s feet, she looked back to see War
carefully adjust her recently replaced headgear, and then draw the
glittering sword.
Broakenho’s
eyes widened in amazement at the blade; as it twisted in War’s grip,
it winked in and out of sight. It was truly two-dimensional. Broakenho
smiled.
“The
gloves are off, then?”
Then
she started shouting.
The
first wave in reality simply lifted War off her feet and carried her a
long bowshot’s distance backwards, but as soon as she landed, she
was on her feet and running again towards Broakenho. The guild brother
then started chanting through clenched teeth, every two or three
seconds reaching a crescendo which sent out a plane of which cut
through the night, and anything else, like a razor.
But
not War. She was too fast, too agile to be struck by the attacks that
would split virtually any other being in two, and in the gaps between
them, she progressively closed the distance between herself and
Broakenho.
By Chris Moore
Sam, Former Horsemen of Death vs. Pestilence
The battle raged on around the two figures, one white as
a dead man's face, the other darker than midnight. Both combatants
were dimly aware of the other contests taking place around them,
sensing the rush of exchanged power as the others grappled. Uriel's
alabaster flame played angrily across their faces. Neither moved.
This was not, of course, to say that battle had yet to be
joined. Between the pair, air and space itself was stretched taught,
like a violin string, just waiting for a note to be bowed across it.
Brother Soliss had been right, Sam reflected. It was quite impossible
for any being to beat the Horsemen (or, more properly, Horsepeople,
considering that War was female) by confronting them on a purely
physical plane. It was generally difficult to destroy an iceberg by
attacking the part of it that rose above the water. At the moment, the
former Fourth Horseman, and the current First, were engaged in combat
on virtually all levels except the physical. They had begun this Game
a day or so ago, and there was no reason to start another one. A
gentle humming reverberated across the air between them.
Sam nodded. I SEEM TO BE SEEING A LOT OF YOU RECENTLY.
Pestilence smiled grimly, pearlescent eyes glittering
sickly in the light. "Of
course. The way things stand, nothing else would suffice."
The smile took on a more self-satisfied note as the humming changed
pitch slightly, becoming higher, almost frantic in intensity. "You're slipping, Brother. Out of
practice?"
Sam's skull bobbed up and down slowly in an appreciative
nod. A NICE VARIATION ON THE CASTILIGIONE OFFENSE. HOWEVER,
CASTILIGIONE IS QUITE VULNERABLE TO A ZAAAD COUNTER. Between one
heartbeat and the next, the writhing lines of force between the two
Horsemen snapped taught, the humm rising rapidly out of normal human
auditory range.
The white form blinked, the smile widening to the point
where large patches of skin fell from his face to the ground, staining
the concrete a dark, sickly green as they touched. "Good. I was starting to think you
weren't going to be much of a challenge. You know, it will almost be a
pity to destroy you." A long pause followed. "Almost."One bony hand
clenched tighter around the ebon haft of Sam's scythe. LESS TALK, MORE
ACTION. LET'S GET THIS OVER WITH. His only reply was a nod. Space
stretched, pulling like hot taffee, little strings of reality snapping
and fading away without a trace. Battle was joined on hundreds of
different levels simultaneously, fronts as myriad as the multiverse
itself. After the barest instant, a hundred moves of the Game had
passed, and the outcome was clear to both contestants. It was what
they, both being as far beyond masters as masters were beyond
neophytes, had expected from the first.
"Stalemate."
One corner of Pestilence's mouth twitched in a faint expression of
distaste, before the smile returned. "So, it comes down to this, then.
Here. Now."
YES. Sam grinned faintly, the blue sparks of his eyes
flashing. The Scythe glowed faintly, its edge, sharper than reality,
taking on a faint bluish sheen.
”I can't say that
I'm not going to take a certain pleasure in doing this... personally.
I'll enjoy every minute of it." He cradled his left fist in
his right hand, and tightened, knuckles cracking sharply. Blood
dripped to the concrete.
THEN LET US DANCE. Sam lifted the scythe in both hands
and swung it around in a blurred half-arc, jawbone set. Around
Pestilence, several loose bits of concrete and small weeds sticking up
from cracks in the sidewalk ceased to exist. The First Horseman and
the motorcycles were untouched, as Sam had expected. The first attack
served more as a formality than anything else.
