Redemption

Chapter 3: Movements in the Shadows

As before, they stood there, Angela and Remi, standing in the same conspirational darkness, looking out at the same lights, thinking the same thoughts. But there were others this time, their blood-brothers, trapped by the same bond, fighting their Master, traitors together. They had a cause, and were awaiting their messiah. And, this time, the blinking star was announcing his coming.

Remi counted silently. One flash. Pause. One flash. Pause. One flash. Pause... The simplest signal, and the most important of all. "Help is on the way."

And a boat was indeed approaching. A small row-boat, gliding, oarless, over the inky sea. A few figures were just visible it, a slightly darker darkness against the black water.

"Who are these guys?" Angela whispered, breaking the religious silence.

"The Grand Alliance," answered Remi in monotone. He shook his head to clear the oppressive tension, and continued more naturally: "Things are coming to a head. They... we... We’ll need all the help we can get in the next few days. They’ve decided to send us two of the guardians of the Seal. The Hunters."

"That’s too dangerous!", she hissed. "The Master will feel their presence at once! Did you even think of that?!"

He turned to her then, his face a tired rictus. "Not these ones, he won’t."

The boat hit the shore, riding a wave to rest high upon the sand, and... dissolved. Going from living wood to rot in the pause of one breath, disintegrating, falling to a pile of wet sawdust that the next wave washed away. And the two figures stood alone on the softening sand, and started walking towards the small group.

A small boy led the way, two totally black eyes gleaming under hair just as black, a young version of the Master. A slightly taller figure followed in his wake, gliding softly from rock to rock.

Remi’s knees finally gave way, tension and gratitude knocking them out from under him. He bowed his head: "We are honoured and... relieved by your arrival, friends," he said, exhaustion trembling through his limbs. "I am Remi, Black Lynx Saint."

The child responded first: "I am Mike, the Heaven Hunter," he said simply.

The other figure slid forwards to take Remi’s hand in his. He knelt down, to the Lynx Saint’s level, and helped him back to his feet.

"And you are no longer alone, Remi," he said.

Remi hugged him, tears in his eyes as he struggled erect again. "I knew you’d come!", he cried.

The man waved his fingers over Remi’s eyes, drawing out the gesture slowly, almost languorously. The Lynx Saint’s eyes slowly closed as the hand moved over, turned downwards, and deftly caught him when he fell. Remi’s face relaxed as he settled into a deep sleep, tension draining from it by the second. Angela even thought she caught the hint of a smile on his features, the first she had caught for a long time.

The stranger stretched out his hands, offering his prone form to Angela, who took it very reluctantly. "He needs the sleep," he said. "Tomorrow will be tough."

The Ursa Major Saint was fuming. "What the hell do you know about him, anyway?", she answered. "And who are you? Not only do you look so inordinately wussy, you haven’t even introduced yourself."

And he didn’t look impressive, they had to admit. Vague brown hair framing an ordinary and weak face, downcast eyes that refused to meet theirs, a body that seemed to flee even their glances. A wet rag, it wasn’t even a disguise, it wasn’t a eagle dressed up as a robin. Any saint could tell at a glance, this one had no talons, he barely had nails.

He didn’t even have cosmos, the Ursa Major Saint thought. She couldn’t detect the faintest flickering of an aura. She scanned him, using all the tricks she had learned in her years on the island, a silent homage to the Master she was about to betray. And still... nothing.

He turned towards her, his eyes alighting briefly on her feet. "You didn’t introduce yourself either, Angela of the Great Bear." Silently, he moved towards her, sliding his hands under Remi’s prone form as if to take it from her. Automatically, she made to let go of the load, but then felt a hand caressing her stomach, softly but insistently. She froze.

"You let a stranger under your guard," he murmured. "You, a captain of the Death Guard, let a stranger get into position to kill you?"

Her response ‘but only because you look so weak’, froze on her lips, humiliation at her lack of sense. The hand stopped caressing her, not because she had any power to make it do so, but, very clearly, because he wasn’t interested in her at all. That rankled as well.

