Disclaimer: I do not own the Gundam Wing characters, nor am I making any money from this. The ideas of a Confessor and a Mord-Sith are from Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth novels. Many of the names of the monsters and locations are from the online game of EverQuest. All of this is done without permission. Warnings: AU, Fantasy, Angst, Shounen-ai, Dark, and Violence Additional Warning: This part has graphic violence. Don't say you weren't warned! Pairings: 1+2 3+4 Note: Part 8 takes place in the same time frame as part 7, while Heero and Middie were at the Barrier. Plus, I usually do not ask for comments, but for this one I really am curious. What did you think? Huge thanks go out to my beta reader, Betty. And to Maria who has been nagging me neverending to get this part out. Mord-Sith! Part 8 The third arc of the Confessor Series The Palace of Light, Erudin Emperor Odin Lowe sat on the Golgathan Throne that was his birthright and snarled to himself. He had just received word from General Tsubarov about the latest events in Runnyeye. The vast underground warren of goblins was now a deathtrap to the soldiers; Slaythe had appeared early that morning. Slaythe was a creature of legend, born of a twisted fever dream. Standing over eight feet tall and looking like a blend between a frog and an orc, it had somehow managed to find its way out of legend and appear in the flesh in the center of Runnyeye. Using an incredibly powerful magic attack, it had decimated nearly fifty troops before the generals were able to get enough mages down into the warren to collapse a cavern roof on top of it. In the process, many of the mages had been badly hurt or killed. And the few survivors were not foolish enough to think that the cave-in would hold Slaythe for long. It wasn't merely the increasing numbers of the monsters that was beginning to concern the Emperor; it was the fact that named monsters were starting to appear in the realm. Named monsters were especially dangerous because, if they had enough self-awareness to name themselves, they were usually intelligent and almost always magic users. He needed a weapon to fight these monsters. And he knew just how to find one. He turned to his Steward and smiled, the sun on steel gaze was alive with cunning and delight. "Tell Quatre Winner that I am ready to see him now." As the Steward bowed and left, he turned to Dorothy, who was standing beside him. "Get ready," he ordered. The blond Mord-Sith nodded once then walked off. Duo stretched and blinked open his violet eyes. Frowning, he noticed he was still dressed from last night; even his boots were still on. Ugh, he hated sleeping in his clothes; it was too hot. He gazed at the window, noticing that the sun wasn't yet shining in. It was still early afternoon. Rolling out of the bed, he stripped off his damp, sweaty tunic and pants, ignoring with practiced ease a slight uncomfortable tightness in his right biceps, and headed directly to the bathing pool. With a sigh, he settled in the water and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the rim of the pool, his braid floating beside him in the water. He reached over to unbraid the plait and the dull pain flared in his arm again, right above his elbow. He looked down at his arm and saw a deep purple bruise ringing his arm. It was shaped just like a hand print. Studying it thoughtfully, he tried to remember what had happened the night before. Grinning, he remembered meeting Heero under the willow tree; the look of surprise on the soldier's face when Duo had startled him was enough to elicit a small chuckle. They had gone to the North Wing and made it in without any mishap. But when they were getting ready to leave, something had gone wrong. His mind instinctively shied away from what he had remembered behind the door. But what shocked him even more was how Heero had brought him back. Heero had kissed him. Was it just to shut him up so they wouldn't get caught, or was there more to it than that? `Get real, Maxwell,' he thought. `What more could there be?' Duo's brow furrowed as he recalled the feeling of Heero's lips on his own. Surely Heero had known that Duo was a Confessor; the others had to have told him. So what did that mean? Heero hadn't been afraid to touch him, skin on skin. He had held Duo in his arms behind that door and kissed him. Was he that brave? Or just that suicidal? Undoing his braid so he could wash his hair, Duo considered the implications of last night's actions. Here was a group of people, representing a place of peace called the Sank Kingdom, that were willing to help a Confessor save some children. The suspicious part of Duo's mind wondered why they would help him, but part of him wanted to believe that there were still good people in the world. Ducking under the