For the briefest of instants, they stood that way,
striking a careful balance, the white figure and the pale one. Then,
with a suddenness that rocked the world, the illusion of balance
passed, the scene dissolving into one of frightful motion. Pestilence
rushed forward, flowing over the land, one hand coming around straight
for Sam's head, while the other lashed out to block the Scythe-swipe
headed directly for his body. In turn, Sam released one of his hands
from the weapon's ebon haft, bony fingers clutching tightly about the
wrist of Pestilence's attacking arm. Concrete groaned and crumbled
into dust beneath the advancing Horseman's white leather boots. Sam
felt the other's power, clutching sharply at his body, his soul,
viruses and corrupting agents which transcended the purely physical
rushing in through the contact. He gritted his teeth at the sudden
inrush of pain, and struck out against it, eyes blazing as, centimeter
by aching centimeter, he forced the invasion out of his body and
psyche. Pestilence straightened slightly as the energy was forced back
into him, but, instead of folding, redoubled his efforts, rending and
tearing at the invisible barriers that now protected Sam against his
particular brand of assault. Angry red eyes stared up into Sam's
sockets, his left hand trembling with the effort of holding back Sam's
attack with the one hand, tightly gripped around the Scythe-haft, and
trying to press his own with the other. Sam felt a similar effort,
but, since he was not bound by the appearance and normal function of
human musculature, he did not show it quite so easily.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, and then
Pestilence was moving again, spiraling away from the Scythe, left foot
coming around in a wide, rapid arc. Sam easily dodged, spinning around
the leg, using the extra momentum granted by the spin to power his
swipe with the Scythe, the wickedly sharp blade whirring straight for
Pestilence's unprotected back.
It did not come fast enough. The other Horseman whirled
around effortlessly, arm swinging up to catch the Scythe just at the
point where the long haft met the blade. Without so much as a twitch,
Sam switched the emphasis of his swing, using Pestilence's arm as an
axis by which to sweep the other being's feet out from under him.
Continuing the loop, he struck the now-unbalanced Horseman full in the
chest with the butt of the Scythe, sending him flying across the
square. Where he landed, a good ten feet from the motorcycles, the
plaster and masonry holding the cobblestones in place creaked and
groaned, a green patina of age and corruption spreading out from the
point of impact in a disgusting spiderweb. Not giving the other a
chance to recover, Sam leaped forward, robe swirling around him as he
traveled through the air towards Pestilence's prone body, Scythe
glinting in the light.
By the time he was close enough to see Pestilence open
his eyes and smile, it was too late. Even as the Scythe began its
downward swing, both the Horseman's booted feet caught Sam full in the
chest, accompanied by a savage rake of extraphysical power that
propelled him painfully backward, invisible fingers of disease and
decay ripping at his physical and mental selves even as he flew
backward through the air, striking the cobbles and skidding painfully
several feet, only to come to rest next to one of the Motorcycles. The
Scythe was still in his hand, of course. Things were bad, but they
were not quite that bad, yet.
Half-blinded as he was by the pain of Pestilence's dual
assault, he barely noticed as the other 'man' (the term applying, of
course, only in its loosest possible sense) got to his feet,
apparently with a great deal of difficulty. One arm cradling his ribs,
the White Horseman limped forward, eyes staring intently at Sam.
The diseases, the pestilences, had spread through most of
his body, now, tearing away at his sanity and his physical form,
trying to dissolve the metaphysical connections that bound his bones
together. If he had tried to appear as a human now, the figure that
would have appeared would resemble nothing so much as a week-old
corpse. He shook his head sharply, scattering the first wave of
assault, but some few splinters of the attack persisted, worming their
way deeper and deeper into the core of his being, attempting, like a
malignant computer virus, to purge the mentality within.
Pestilence was now halfway across the square, and
closing. He obviously appeared to be taking his time.
Angrily, Sam tore with his mind at those persistent splinters,
wriggling deeper into his core inch by painful inch, penetrating his
bones. More of them died every instant, but somehow always a couple
escaped his notice, burying themselves deeper still. Attacking both in
the physical realm and on one of the higher planes at once had been a
risk, as reopening the Game always put the attacker in a more
vulnerable position, but it had also been what Sam himself had least
expected, certainly not from such a skilled player as Pestilence.
Still, the gambit had worked. For the moment, Sam was immobilized, and
Pestilence drew ever nearer.
With an abrupt start, Sam realized exactly which
motorcycle he had fallen next to. It was his own, or, at least, it had
been his own, pale in color, chrome accents on the handlebars and the
engine gleaming like the blade of a knife. The deadly, effective
beauty of the thing tugged at his mind, reminding him of a time long
ago, a simpler time. He hadn't realized how much he had missed the
machine until that instant.
Then he saw the scar.
It was long, jagged, the dull silver color offsetting
painfully the pale color of the bike's body. Sam's bike's body. URIEL!
Wrath surged through the fallen Horseman, purging the remnants of
Pestilence's assault like a beaver's dam struck by a tidal wave. He
was on his feet in an instant, Scythe firmly clasped in both skeletal
hands, grinning angrily. Beneath his feet, a small cluster of grass
withered and died, disintegrated into nothing in the blink of an eye.
With a sharp, mental strike, he equalized the barriers once more,
canceling Pestilence's momentary advantage.
The momentarily dominant Harbinger of the Apocalypse
blinked in obvious astonishment. He was, in fact, so astonished that
one of his eyebrows fell off in the process of blinking.
