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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.
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