"Not only that, but you put your daughter at risk as well?", he continued. Her world was coming down around her ears... she had suspected, but she hadn’t been certain...

She looked at her opponent as he stepped back, at the ordinary brown eyes that refused to meet her own, and her doubts died. He knew; and now, so did she.

Before letting her compose her thoughts, he went on:

"I wouldn’t tell him about it," he said, pointing at Remi. "He did it because you loved the Master, as does he, he felt your loneliness and wanted to help... He would be a father, out of duty, but you would never be happy."

Her eyes clouded. All she could hear was the beating of her own heart, and the stranger’s monotone voice.

"You will all fight," he said. "I know you will." His head bowed, and he stood there for a second. They felt the respect, the motivation, the certainty flow from him in that one gesture, and knew he was not speaking the truth, but shaping it. They would definitely fight, now. Then, silently, he walked off towards the core of the island, Mike in tow. Not once had he glanced at any of them.

As Angela’s world started rebuilding itself anew, transformed by the seismic shift, he turned towards them, just before disappearing into the darkness.

"I am Ian," he said, finally answering her query. "The Void Hunter."

*****

One step. Pause. One step. Pause. Deep breath. One more step. Pause. A slight tingling. One step. Warmth. Pause. One step. Heat. Two steps. Burning. Three steps, four steps, five steps... Panic. She leapt the last three meters, adrenaline searing her shattered calm, barely made it to the rock. Chocking and gasping, Gol looked ahead of her, and was afraid.

In the distance, she could just about make out Ares, in the front ranks of the crowd. And, of course, just to his left, the Master, the Black Dragon, a figure that never seemed to grow indistinct like the rest. They were at the edge of the cliff, staring down at her, with her other friends... no, to strong a word. Her other acquaintances from Death Queen’s island. The smell of her own cooked flesh, of the smoke in the air, and, floating upon the burning wind, the chant of her supporters.

"Gol, Gol, Gol, ..."

She dropped her eyes from them, to look again upon her test. The river of lava that she had to cross.

She had made it this far. She had endured a life of hell, she had broken her inner barriers, she had acquired cosmos, she had forged her body and her mind, sacrificed her childhood... for this. If she made it, she would acquire the armour that had been dancing in her dreams for so long. Her test was a mere formality. All she had to do was run to claim her dream.

Bare feet across thirty meters of molten lava.

It was the standard; nearly all the current black saints had done it. Most ran it nude, but she had opted to keep her clothes. Even on Death Queen’s island, where the sun burns and the ground even more, even in the midst of the most intense physical training... there was still something sexual about a naked female, and she wanted no distractions. As her clothing started to singe and melt, she regretted her decision. Sexual connotations were the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.

She had already crossed ten meters, but that had been the easy part; there were many rocks jutting out of the river of fire. She couldn’t count on tricks like that again. The next twenty meters were bare. Pure, running lava.

And the more she looked at it, the more she knew she wasn’t going to make it. The first ten meters had told he that; despite her strength, despite her pride, she was not going to make it.

Unlike the sanctuary, there was always a way out in these sacred tests. The Master considered going forwards was easy if your bridges were burned; a lot harder if the road to safety stretched behind you. She just had to say the word, give up, and she would be rescued, liberated, freed to be anything she wanted. Anything except a Saint.

During her training, they had of course gone over the various warrior clans of the world, their honour, their ideals. And none had struck her imagination more than the samurai. They fired her imagination; the idea of taking your own life she could not understand. Face death in battle, yes. Attack the gods themselves, yes... But still your own heart, destroy all that is you, die in agony, but voluntarily, quietly, and with dignity? What was the point, she had always wondered.

But now she knew. It was simple, really. The shame of living would have made the rest of their life unbearable. Her life. How simple, then, to just end it there, to escape the never ending shame that would grind her. She could not cross the burning river, but at least she wouldn’t have to live with that. She would simply die trying. She steeled herself, and took a step out.