The blue sparks of Sam's eyes tightened, pulling together
into little pinpricks of light amidst the dead black of his eyesockets,
burning brilliantly enough to eclipse the sun. His "voice"
shivered through the basic fabric of existence, deep and cold enough
to freeze a volcano in the midst of eruption. I WARNED HIM. He
shrugged, bones grinding together as he gripped the Scythe even more
tightly, the blade flashing blue. UNFORTUNATELY, PESTILENCE, IT SEEMS
YOU ARE STANDING IN THE WAY OF A CHAT I MUST HAVE WITH OUR ARCHANGELIC
FRIEND.
Pestilence, for all his bravado, sensed the menace
seeping through the words. He took one involuntary step back. "Concerning what?"
The Scythe-blade glinted. DEATH, Sam grinned. AND THE ART
OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE.
By Darth Maxx
The Baron of All Zombies vs. Famine
While other battles began relatively swiftly, as a
paraffin-soaked camp fire bursts into flame as soon as the merest
spark makes contact, that between The Baron and Famine smouldered and
glowed for some time. Between The Baron’s shuffling, jerky gait and
Famine’s preoccupation with the sizzling tube of pure delight which
Skual had cooked up for him, it took a little time for them to get to
a range at which they could even have spoken to each other. Not that
either was feeling particularly chatty that night. Nonetheless,
eventually etiquette prevailed.
“PECKISH, FAMINE?”.
Famine momentarily tore his gaze away from the smoking
mushroom stalk. “Is that a joke, Baron?”.
“MY PRESENT COMPANY HAS DONE WONDERS FOR MY SENSE OF
HUMOUR”, The Baron responded with customary irony.
Famine managed to pull himself together, ignore the
rumbling in his stomach, and face the ancient zombie lord.
“So, are we going to do this then, or what?”. He
pulled himself to his full height and looked down his shrivelled nose
at his opponent for the evening. They were little more than a short
dagger-throw apart. “One warning though”. The horseman waved the
palms of his hands to indicate his body. “No soul, nothing to grab
hold of, out of luck”.
His fleshless lips drew back into a grin.
“NOT QUITE”, replied The Baron as he shuffled
forward.
The punch threw Famine back and sent him skittering
across the cold tarmac. He sat up and prodded gingerly at his nose.
“Been a while since something’s actually hurt”, he
said, getting up.
“NOT AS INVULNERABLE AS USUAL, FAMINE?”.
“Seems not”. He dusted himself off. “Course,
you’ve been feeding up. Shoulda noticed straight off. You’re all
pinkish, Nice look. Goes with your eyes”.
“WELL, SHALL WE TRY AGAIN?”.
“Sure. Course, if you’ve already eaten, it’s only
fair you should share”.
The weakening of The Baron’s limbs struck as soon as
the horseman had stopped speaking. The zombie lord could literally
feel his blood-engorged bones emptying, the lives that he had absorbed
flowing away into Famine’s body. The horseman walked around The
Baron in slow steps as he stumbled and made a remarkably convincing
gasping sound.
“Peckish, Baron?”, taunted Famine.
“YES”. The Baron’s hand flashed out, his once again
yellow finger bones finding Famine’s throat. Immediately, the energy
started to flow back and the Baron regained some of his strength.
Famine’s own emaciated hands instantly wrapped around
The Baron’s arm and the back of his neck and began to draw strength
more forcibly away. The conflict was brutal; Famine’s own ability to
remove food and induce hunger was enormously powerful, but the more
energy he drew, the greater The Baron’s own hunger grew and the more
fiercely he fought. Soon, the pair were glowing; in the constant
exchange of energy, it was starting to leak away into the atmosphere
in a swirling cloud of red and black.
Had circumstances been different, then Famine would have
won hands down. He is, after all, a bottomless pit, a whirlpool that
sucks in sustenance, a being from which The Baron would have been
unable to draw enough energy. However, the environment which the
brothers had created acted like a bung; the leak in the world that was
Famine had been, at least temporarily, plugged.
As it was, the two were reduced to growling and snapping
at each other like dogs as they sank to their knees, both mad with
hunger as each sucked the life out of the other.
By
Chris Moore
But words, save "ptah", will never
hurt me
Broakenho had been foolish. She realised that now. Trying
to face off on a physical level with the embodiment of war was stupid,
and her attempt to match War’s aggression with her own was pure
madness. It was time to have some sort of plan.
So she had screamed. A basic plan, of course, a tried and
tested technique that for the most part surpassed lungs and larynx,
producing a powerful ripple in reality from somewhere else which lifted War
off her feet and carried her a longbow shot’s distance backwards.
Broakenho admitted to herself that the entity’s elegant landing and
subsequent quick approach was not entirely the best result that she
could have hoped for (especially since she had produced enough energy
to damage a tank) but at least she had got herself some personal
space. She then started chanting through clenched teeth, every two or
three seconds reaching a crescendo which sent out a plane of reality
which cut through the air, the night, and anything else that got in
its way like a razor. But not War. She was too fast, too agile to be
struck by the attacks that would split virtually any other being in
two, and in the gaps between them, she progressively closed on her foe
once again.