water, Duo shook out the heavy mass of chestnut, soaking it thoroughly before he surfaced again. As he worked some tangles out, he remembered how they had wanted him to go with them, and his own refusal. His argument had been logical and, truth be told, what he could remember of the Midlands was mostly unpleasant. But Quatre had asked him to go with them, and the sincerity in the mage's soft voice was unmistakable; Heero and Wufei had seemed concerned as well. And Heero had kissed him. `What it comes down to is trust,' Duo thought as he scrubbed first one foot, then the other. Could he trust them? They were Midlanders; Midlanders had hated and destroyed his race. But could he condemn them all for the actions of some? Was that fair? These particular Midlanders didn't seem to hate him for being a Confessor, and they were trying to help him. He had asked them for help, and they had been willing to give it, even after he had told them what he was. And they had been genuinely concerned about the children. The Midlanders were willing to take a group of strangers to another country, probably at great risk to themselves, and ask for sanctuary for the children. They had wanted him to go with them. And Heero had kissed him. Why shouldn't he go? What was keeping him here? Protection, maybe, but to Duo it felt stifling. Was he accorded respect by the court, or was it just fear? The Emperor had used him; Duo understood that and had allowed it. When Duo had needed a place to stay, and help in other ways, the Emperor had always been accommodating. But Duo wasn't foolish enough to think the help was offered because the Emperor was kind hearted. The violet-eyed young man knew that the only reason the Emperor let him stay was because of what he was. And frankly, Duo was getting tired of being treated like a prized pet. Duo climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around his waist. He sat down on the edge of his bed and started to comb out his long, wet hair. Again, his thoughts returned to last night. Heero had kissed him. Yanking impatiently at a snarl, he shook his head, "Get over it, Maxwell! It's not like you've never been kissed before." True, but not by someone who knew what he was. Heero had seemed, well, concerned for him. Almost like he cared. But Heero hadn't met Duo prior to the night before last, in the stable, had he? Or had he? Flinging the comb across the room in vexation, Duo massaged his temples. "Think, Duo, think. Have you met him before?" There was so much he couldn't remember, but yes, the possibility was real. He could have met Heero before. Now if he could just remember where. Picturing Heero's cobalt eyes, Duo rummaged through broken memories made hazy by time and intense emotion. Forcing his mind to work past the scars of painful images, he sat bolt upright when finally he found a match. Blazing cobalt eyes burned into his own, surrounded by windswept dark hair that spilled over his forehead; clouds boiled in agitation over and behind him. And he was mad, furious at Duo because Duo had done something to upset him. Strong hands were crushing his arms in a viselike grip. Duo's violet eyed opened wide. He was right! He had meet Heero before. But if that was the case, why didn't Heero tell him? Utterly confused at this point, he decided he would just ask Heero the next time they saw each other. Duo got dressed and braided his hair even though it was still damp, and scouted around his rooms, looking to see if there was anything to eat or if he would have to go pester the kitchen servants again. And he began to set aside items he would need to make a journey. Without consciously knowing it, he had decided that he would go with the Midlanders. After Quatre had talked to Heero, and sent Wufei into the city with a purse of gold coins to purchase the necessary items for their return journey, he closed his eyes and sought out Trowa. `What are you doing, love?' he asked silently, sending waves of warmth along with the thought. `Guarding a corridor.' Boredom colored the archer's reply. `Heh, well, I'll be meeting with the Emperor soon, then hopefully we can get out of here right after that, and I want you to come with us.' Quatre's mental hug embraced him. `Sure, but won't Howard object?' Trowa asked. `I don't care about Howard. He can send someone else,' Quatre said shortly. He didn't want his love to stay behind. `OK, just let me know when and I'll meet you.' Trowa felt his heart speed up at the prospect of having this job finished and being with the blond mage again. `Stay safe,' Quatre thought softly, and touched Trowa's mind once more before cutting off communication. There was a sharp knock on the door of their quarters and Quatre walked over and opened it, finding the Steward standing on the other side. "Please, my lord, the Emperor