The Master looked down on her, from behind his ceremonial mask that made him look even more like the Anti-Pope. He looked at Ares, cheering her on until his voice was hoarse, and wondered if his gamble had paid off. Thirteen, same age, a friend or a love? Gol was far stronger than a lot of his black saints, she had cosmos from an early age... but she was alone. She had no real reason to push her across the last gap, nothing outside herself to animate her. She needed someone.

Then Ares had come along. An intense look about his remaining eye, the body of a cripple to awaken her motherly interest, power to appeal to her pride, charisma, as yet unformed, but budding out... if anyone could touch her heart, this child of the sanctuary could... But as Gol took a step forwards, he knew they had failed. She was going to die.

They never knew what caused it. Ares was close to the edge, after all. There was the press of the crowd, and his one eye caused him to misjudge distances. It could have been an accident... They certainly all willed it; all three, caught in the triangle, all desperately hoping, praying even, that Gol would find a way. The Master never knew if he had somehow caused it, nor did Ares, as he fell towards the molten rock, ever really remember if he was pushed... or if he jumped. In the end, it didn’t matter.

The lava was tarnished in an instant by a sheet of oily black fire, running wild across it, twisting and spreading all over the scalding surface. The flames came together in an instant, reforming into Gol, catching the doomed Ares as he tumbled. They landed with a splash, the burning rock going up to her knees. She paused for a second, smiled, then, still cradling Ares, she very slowly stepped out, onto the bank, onto her promised land.

"Thank you," she murmured to him.

She looked up at the Master. "Thank you," she said again. The black helmet didn’t move.

She straightened. "By right of blood and fire, I claim this armour as my own."

"Why?" came the ritual reply.

"Because I earned it."

The master stood, and stared. The wind blew, scattering innocent ashes. A few in the audience cleared their throats. The master’s arms stayed resolutely by his side, refusing to rise, refusing to perform the gesture that would close the ritual, consecrated the new black saint.

The pause grew, billowing his robe and hair.

After a short eternity, he finally spoke:

"Tell me," he said, "why do you hate the Sanctuary?"

Gol’s eyes swivelled, down at Ares, then up. "I don’t. I don’t know enough about it to hate it."

"Indeed. You are the Black Fournax. The Furnace. May your fire never go out." He spread his arms wide and brought them together, completing the ritual.

With all the tension suddenly draining from her, Gol fell forwards, collapsing on top of Ares as she let him drop, and they pitched into happy oblivion together.

*****

Two breaths in the cave. Hawol listened, his eyes closed, Ushio giving his report. There was blatantly something wrong, and Nachi was blatantly not getting it. He and the Steel saint continued talking as if nothing had happened. Hawol’s eyes flicked open for a second. He reached down for the cloth he was confectioning a cape from, tore a strip off. He then brought it to his face, and tied the blindfold.

A slight pause; the two were evidently staring at his antics. He ignored them, and resumed his seat, hefting the scythe and running his finger slowly over the blade. Once. Twice. Three times... They started talking again, their voices slightly shriller, and Hawol leant back. And listened. And smelt the air.

"Adieux, then." And with that there was only one breath left in the cave. He didn’t need to look; the instant Ushio disappeared from view was clear, as Nachi rounded on him. He grinned behind the blindfold; he could picture the incensed glare and the "what the fuck was that" pose perfectly. Before the wolf saint could say a word, he plunged in himself.

"There was a game we used to play in the Sanctuary," he started. "To while away the few shreds of free time we had. We called it shadow boxing." He could hear Nachi’s body move, could feel his interest awakening. Deliberately turning away, he went on:

"You’d be blindfolded and beaten up. It was that simple. And it would only stop if you could guess who was pummelling you. At first it was easy; they’d swear, they’d talk, it was over quickly. But then we all got better at it; you’d have to hear the way they moved, feel their breath, learn the shape of their fists, know how each of them moved, how they hit."