Had she had time, Broakenho would have said something
along the lines of "bugger". Things were not going
particularly well. She decided to change tack, bellowing at the ground
and forcing it into a tidal wave which sped towards War. Broakenho
turned as her opponent moved and yelled again, creating another wave
to race to intercept her. However, she’d left a narrow gap between
the two crushing waves of ground, and War flipped through it. As soon
as she appeared, Broakenho spoke one word.
"Ptah" .
The pea-sized bubble of reality shot at the
momentarily-trapped War and hit her full in the chest, carrying her
twenty feet backwards and smashing her into the swordsman’s statue
once again. Broakenho smiled and shouted while quickly turning her
head, shooting forth a beheadingly-sharp blade of reality.
But it didn’t connect. As soon as the guild warrior had
opened her mouth, War had flipped back to her feet and brought the
sword down over her head. The night was lit up with a blinding flash
as Broakenho’s blade was cleaved by War’s. The horseman stood for
a moment, and then started to walk forward once again.
"Oh, bloody hell", said Broakenho, and, calling
her discarded weapons back to her, turned and ran.
* * *
The man and woman watched the battle in silence from a
nearby rooftop. The young woman, indeed, had said nothing since they
had met some minutes ago, both moving in the same direction with, it
had appeared, the same destination in mind, and had subsequently
revealed to each other the possession of a similar taste for rooftop
travel.
Roke had no idea what to do. While he wanted to get
involved with the furious battle below (in which the guild allies
appeared to be faring none too well), he could sense the field that
the brothers had created, a zone which would remove from him his cloak
and thus his ability to survive, let alone offer any aid. Besides, he
was intrigued by the small figure, clad only in some sort of flimsy
pyjama suit (in apparent ignorance of the cold wind which assailed his
own weary bones), who crouched precariously on the edge of the rooftop
and watched the battle with impassive eyes.
He was building up to his second attempt of the evening
to ask some sort of leading question when she suddenly stood and began
turning her head vigorously but precisely from side to side, staring
into the night as if scrutinising numerous distant objects. Roke
decided to discard "come here often?".
"What is it?".
There was a pause. The girl looked directly at Roke for
the first time, her eyes cold and empty. When she eventually spoke,
her voice was as empty of expression as her eyes.
"its-the-big-bad-wolf", said Crow Road. "hes-sent-his-cubs-to-scratch-his-fleas",
she finished, and dropped off the side of the building.
* * *
It was Restfel who broke the spell. All had been going
relatively well until the brother had let out a small cry and
collapsed, and, much to their disdain, Skual and Soliss had been
unable to maintain the aura alone. The world crackled and wriggled as
it rushed to escape its confinement and to fill the vacuum that had
been left after its compression.
It was the horsemen, of course, who were most visibly
affected by this. Fammine rose suddenly to his feet as the plug was at
last removed, and kicked the prone form of The Baron so that he soared
across the square and landed in an angular heap a stone’s throw from
Soliss. Uriel, who had been having a relatively difficult time with
the nimble Chakos and powerful Blood Stain, suddenly appeared to be
bursting with power, his body ringed with an unearthly fire. War, it
turned out, had been moving rather sluggishly and inelegantly relative
to her normal abilities, and as for Pestilence and Sam, reality
literally screamed between the two as their essences ran like molten
wax from their prison to fill the void.
Chakos suddenly had the sensation of intense peril, not
simply from the now far more dangerous horseman-to-be who was no more
than a dagger throw away from him, but from all around. That was a
situation that Chakos, had he had anyone to talk to, would have
described as "not good".
Soliss looked at the prone form of Restfel. He, too, had
a sensation of imminent danger, but he wasn’t going to show his fear
to Skual.
"Mental attack", he suggested calmly.
"Clearly", replied Skual. She started rooting
through the folds in her robes.
Soliss, prepared as he was, resisted the hidden Vaz’s
attempt to burrow into his psyche, and the creature responded by
screaming out of the darkness with horror in its breath and murder on
its mind.
However, GrayMalkin had agreed to protect the brothers,
and raced forward in a blur of speed, accelerating in a close arc with
the intention of catching the alien in its flank. The creature
responded by quickly switching its flight path to intercept the
vampire on the edge of the arc and ruin his momentum, and so both
clashed only momentarily as they passed, hammering at each other
mentally as well as physically.
The whole square was lit up like a football field as the
KOMBG vehicles rolled, glided and stomped towards the square along the
two main entrances and, in the case of the buzzing air support units,
over the rooftops.
Soliss’ mind raced. This eventuality was, in fact,
necessary to the overall plan, but the reality of the situation (oh
yes, KOMBG, with its guns and bombs, was very good at reality) and the
difficulty, despite his hopes, that they were having with the
horsemen, appeared to be rather more grave than expected. Soliss
needed just a little time to think. And in the greatest of good
fortune, he received it.