wishes to speak with you now," the Steward announced. "Very well, I'll be right there, I just need to get the treaty." Quatre found his pack and rummaged around in it for a few seconds before murmuring "Ah, here it is," and fished it out, waving it triumphantly over his head. "I'm ready now," the blond mage said and smiled at the Steward. "Very well, sir. This way." As they walked through the Palace, the sunlight streamed through the high, stained glass windows and cast colorful swatches on the walls and floor. When they neared the Throne room, the Steward suddenly turned and headed down a different corridor, this one heading to the North Wing. Quatre hurried to catch up to the man striding rapidly ahead of him. "Where are we going?" he asked. "I thought we would meet in the Throne room." "The Emperor requested that you meet him in a more private setting," The Steward replied. Finally they came to a set of large doors at the end of the hall, and the Steward opened them, ushering the blond mage into the room. Quatre stepped into the room, noting it was bare of furniture or windows; he whirled around as he heard the doors behind him shut firmly. He turned back when he heard at the sound of boot heels on the hard, marble floor. It was a woman with long blond hair pulled back in a single loose braid. From her ankles to her neck she was sheathed in red leather so tight it fit like a glove. A slender rod hung from a chain attached to her wrist. She didn't say anything; she just stood there with a slight smile, one hand on her hip. Then the blond mage noticed ten guards behind her, standing with their swords drawn. Quatre started to back away. The woman pointed at him. "Take him." Quatre was not about to allow that to happen. As the guards rushed at him, he spread his hands and focused his power, calling on his magic. Pointing at both the guards and the woman, he cast a spell. Her smile widened. The pain of his magic hit him like an icy waterfall on naked flesh. It sent him crashing to his knees as it doubled him over, ripping his insides. The woman in red leather watched as he clutched his stomach, vomiting up blood. The pain of his own magic coursed through him, choking his breath out of him. With rising panic, he tried to stop the magic, only to realize that he no longer had control of it. She did. The guards stopped moving toward him and stepped back, watching in horrid fascination as Quatre futily tried to scream, but choked on his own blood. He crumpled down, his face smeared in his own bloody vomit as he tried to picture Trowa, but the pain took that away as well. The woman walked over to the fallen mage and reached down and grabbed a fistful of blond hair, lifting his head. "Well, that was easy. This one obviously doesn't know what a Mord-Sith is. You can leave." she dismissed the guards. Quatre heard the door open and then shut, leaving him alone in the room with the woman in red. Still holding him by his hair, she said, "Do you want the pain to end, my pet?" Under the seething layer of agony, Quatre was furious. Gritting his teeth, he glared at her. "No," he grated defiantly. She raised an eyebrow, and then shrugged as she dropped his head back down in the bloody mess on the floor. "Fine, but from now on, I control your magic. If you want the pain to stop, all you have to do is think nice things about me. If you think you can hurt me, the pain of your own magic will take you down, like this." She demonstrated with a small smile. The pain rose up inside Quatre like a tidal wave, he shrieked once before it crashed down and he vomited more blood, choking on it as he struggled to breathe through the pain. Gradually, the pain lessened, and he gasped for breath. "Who are you?" he rasped hoarsely. "I'm Dorothy, you will call me Mistress. I am a Mord-Sith." She twirled the rod that hung from her wrist as she turned him over with a well-placed kick to the ribs. "Why?" Quatre choked as his blue eyes squeezed shut and he fought for breath. "Because the Emperor has some questions he would like for you to answer. And this way, he will know if you are telling the truth." Dorothy smirked as she ran her leather-encased hand through his fine sun kissed hair that was now matted with blood. Then with stone cold ruthlessness that had been instilled by years of brutal training, she grasped his hair in an iron grip and hauled him to his feet with one- handed ease. Quatre swayed, but stayed upright; the red blood shockingly contrasted with his pale features. Then Dorothy ordered him to take off his shirt. "No," he glared at her but the pained slammed down again, worse than ever. He collapsed to the floor, writhing as fire tore through his insides; during the interval Dorothy casually studied the tip of her Agiel. "Had enough?" she asked after an eternity. Thoroughly