He turned his face up, seeing the silhouette of the sun through the black cloth. "I was the best; I could read them perfectly. But still it got harder; we all got sneakier. But even at its worst, even when they were several, pummelling you in complete silence... even then, even when you couldn’t say "who", you could always tell how many, you always knew if there was more than one mind fighting you. I knew it then."

He dropped his head, so that his hidden eyes seemed to stare straight at Nachi. "And I know it now. I don’t know who we’re fighting, but I’m certain there’s more than one power hitting us as we stumble around in the darkness." Again, he ran his finger over the scythe blade.

"This island’s Master isn’t one to take orders from anyone. And if he attacked the Sanctuary, all the black saints would have been in the assault. There are people out there who are striking each other in the darkness, and we’re just straws caught up in the furnace, barely aware the war has even started. Not a clue who’s side we’re on."

He sensed Nachi getting restless. Good; now was the ideal moment, it would definitely cement his respect.

"You think I dressed up like this for fun, do you Nachi? You think I’m playing?" He wagged a finger at the Wolf Saint. "Ushio has a strange odour, I needed to check that. He smelled of the water. But not just the sea, or a day at the beach; it was..."

"The smell of the deep," Nachi interrupted for the first time. "The smell of salt, of exotic seaweed, of shinning corals, of seahorses who’s empires lie far from the sight of man. The smell the ocean would have, if it could."

There was utter silence for a moment, the deception painted plainly on the Horseman’s features.

"You knew..." he managed.

Nachi moved forwards, bringing his face level with Hawol’s. "Of course. You don’t need theatrics to just to use your nose," he said, and disappeared.

One second Hawol could feel his warm breath on his face, hear his beating heart and his moving body, then suddenly... nothing. Panicked, he reached up to his blindfold... and stopped, as he felt the blade on his cheek. His hand dropped and he swallowed. Slowly.

The point moved upwards, just failing to draw blood. It slid under the blind-fold and came to rest on his left eye-lid, pressing down ever so slightly. He just stood there, totally at the mercy of an opponent he could neither see nor feel, and whimpered slightly.

Nachi’s voice rang out then, seeming to come from the empty air itself. "You want theatrics, do you? Stop behaving like a kid!"

The voice stopped, leaving him cocooned in silence again. He drew in his knees, trying to ignore the deadly blade on his eye, trying to return to the womb.

"But I am a kid," he finally managed, a sob in his voice. The blade flicked away, slashing the blindfold away. He blinked at Nachi, Nachi with a black sword in his hand. The wolf saint finally spoke, a wrenching sadness in his voice.

"You’ve lost the right to behave like a kid, Morte. You’ve been a spoilt brat all this time, betraying us, playing with us. And then it was easy, Ares’ forgiven you, so it’s all sweet and joy for you." His voice rose slightly: "You’ve never had to pay for what you did."

"But..." murmured Hawol, making as if to extend his bandaged arms. "I..."

"Yes, I can see those bandages. You always make a point of not showing them. So that we’d admire you, stoically bearing the pain. But even if Ares’ had broken every limb in your body, it wouldn’t make a difference. Not as long as you never doubt yourself."

He took a step back, extended the blade to touch Hawol’s trembling face, then brought it back as Hawol moved forwards onto it.

"No, Hawol," he said. "Not that easy this time. I don’t want you mutilate yourself as penance. There are something’s that can never be erased, no matter what you do. You’ve lost the right to be a selfish kid, forever." He lowered the point, brought it to the ground. The Horseman was really shaking now, the walls of his confidence shattered, as he looked up at Nachi imploringly. "Just think, Hawol," he said. "Just think of what you’ve done."

Tears started welling up in the Apocalypse Horseman’s eyes. With a wrenching moan, he flung himself at Nachi, and held on to him tightly, as sob after sob racked his body.