Reunions
Magic, if you wish to call it that, and technology, do
not mix. This is a well-know fact and while you may try to refute it,
perhaps citing the particularly gifted (and at this moment, quivering)
Gate as an example, the fact remains that the two are mutually
exclusive without the administration of constant effort (much like one
might claim to be mixing oil and water, but only while vigorous
stirring continues). It is also said in different circles but with the
same concept in mind, that the world’s greatest swordsman fears not
the second greatest, but the worst, for he is the most unpredictable.
It was a comparable lack of understanding between the standard-bearers
of arcane lore and technological reliance, the guild and KOMBG, that
inspired a similar attitude from both sides. It is therefore
understandable that both forces approached actual contact with each
other with a degree of trepidation.
The slow approach of the KOMBG stock worked more in
Soliss favour, of course. After all, KOMBG already had a plan and was
simply being cautious in executing it, while Soliss merely needed a
moment to sort out the who, the what and the why, The thing that most
perturbed the guild brother was the question of whether the horsemen
and KOMBG were on the same side. As GrayMalkin and Vaz whirled about
him, the former yelling something incoherent about getting out of the
way, Soliss pondered the problem, but decided it was best to assume
that everyone they didn’t know about was an enemy.
He looked out over the battlefield, expanding his mind so
that it seeped across the square. It was like a very complex game of
chess (in which, he discovered, there were even more pieces than he
had expected). To win the game, you had to understand the
relationships between the pieces.
"Pestilence is the key", he said before the
realisation had properly formed in his mind. He smiled. "We need
to take him out of the game, It all hinges on him. Skual, you will
have to hold off the KOMBG troops at the west end of the square".
He gestured to the woman, who was now clutching a number of boxes,
sticks, bones and various other objects to her chest.
"On my own?".
"Momentarily. Luna, go and play with the fliers,
please. All of them. And take a pop at Pestilence on the way up, if
you wouldn’t mind. Broakenho, round
two, please. Gate, I suspect you have some sort of plan to
prevent the progress of troops at the east end that I can’t possibly
fathom?".
"Actually, no", replied Gate uncertainly.
"Well, get on with it then", said Soliss with a
wave of his hand. Gate opened his mouth to speak, but decided against
it, and after a moment’s thought, grabbed the recumbent Baron by the
collar of his heavy coat and ran off to the east. Luna, meanwhile,
circled the square once, mentally lifting the already much abused
Whisper statue and trawling it in a wide arc as she rose, releasing it
only while passing over the battling figures of Sam and Pestilence.
With the release of her load, she shot upwards as swiftly as the
statue fell.
Broakenho, meanwhile, was grumbling as she turned to face
a now fully powered-up War. She had, thankfully, now sheathed the
deadly, beyond-sharp sword, whatever cosmic balance that had been
upset by Soliss’ plan and the monostratic field now restored. The
entity was still some distance away, but the brother could not see
what they could possibly hope to accomplish against the combined
threats of the horsemen and, from what she could see, a serious amount
of KOMBG hardware. Of course, she would have complained as much, but
for a different reason, had she known that she would not be fighting
alone.
Chakos was similarly concerned, and so in awe of the
pervasive danger that had flooded across the square in a matter of
moments that he barely noticed the more pressing problem of Uriel. The
horseman stepped forward and, momentarily forgetting about separating
souls from bodies, swung his arm in a backhander that clipped the
rapidly-backpedalling Chakos so that he flew backwards a long
spear’s length and lay still, moaning.
There was nothing wrong with BloodStain’s focus,
however, and he was not to be taken so easily. He feigned at Uriel and
then took a few swift (but, to the vampires mind, painfully slow)
reverse steps to Chakos’ prone form, grabbing the stones from which
he derived his speed, and standing to face Uriel once again.
* * *
Skual windwalked the distance across the square in order
to reach the still tightly packed KOMBG forces, knowing that she would
have little chance of even slowing them down if they managed to spread
out into the square. The situation was desperate indeed, their
tactical position hopeless. And what she herself was proposing to do
now was of such a risky nature that it could have repercussions for
the whole of Khazan.
As she arrived at her destination, less than a hundred
feet before the KOMBG troops with only a hastily-structured
misdirection aura as protection, she quickly scattered more than a
dozen pandoradors, as well as various other gates of various types in
the form of books, statuettes and the like across the ground and made
a few quick gestures with her hands while simultaneously producing an
unnatural creaking noise from her mouth, followed quickly by a loud,
whooshing sound.
Immediately, the doors opened and gouts of fire, pillars
of ice, blood, bile, oil and a dozen other substances poured out of
the little gates, followed by creatures of an indescribably wide
variety.
Skual had not had time to calibrate all of the gates, you
see, and so what she was bringing out of the ground was fairly random,
the gates just opening wherever was nearest to their default settings.
As a result, the variety of summonings was as confusing in nature as
it was impressive in quantity. Such was her lack of control over what
she was producing, she was pulling stuff from places that hadn’t
even existed until she’d opened the door to them. And she was
blowing it all towards the KOMBG troops.