spent, Quatre nodded weakly. "Good, remember what I told you? All you have to do is think nice things about me." She smirked at little. Nice things? Quatre wasn't sure if he could do that, but then he decided that he would think how pretty her hair was, and nothing else. The pain began to ease a little. "Very good, my pet. You see? You can be trained," she praised. "Now get up." He climbed to his feet, swaying, and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He tried to breathe, and the more he thought about how pretty her braid was, the more the pain diminished. "Take off your shirt," she ordered once again. This time Quatre complied. His hands shook as he pulled the shirt off, leaving him bare from the waist up. She walked around him, inspecting him like a buyer interested in a horse. "Mm, very nice. I shall enjoy training you, my pet." Without warning, she flipped the Agiel into her fist and pressed it against his side. His shriek drowned out the sound of his rib cracking. Dorothy smiled as she watched him trying to draw a breath over the searing pain of the magic as he fought to keep the picture of her pretty hair in his mind. "Very good, you are smart." She patted his cheek condescendingly. "Now, the Emperor is coming to ask you some questions. I will tell you now that I will know if you are lying, because I can sense it through your own magic. If you do attempt to lie to the Emperor, I will know and this is what will happen." Quatre felt his insides ripping to shreds, and the broken rib stabbed him unmercifully as he shrieked in utter agony. It went on and on, as large gray spots began to dance in front to his eyes. He sank to his knees as the locked muscles of his body began to give out against the onslaught of her discipline. Finally, it diminished, but not completely. "Is he ready to answer some questions, Dorothy?" a new voice sounded in the room. Dimly, Quatre recognized the honey and iron tone of the Emperor. "Yes, I think he is, my lord," she replied, hauling him to his feet once again by his hair. Quatre's face was a hideous mask of blood and saliva. Exhausted, he stayed on his feet only because of Dorothy's hold on his hair. "Good, hello again, little mage. It took me a little while to recall where I had seen you before, and then I remembered. You were at Bitterroot with the Confessor. So this tells me that you know what happened there. I want to know everything. First, let us start with an easy question. Why are you here?" the Emperor purred, and, swallowing bile, Quatre began to talk. "Sir? The Emperor requests your presence in the Throne room immediately." Duo recognized Mueller's voice on the other side of the door. "The Emperor, huh? Wonder what he wants. I hope he hasn't found out about last night's little adventure," Duo muttered. Though it was unlikely, the unexpected summons was a little too coincidental for Duo's comfort, and he could feel his tension increasing as he made his way to the Throne room. The Emperor sat on the Throne, Dorothy stood off to one side. Duo was disturbed to notice that she was wearing red, and then he saw who was standing next to her. Duo could feel his pulse start to race and his mouth go dry as he gazed at Quatre. The blond mage was pale and blood was smeared over his clothes. Absently, he noted that a Healer was nearby and wondered why she was there. `Oh, shit!' he thought. `Stay calm Duo. You don't know what's going on yet. But if Dorothy is controlling Quatre, the Emperor probably knows about my plan.' These thoughts flashed through his mind in a split second as he hid his reaction by making a deep bow before the Emperor. "Ah, Duo. Thank you for coming so promptly. I'm afraid that a serious problem has arisen and it involves you directly." The Emperor's voice was honey and iron, and Duo wasn't reassured at all. "Me, my lord?" Duo asked warily, stalling for time. "Yes. A conspiracy has been unmasked. It seems that the delegation from the Sank Kingdom didn't journey all the way here to make peace after all. Do you know what their true purpose was, Duo?" There was a self-assuredness about the Emperor that made Duo very uneasy. Duo shook his head, his braid swishing down his back as he answered cautiously. "No, my lord." Dammit, what was going on? "As you well know, General Treize Khushrenada has done his best to utterly wipe out your race. It seems that remains his goal." The Emperor paused, waiting for Duo to respond. Puzzled, Duo cocked his head to one side. "What do you mean, my lord?" he questioned. He hadn't been expecting this. Gesturing to the pale mage, Odin shook his head in sorrow. "This young man has admitted that he and his friends were sent here by General Treize to kill you." For a moment, Duo had no idea what to say. He just stood there with a blank look on his face. "Kill