After a while, Nachi put his arms around him, returning the embrace. The wolf saint’s presence returned, his smell, his breathing, Hawol could feel them once more. Confusedly, he sensed he was partially forgiven, and held on even tighter. And Nachi was trembling to, relief flooding him, as they clung to each other. He knew, that if Hawol had not broken, he would have had to kill him. And he knew he couldn’t do that. Jabu could, but he couldn’t. Which was why Jabu was Pope and he was nothing.

So he very likely would have died today.

Finally Hawol’s body gave out from emotional exhaustion, and he slipped down to the floor of the cave, the wolf saint cushioning his fall. As he laid the horseman to rest, Nachi reflected on Hawol’s last word before losing consciousness.

"Father," he had said.

*****

Remi stood straight, angled his teeth to catch the light, put one foot forwards, expanded his torso, visibly relaxed, confident yet not arrogant, and felt his entire world crash around him. He wanted to scream, shout, beg, tear at the rocks until his nails were torn out and his fingers reduced to stumps.

Instead he smiled slightly, and cleared his throat. "I believe," he started, "that there can be no doubt..." He faltered a second; the Master was watching him like a hawk. Of course, he always looked like that, but you never could tell... He looked at Angela, at her imploring face, at the Master, at the seven black saints who had spoken, damming her with their words, and, finally, at the eternal, uncaring and perfectly blue sky, and in that instant, lost his faith in God.

"There can be no doubt that Angela of the Great Bear is guilty. Guilty of the most heinous, unthinkable crimes imaginable. An unforgivable assault on the human race itself," he continued, wishing that someone would spot the sarcasm. None did. "So there is no doubt that she is guilty of treason. And a member of the Death Guard, as well." He wanted to continue in the same vein, build up the imagery, go up and up, over the top, until no-one could fail to see the absurdity, the sheer injustice of the situation, but something inside him was broken.

He looked down at Angela again, where she stood, defiant, bruised and muddied, looking up at him with imploring eyes. He visualised a dagger ripping through his crotch, tearing upwards, leaving broken entrails spurting blood in its wake, collapsing a lung or two on the way to revealing his heart, ripping it out and leaving it to be pecked at, still beating, by circles of cackling vultures. He took some cold comfort in the image, blanking out the sight of Angela’s face. "Ian, please," he murmured, then swallowed the words. More than anyone else, he knew, they could not risk discovery at this point.

‘The Moral Saint’, that’s what he had always been called. Incorruptible, loyal, he had gone through the fires of this island with his sense of humanity intact, refused to let it wither on the flames of efficiency. At last a full saint, he had stepped naturally into the role of arbiter, a trusted judge over the island. And the same moral sense that had driven him to that post had driven him to rebellion, to set up the resistance, to try and save the Master and the island he loved from themselves. And for that very reason, he was now judging his best friend for the treason he had instigated.

And, throughout all civilisations and all history, treason has only ever carried one penalty.

It could have been much, much worse, he kept telling himself. The two trainees who had heard their councils while making out, unnoticed, who had seen them sneak away and trembled together for several minutes, had only been able to identify Angela. One of the very few women saints on the island. As he stared down at them in cold fury, he wished they had been there the night of the Void Hunter’s arrival; Ian would have quickly smoked out the two punks. Looking back at Angela’s desperate face, the moral saint determined that those two would pay for this. They would die for this.

"As for the penalty," he went on, casually. He shrugged, the picture of total indifference. "Death, of course." He turned away, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. He was still half-hoping that Angela would go berserk, denounce him, even attack him, that he would be her companion rather than her executioner.

He forced himself to turn back. He could not afford to be so egotistical; many more lives than his own were riding on this. He had to go through with the horrible ritual, he had to ensure that Angela was the only one of them to die today, he had to make her understand that her silence was required.

He looked at her, flinching, as he moved closer, dagger drawn. She understood already, he knew. He would not be able to show a trace of compassion, not be able to ease her last moments in anyway. The crowd grew silent, and he despised it. Unlike the sun, unlike the sky, these people had chosen to be here. There was so much else they could be doing, practising, training, making love, watching the clouds in the sky, welcoming Gol, the new saint, the new life, rather than walking over here and watch an execution.