The troops’ continual hesitation was their downfall, of
course, but this itself was as a result of the bafflingly complex
orders received from the Sons of Sin, specifying who could and could
not be killed, relative timings of the operation which were not for
any reason to be erred from but which were, nonetheless, seemingly
impossible to comply with. Their state of general confusion at this
was, of course, nothing compared to the sensation when Skual’s
attack hit them.
The actual experience, due to the unusual mix of the
creatures and energies used, is difficult to explain to anyone who was
not there. Indeed, for years afterwards, members of the group that was
there that day were generally considered to be "not quite
right". People would walk away from conversations with them with
perplexed expressions on their faces, dogs would bark at them, they
would trip occasionally while walking on perfectly level ground. The
nearest you could get to the sensation without actually being there
would be to be strapped naked to the bass speaker at a Metallica gig,
while half a dozen scantily clad and completely deaf Nubian maidens
gave your erogenous zones a good going over with a combination of
sandpaper and a wide variety of kitchen utensils. It was in equal
parts horrifying, exciting and deafening, but ultimately, simply
painful.
* * *
Soliss had shot across the square using a similar method
to Skual’s, only managing to pass Famine by tossing him the mushroom
which he tore into in an attempt to sate his constantly ravenous
hunger, and thus escaping with only a mild desire to forget about the
whole thing, go back to the guildhouse, and fire up the barbecue. The
diversion of his attention would not last long, but for them to
succeed in getting what they wanted, resources had to be stretched as
far as possible. It would have to buy them enough time, and he only
hoped that GrayMalkin would defeat the venomous Vaz before Famine
finished and sought the stricken Restfel (who had, as usual, simply
shut his mind down in response to a mental attack) as his next target.
Soliss had noticed that Sam was now merely seeking to
pass Pestilence, rather than actually fight him, and had divined his
target as Uriel. His current plan, in fact, hinged on the veracity of
his assumption, as he needed BloodStain and Chakos free to battle the
rest of the Sons of Sin, who were bound to appear at any moment. To do
this, he had to help Sam defeat Pestilence. He slowed as he
approached, electing to remain floating, placing a mental anchor
between himself and the ground that, upon release, would allow him to
shoot into the air swiftly enough to (hopefully) avoid the attentions
of the white-clad figure before him.
Soliss’ plan for defeating Pestilence was a simple one,
based purely on the fact that you could throw as much energy you
wanted against him (as Luna had done with the statue which had, in a
moment of divine marksmanship on that entity’s part, impaled the
horseman on the sword’s stony blade before it, with the rest of the
statue, was reduced to dust) and he would always recover. Or more
importantly, the reason why. Soliss crossed his fingers as he wondered
whether his understanding of the reality field surrounding the
horseman was good enough to do what now had to be done. He cleared his
throat.
"Pestilence..."
* * *
As Gate came to a skidding halt at the entrance to the
square, his heart in his throat and only half a plan in his mind, he
felt a weak, crabby hand encircle his ankle. There was a moment of
pain, and he tried to pull away.
"JUST A LITTLE, BOY", croaked The Baron.
"I CAN SAVE US BOTH".
Gate dropped to his knees, weak and dizzy, as The Baron,
mildly refreshed, rose supernaturally to his feet and waved his hand
casually towards the front line of approaching vehicles which, as
their occupants’ bodies turned to ice, ground slowly to a halt.
He spread his arms outwards with his palms towards the
sky, and performed a surprisingly dainty beckoning gesture with his
fingers.
"Baron, what’s going on?", inquired Gate
weakly, barely noticing the slight tremor in the ground beneath him.
"WAIT A MOMENT AND YOU’LL SEE. IT TAKES THE DEAD A
LITTLE WHILE TO DIG THEIR WAY THROUGH TARMAC".
* * *
The whip turned out to work quite well against War. This
will come as little surprise to those initiated in the workings of
perspective whips, whose length is solely reliant on the subjective
versions of reality of both the wielder and the target. Of course, you
do not get many beings with a more powerfully subjective reality than
Broakenho and War (for whom the objective world is known to bend
rather than defy the wills of the two), and despite the fact that War
had many times faced such a weapon, had been surprised to find that it
would not obey her own will so easily as it had done in the past.
Because the whip actually follows the perceptions of the target, it is
simply a battle of wills, rather than agility, that guides whether it
hits or misses, and thus the battle now taking place between the
brother and the horseman was surprisingly a far more equal one than
had occurred when War had been effectively hobbled.
However, both combatants knew that it would do little
good were she actually lucky enough to capture War with the whip; she
would simply slash through it if captured. It was purely a matter of
personal pride on her part and mild desperation on Broakenho’s that
the attacks were being taken seriously by either. And as it turned
out, the two combatants were not the only ones aware of the ultimate
futility of Broakenho’s attack.