me?" he repeated. What was the Emperor trying to pull here? Quatre and the others were helping him, not trying to kill him. "Quatre Winner has admitted that he and his escort are soldiers from Oz, and by the orders of General Khushrenada, they are to come under the guise of peace and eliminate the last Confessor, you." The Emperor gestured to one of the guards standing nearby, who stepped forward holding a bowl of something. "Do you recognize these?" Odin asked. In the bowl was a mound of glossy dark brown nuts. Duo nodded. "Yes, I've seen them before. What of it?" "Tell young Maxwell what they are, Iria," the Emperor commanded. The Healer stepped forward. Duo had seen her around the Palace, but since he never needed her help, he had not had the occasion to speak to her. Quatre felt Dorothy standing tense beside him and her hold on his magic tightened with warning. He could see the game the Emperor was playing as clearly as if someone was standing next to him, calling each move before it happened. But with Dorothy controlling his magic, he could say nothing in his defense. "They are Jatropha nuts," the Healer said. Duo looked puzzled. "Yeah, so?" The name meant nothing to him. "They are very poisonous," Iria elaborated. "They taste very sweet, so a person would eat many of them. After a while, the poison starts shutting down the respiratory system, making it impossible for a person to breathe. They literally suffocate." Duo didn't move for several heartbeats, he just stood there, feeling an icy wind begin to blow through him. The small flame of his newfound faith in the Midlanders began to flicker and die. In desperation, he shook his head, fighting what he had been shown, unwilling to believe what he had been told. The Emperor smiled, satisfied with how the situation was playing out. "Did you think that they were going to help you, Duo?" he asked softly. Seeing Duo's startled glance, he nodded. "Oh, yes. This young man has told me everything. He told me another very interesting story as well. It has to do with a captured Confessor who was forced to work for Trieze Khushrenada or be killed at the hands of his soldiers." Wufei cantered Altron through the huge front gates of the Palace. He had found a small wagon, seven sets of blankets, cloaks and food. He had also purchased two harnesses so Sandrock and Altron could pull the wagon. He figured Heero would think it below Wing's dignity to wear a harness. Wufei had left the whole works hidden in some bushes near the river a few miles out of town. The blademaster reined the paint mare and jumped down, throwing her reins to a waiting groom that had materialized out of nowhere to take her. As he lightly leapt up the steps to the Palace, the huge marble pillars loomed over him like giant sentinels. He hoped all had gone well between Odin and Quatre. Sauntering through the large hall on the way to his room, he thought he saw a familiar flash of brown bang, and veered closer to take a look. Yes, it was Trowa, guarding an empty corridor. With a quick glance to make sure he was unobserved, Wufei strolled causally to the tall archer and smirked. "Having fun?" he asked. "A ball," Trowa answered dryly, not looking at the black-haired young man but keeping his gaze fixed on the entrance of the long hall. Wufei leaned his back against the wall a few feet away from the guard and crossed his arms. "Have you heard from Quatre yet?" Wufei asked, his black eyes watching the long hall like an eagle searching for its prey. "Not yet. He would have told me if anything had gone wrong," Trowa returned, but it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself rather than Wufei. "I'll find him," Wufei assured the worried archer and stood up again, just as the Captain of the Guard turned the corner and strode toward them. Wufei slipped away and as he turned the corner he heard the Captain say to Trowa, "Mr. Barton, I need you to go the armory and get a bow and gray arrows, your archery skills are" and then the blademaster was out of earshot. `Quatre?' he called, but there was no answer in his mind. By this time, Trowa's unease had spread to Wufei and the blademaster hurried back to their quarters, determined to find out what was going on. Quatre had to fight not to be sick at Odin's twisting of the past. As pale as starlight, Duo had said nothing; he had just listened. At his sides, Duo's hands clenched into fists. "You were left to die at Bitterroot. Their mission was to come here to finish the job." The Emperor finished his tale. At his side, Dorothy nodded once. Duo knew if she were controlling Quatre's magic, she would know if what had been said was true. Silence descended on the Throne room like a blanket of snow as all eyes were fixed on the slender figure, clad in black, standing alone before the Throne. Then