He grew near, and they could taste each other’s breath, like they had so often in the past. He brought the dagger forwards, a crude, rough affair; he and the Master were both united in a distaste for the executions they occasionally had to preside over, and would not allow any ceremony to be brought into them; least of all anything like a ritual weapon.

"Goodbye," he whispered, loud enough for the accursed crowd to hear. As he brought the dagger back, refusing to close his eyes, he felt Angela’s cosmos begin to envelope him, the aura of the great bear. He smiled, for the first time, and stabbed forwards, distractedly. He would die, but he would not have to kill her at least.

The blast of energy flew past his ear, singing his hair, straight at the Master, who extended a hand, caught it and dissolved it, just as the Remi’s dagger sliced through her stomach, that she had left purposely undefended. His mind grew numb as her body did, looking up at him with dying eyes. She had put her trust in him and he had killed her.

"I’m... I’m," she began, through gasps of blood. Her instincts were screaming to make her say she was pregnant, so that Remi would at least know, but her mind clamped down on that urge; he had suffered enough. What would she do instead, as her vision contracted, as she could hear her heart beating its last thump, her muscles collapse slowly, the greyness of death clouding all her being? Something grandiose, something touching, like "I die, so others may live!"?

No. This crowd didn’t deserve that; they deserved to know what dying was like, what they had truly come to gloat over. So she threw her head back, and screamed. And screamed and screamed and screamed. And screamed.

Her last breath a curse, as Remi bent down over her, trying to hide treacherous tears. Mechanically, he felt for her pulse. Nothing. Angela would never be again; the memories of her would grow old, until they too, in turn, died, and nothing would be left of that wonderful girl. As he straightened up again, slowly, his expression etched in ice, the Master was suddenly at his side, reaching down gently to close her eyes, and taking her used corpse in tender arms.

"Our duty is done," the Master started, his gaze down on Angela’s earthly abode, nesting almost peacefully in the Dragon’s arms. "But we experience no glory, and no joy. We are sad," he said, lifting his eyes to Remi, who stared back, a frozen statue. "She was a friend."

And Remi still didn’t dare to move, lest he collapse in a quivering heap, his paper-thin façade shattered. The Master looked on to him again, a slightly disapproving expression on his face. The look hit him in the stomach with a dull thud. He had been denied everything; he had killed his best friend, his lover, in cold blood, and was now denied the opportunity to even grieve. And the Master was disappointed by his coldness. For the first time, he felt the beginning of a cold, raging fury towards the Master himself, but just gritted his teeth and nodded.

"A death is a tragedy," the Master went on. "That it is necessary does not make it any less so." The diamond eyes transfixed the crowd, played with them, shamed them, until the gaze finally swept away. "Let us now bury the past, and welcome the future, the new saint Gol, among us. She will be awakening soon."

They started filling out one by one, in his wake. Remi walked, slowly and carefully, stiff-limbed, towards a basalt pillar, turned around it, and then, out of sight, was suddenly and violently sick.

*****

Hundreds of incense sticks burned in their holders, liberating their dizzying musks until the air seemed a riot of shimmering smog. Sparklers danced their flashes over the scene, as myriads of coloured mirrors caught the rising sun, kaleidiscoping it. Frenzied singing and roasted meat ensured that no senses were spared from the assault.

The Sanctuary celebrated new sainthoods with hallowed rituals worn with age, till every saint could feel the unbroken line he formed a link in, the heavy weight of hundreds of his predecessors lying on his shoulders.

But Death Queen’s Island just celebrated the sheer joy of being alive. Five years of back-breaking training had culminated in one moment of ecstasy, as they screamed to the world "I am a Saint!"

And that’s just what Gol did. Swinging around in the middle of it all, intoxicated by the smoke, the ceremonial drinks, allowed only on such an occasion, and the sheer joy that threatened to burst from her at every instant. "I am the black flame!"