"That’s not going to do any good, Broakenho",
said Mishima. She floated delicately beside the guild brother as she
lashed the whip at the approaching War. "You must be getting
tired by now".
"What I don’t need right now is a running
commentary on how badly I’m doing", spat Broakenho.
"And bad-tempered", Mishima noted.
"What do you want, Mishima? I’m busy".
"I came at your request, Broakenho. Or don’t you
remember?". Mishima inspected her fingernails casually. "I
must say, I’m surprised to see you all in the thick of it like this.
I thought that Soliss didn’t approve of the hands-on approach.
Odd".
"Khazan’s an odd place", Broakenho said
through gritted teeth. War was getting very close again.
"So I noticed", said Mishima, passing her eyes
around the square and staring fixedly for a moment at the private
eutopic hell that Skual was creating. "Isn’t that
dangerous".
Broakenho dropped the whip and, in an insult to War that
would never be forgotten, turned away from her and faced the floating
Mishima.
"Are you just going to FLOAT THERE and ask STUPID
SODDING QUESTIONS ALL BLOODY NIGHT?".
"Did you want my help, Broakenho?".
"You can help if you want to", she retorted
quickly.
"Ask for it and it’s yours", Mishima replied
calmly.
"Stop playing games", said Broakenho angrily.
"She’s very close, brother", said Mishima.
"Bloody help then!".
"Good enough". Mishima drew her sword (or
rather, she flicked her wrist and her sword appeared in her hand) as
Broakenho turned to face War for the last time that night.
* * *
The KOMBG Wasp model flier was a fantastic feat of
engineering, combining a system of precise jets with twin rotary
blades from which the fliers derived both lift and stability, and
which also offered a reasonably steady platform from which to fire
even heavy weapons. Moreover, their manoeuvrability made them
excellent for urban missions such as this one. And Luna was having the
time of her life with them.
She was playing a game similar to the frantic pole-top
plate spinning occasionally seen on stage shows, except the point of
this game was to keep all the flying machines rocking at the same
time. There were rather a lot of them, of course, but one of the joys
of being an entity of pure thought was ease of movement, and so she
span, twirled and teleported between the vehicles, occasionally
finding time to press her nose against one of the windows and wave at
the enraged occupants.
Below, Uriel and BloodStain were whirling around each
other and trading mammoth blows. Uriel was clearly the more powerful
of the two, but possessed none of the ferocity of his opponent. He
was, indeed, used to picking on creatures that could not fight back,
or who at least had souls to tear out. This one was simply no fun at
all. BloodStain was finding it difficult to surpress a feral grin.
Chakos, meanwhile, was having possibly even less fun that
Uriel. His head felt ready to burst and his muscles felt like lead.
The whole evening, in fact, had been a bit of a downer and had
consisted mostly of his getting beaten up. He eventually managed to
roll himself up onto his knees, only to find a pair of
familiar-looking legs in front of him. He looked up.
"hey-bay-bee".
A Kiss from a Rose
"What have YOU
DONE?", screamed the horseman. He was looking at his hand,
which was apparently paying homage to Mickey Mouse.
"Something wrong, Pestilence?", asked Soliss
with a coy smile.
Pestilence stared at his hand as it swelled. There was no
rot, no blisters, a full compliment of fingers. It was damn unnatural.
His hand then shot out of sight, his whole arm raised by the heavy,
bulbous mound of flesh that had just grown out of his armpit.
"I’ve just given you a shot of arcane antibiotics,
you see", said Soliss, who was trying not to be perturbed by the
dry, hollow sound of Sam’s laughter. "No more disease".
Pestilence staggered towards Soliss and once again opened
his mouth to speak, only for his voice and view to be obstructed by
his tongue, which immediately swelled to the size of a watermelon. As
a result, all that was heard was "Uth thh thuging thig gthoo".
"I’m sorry, Pestilence (or should I say, Health).
I can’t understand a word you’re saying. You seem to still be
regenerating". Soliss grimaced at Pestilence’s body’s
reaction to what would normally have been an affliction traditionally
acquired from sitting on cold stones. The balance was gone; there was
no disease to keep the reaction in check. "My deep apologies. I
hold no ill will towards you, and in fact have long been an admirer of
your work. The bubonic plague, for example. A masterpiece!
Bravo!". Soliss gave a brief but appreciative ripple of applause.
"Anyway, you’ll be ravaged by disease again in a little while,
and then you’ll feel much better. This is just temporary".
By the time Soliss had finished speaking, Sam had already
closed half the distance across the square towards Uriel, and
Pestilence was a huge, quivering blob of flesh.
* * *
The approach of troops had barely been slowed by the
sudden arrest of the foremost vehicles, and they were almost into the
square and on top of The Baron, who was being quickly dragged
backwards by Gate, when the dead actually made the breakthrough to the
service.
Interesting thing about zombies. Almost completely
mindless. Slow. Uncoordinated. But perfectly choreographed when it
comes to bursting out of the ground. The tarmac exploded upwards as
dozens of long-dead corpse’s hands touched fresh air for the first
time in decades, at least.