Duo stirred. "Who is leading the mission?" Duo asked the trembling mage. Quatre swallowed hard. He knew what the Emperor was doing and was helpless to stop it. He could feel the burning in the middle of his being as Dorothy twisted her hold on him, forcing him to answer Duo's question. In the silence that filled the Throne room, Quatre's choked reply fell like stones in a still pool. "Heero Yuy." Duo hadn't quite believed what he was hearing; the thought that they might all be lying kept him fighting the feeling that the horrible things they were telling him were true. Then he glanced at Dorothy. She was staring at him with the slightest bit of sympathy in her winter eyes, then she nodded once; Quatre was telling the truth. Seeing that single nod, Duo felt something inside of him splintering deep in his soul, like the hurt of a thousand razor shards. Strangely, it really felt like something had broken and would never heal and become whole. The real world had entered in, and this time, had finally broken him past repair. Duo slowly brought a clenched fist up level to his chest. He lowered his chin, looking down at it. Inside of him was ultimate power; with the lightest touch he had brought kingdoms to their knees. He knew Odin planned to eventually conquer Oz and the Midlands, and Duo distantly wondered how much destroying he was about to undertake in an effort to assuage the pain of this moment. He wondered if he could ever bear to let anything touch him again. Usually the cold calm that accompanied his magic came to him unbidden. Now, for the first time in his life, he reached for it, embraced it, and reveled in the soul-numbing power of the Confessor. Isolated, yet insolated in the icy calmness of his Confessor's power, he found some slight comfort. Duo decided he would be damned if he ever let it go again. Without raising his head, he lifted his eyes to Quatre, dead violet glaring through his long bangs. The onlookers felt a slight chill begin to permeate the air, like invisible mist rising off a window painted in frost. `You were left to die at Bitterroot. They came here to finish the job.' Odin's mocking words hung in the Throne room, echoing though the Confessor's mind over and over again. The Emperor looked sympathetically at the Confessor and leaned against the high back of the Throne, hiding his satisfaction. "I must apologize to you, young Maxwell. As a member of my retinue, you are under my protection. Do not worry, Duo. I have already given the orders for Heero Yuy's arrest and the other one as well." The Confessor stirred, then bowed briefly to the Emperor. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, my lord." Without waiting for the Emperor to give him leave, the Confessor turned on his heel and walked away. Silence followed in his wake. The air began to warm again after the braided figure left the Throne room. `Oh, Duo,' Quatre sobbed silently in his own mind. To his surprise, he was answered. `The Emperor does not know what he's done,' Dorothy's worried voice sounded in his mind. Startled, Quatre hid his reaction as best he could. Dorothy `smirked' in his mind. `Why are you doing this?' he asked the bloodstained woman standing next to him. `Because I am Mord-Sith and he is the Emperor,' was the reply. `Now shut up,' she snapped and Quatre was once again alone in his mind. There was no one in their quarters. Wufei noticed immediately that the rooms had been searched. Their packs had been opened and their clothes were scattered around the room. Paper had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. When the blademaster spotted his sword hilt peeking out from under a pair of Quatre's pants, he hurried over to scoop it up. He breathed a sigh of relief when his inspection of the blade revealed no marks on it. Belting the scabbard on, he slid the sword into its sheath. In deference to protocol, he had not worn it in the Palace proper. But now it was different. Quatre was missing and there was no sign of Heero. The sword's weight was comforting. A loud knocking at the door whirled him around. Cautiously he opened the door. It was the Steward. "Sir? Lord Quatre Winner requested that you to meet him in the Throne room." Whoever was behind this didn't know about Quatre's telepathy spell, Wufei mused. But he nodded and accompanied the skinny little man without comment. And if the Steward had any objections to Wufei bringing his sword along, he kept them to himself. They entered the Throne room; Wufei's black eyes swept the scene, looking for Quatre and the trap. He noted the Throne room was unusually empty, just the Emperor, a blond woman in red leather, and many guards. Then he spotted the blond mage, standing off to one side of the Throne. The blademaster's eyes narrowed in rage when he saw the blood staining Quatre's clothing. He heard movement behind him as he approached the Throne, but ignored it for now. His whole being was focused on the silent, smirking figure of the Emperor on the Throne. Wufei didn't bother to bow. Instead he glared at the Emperor, not bothering to hide his hatred. "Chang Wufei, you are under arrest. Your friend Quatre Winner has admitted to me that you and he have come to my Empire not to make peace, as you would have had me believe, but to assassinate one of my people. Surrender, or be killed." The Emperor smiled as his sun on steel gaze narrowed in anticipation. Wufei heard movement behind him again, the sound of swords being drawn. He smiled grimly to himself. This should be fun. "Let Quatre go," Wufei ordered, gripping the pommel of his sword, but not yet drawing it. "Surrender, and I may let you live," Odin purred, his voice was honey and iron. Wufei drew his sword in answer, the defiant ring of drawn steel sounding like a death knell in the Throne room. "Very well, kill him," Odin ordered. The guards came at him from every direction, fifteen in all, and the battle was joined. In a way, the frantic exigencies required to stay alive were an advantage; Wufei held nothing back. Wufei parried the first strike and in a flashing twist, his blade sliced open the throat of his first opponent. Nearly faster than the human eye could follow, he spun and the arcing blade scythed across the midsection of another guard, causing him to slip on his own entrails as they spilled onto the floor. On the backstroke, he caught another under his upraised arm. In less than ten seconds, Wufei had killed three guards. Wufei's reflexes had been replaced with razor blades; he let his body rule and no one could touch him. The black-haired soldier's movements were so fluid that he seemed to be dancing rather than fighting. When he listened, Wufei heard the song and gave himself over to it. With movements not even imagined, he danced to the song of the swords. And his partner was death. He stumbled unexpectedly; a body of a guard tripped him and he swore as he felt himself start to go down. He had seen that body, had put it there himself and thought of using it to trip his opponents. Twisting desperately, he put one hand down and swept his sword into position to take a descending blade and turn it away. Wufei rolled with the force of the blow and was up again, all in one motion; just in time to block another strike. He dropped to one knee and slashed across, faster than the eye could follow. His breath was coming hard now, and sweat burned his eyes. Yet despite that, Wufei grinned. The blademaster had never felt so alive. Soon, there were but five left. With renewed energy, he engaged, whipping and parrying furiously. One guard hammered downward and was blocked; then Wufei broke free, feinting a thrust and slashed again. He was not parried. Again and again he struck. The long blade sank into the final guard, and it was done. Wufei pulled his sword out of the final guard and watched as he sank to the blood-slicked floor of the Throne room. Only the blademaster's harsh breathing broke the silence that filled the room, as he stood alone, triumphant on the killing ground. Splattered blood saturated his clothes and dripped steadily from his blade. Then Odin Lowe, still sitting on the Throne, started to applaud in slow, deliberate claps. "Well done, young blademaster. That was fifteen men in less than five minutes. I must admit I have never seen a parallel to your skill." Wufei didn't answer; he just glared at the Emperor as he wiped his gory sword on his sleeve. Then a movement from the shadows behind the blademaster caused the captive mage to pale, but Dorothy's hold on his magic refused to let him cry out a warning. "Fire." The air hissed at the passage of the rain of arrows. Ten archers, some on the ground and some in the balcony had been standing there all along, with their bows drawn and aimed right at the blademaster the whole time. One of the archers was painfully familiar, with a brown sweep of bangs falling over one eye. The young swordsman heard the order and started to turn, automatically bring up his sword to block, but muscles worn with fatigue had slowed down just the smallest fraction, and by then it was far too late. Odin knew how to deal with blademasters. Wufei's body jerked as the razor-edged arrows penetrated his leather armor, but he didn't fall. He just stood there, looking up at Trowa, a hint of forgiveness in his dark pain filled eyes. Trowa clenched his jaws to keep from screaming in grief at what he had been forced to do. With a ringing clatter of steel, the sword that was the pride and joy of the blademaster fell to the marble floor of the Throne room as Wufei slowly crumpled to the ground and lay still in an ever-widening pool of blood.