Of course, in the eyes of the KOMBG troops, this was a
godsend. On a night on which they had so many orders to follow, the
appearance of zombies about which there were absolutely no orders was
a clear offer of carte blanche to many of the assembled soldiers.
The Baron, of course, was horrified. He had, after all,
rather been going for effect. He had hoped that the troops would be so
horrified at the sight of so many basically skeletal creatures
bursting out of the ground that they would run in terror. He held his
skull in his bony hands when the soldiers, whooping and shouting,
opened fire on the creatures, the wide variety of weapons at their
disposal variously disintegrating, shattering and dismembering the
walking dead.
"It worked well as a diversion, Baron", said
Gate, in a rather naïve attempt to cheer the ancient being up.
"At least they’re not shooting at us".
"They’re not, but I am", said Young Gunns
from behind them, and then shot The Baron. He crumpled to the ground
as shards of bone flew everywhere. Then she turned the gun on Gate.
* * *
"Crow, how…".
Chakos struggled to his feet, and had only stopped
speaking when he saw Crow Road’s face. An empty face, devoid of the
mischievous gleam in the eye and wry smile. He frowned, reaching
forward to touch her cheek with the palm of his hand. Her skin was
cold and dry.
"Oh Crow, what’s happened to you?". He tried
to hold her, but she just hung limply in his arms as he wrapped them
around her. He pulled back and held her by the shoulders. "What
are you doing here?".
Crow Road tipped her head to one side and stared at
Chakos.
"im-hunting-the-wolf".
A lump came to Chakos’ throat. Her voice was as empty
as her eyes. He sniffed as a tear rolled down his cheek. This was all
The Masquerade’s fault. "Crow, please…".
"What you need, kid", said a voice from above
as Chakos found himself lifted skyward, "is a real woman".
* * *
Nearby, Mishima and War battled in grace while Broakenho
continued to fight the corner of the battering-ram approach.
Mishima’s speed was perhaps the equal of War’s (who, once again,
had drawn the sword in the face of two armed opponents), and while not
being the acrobat her opponent was, mainly suffered only the
disadvantage of her being unable to parry for fear of her own ancient
blade being damaged or, worse still, severed.
Nonetheless, the two made a good team. War dare not
ignore Mishima and her deadly flashing sword, yet at the same time was
concerned about the potentially deadly threat of Broakenho’s voice.
Slowly, they were pushing the horseman back.
* * *
"Misfire".
It was all that Gate could think of at the time, but it
seemed to be working. He just hoped that Young Gunns wouldn’t pull
out a weapon that he couldn’t communicate with. Fortunately, the
three or so that she had pulled so far had been politely compliant.
Of course, this still left him facing a deadly marksman
with no fighting skills of his own to rely on and no weapon. Sooner or
later, she was going to pull something that worked.
Then he thought of Tchuuu’s shotgun. Restfel had been
carrying it earlier; it had stuck out of his coat when he went down.
He held his hand out.
"Shotgun to me".
Nothing happened.
"Jam!",
he said quickly as Young Gunns produced a long-barrelled rifle from
apparently nowhere.
Click
"Dammit".
Gate chanced a look back, his vision zooming in on
Restfel. He was still there. But the shotgun was gone. He turned back
to Young Gunns. She’d produced a simple, mechanical pistol. No
electronic parts.
"Bugger", said Gate.
She pulled the trigger.
* * *
It was a good kiss; a hell of a good kiss. Chakos was
totally lost, drowning, the pain of his encounter with Crow dissolving
into Natas’ lips as her strong arms bore him back down to the
ground.
Crow just stood, staring curiously at him.
"Well, what you gonna do, kid? You can’t have both
of us", said Natas. "And she’s a deadhead. What’s it
gonna be?".
She was right. Crow was as good as dead to him anyway.
And he was with Natas now. Best to make the death a reality. He pulled
out a long-bladed dagger and gripped it between his teeth, while
pulling a pair of balanced knives from inside his coat and gripped
them in each hand, and advanced upon the motionless figure of Crow
Road.
* * *
Famine felt, for a few moments, quite refreshed by the
mushroom. He licked his fingers. Then he saw the recumbent form of
Brother Restfel. He rubbed his hands together, and started walking
forward.
"Not today, horseman", said a barely visible
figure standing in the shadows behind Restfel. He stepped forward but
remained swathed in darkness apart from his pallid, drawn face.
"Oh, and who the hell are you?", inquired
Famine angrily. He was more than a little cheesed off with all these
surprise people turning up.
"It doesn’t matter", replied Roke.
"Damn right", said Famine as he walked forward
once again.
"Where’s your leader, Famine?", asked Roke.
"He’s over th…", Famine started, turning
slightly. He could see Sam alright. He was steaming across the square
to the as yet unaware Uriel. As for where Pestilence was supposed to
be, there was just that huge mound of flesh.
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