At her side, of course, was Ares. He had started out trying to pretend that he was still wounded, trying to attract her sympathy, but that had stopped as it was clear she had absolutely no patience at this moment. He watched her dance with him, against him, without him, far from him, an eternal whirlwind. The Fournax armour was there, lying on a bed of scented rose petals, surrounded by the children of the island; he was briefly jealous that she seemed to spend far more time looking at it that at him.

He felt dishonest. He wasn’t sure what he felt for her, but he was the Shield, dedicated to protecting Athena; she was the Black Saint Fournax, a sworn enemy of the island he had grown up on, and still carried in his heart.

And he knew what they both were; she didn’t. Quietly, he slipped away from the party.

*****

He waited for about a minute, just out of sight. Then he heard. The shuffling footsteps, nearly lost in the wind. His heart was beating hard, as he felt clammy and flushed and adult. He had made his decision. He would bring her to Nachi and Hawol, and stop the lying.

He set off with the new black furnace saint following. Both just failing to hide their presence from the other.

*****

Hawol sat up, slowly recovering his composure. He was warmly wrapped in the many blankets they had brought, but still he shivered. He was, he knew, on eternal probation; nothing could ever erase his betrayal, except a lifetime of effort. It didn’t mean he couldn’t have friends, fun or a great time; but there would always be that little niggling dark corner of his past that meant he couldn’t completely let go of it.

Nachi looked at him. "You OK?" he asked. He nodded, grateful. But there was one thing that was still puzzling him.

"How did you hide from me?" he asked. "You completely disappeared."

The wolf saint looked at him, and said nothing. Slowly, he replayed that sentence through his mind. "The wolf saint looked at him... The wolf saint..."

"Oh," he said, realising.

Nachi nodded, and grinned. "I’d be a pretty poor wolf if you could track me with your eyes closed, Hawol."

The Horseman’s heart leapt. Nachi was using his name, without any emphasis, just naturally, for the first time. He always felt wary of saying "Hawol" before.

"Are you really that powerful, Nachi? Is that why you did it, to show me that I was weak, despite my delusions?" Yes, it definitely felt good to put the past behind him.

"Yes," answered Nachi, suddenly tired out. He sat down. "Have you ever heard the phrase "There’s always someone stronger than you"?"

Hawol nodded, eagerly.

"And yet you don’t believe it. Nobody really does... I used only a fraction of my power there. It takes a shock for us to realise just how weak we truly are. For me... for me it was when we arrived at the Sanctuary. I got nowhere near the Gold Saints in combat, you have to realise. I never saw their power first hand... And yet... I could feel the battle from afar. Their auras were... indescribable. I won’t even try. Ants fight each other, trying to be king of the hive, and suddenly darkness falls, and we look up from under the shadow of a tiger." He looked at Hawol again, and smiled. "The power difference between us is huge, but I doubt a Gold Saint would even notice it."

He straightened, reached for the box containing his armour. "On that sobering thought, I have to leave you," he said, as he heaved it on his shoulders. "I have to ask Bel a favour; if anyone can get the truth out of Ushio, she can."

Hawol gave him a sly grin. The very thing he’d have done, he thought. Puppy-love had been invented with Ushio in mind. Finally Nachi picked up the black sword, affixed it to his belt. The horseman looked at it strangely, recognition dawning.

"It’s..." he started.

"Yes," completed Nachi, "it’s War’s sword." Before Hawol could ask, he continued: "I took it from his grave." He paused, almost defiant. But the Horseman of Death refused to rise to the bait. "Athena is dead, her laws no longer apply. Even the Gold Saints were sometimes allowed to use weapons, in extreme situations. And if this doesn’t qualify..."

"I liked him," said Hawol, referring to the Horseman of War.

"So did I," said Nachi. "That’s why I bear his weapon."

He turned then, and left, leaving Hawol that little more lonely. An hour passed, interminable, before Hawol crept to the cave’s entrance, and looked down on the cursed, magnificent island. He would be the only one of them to miss it, he was sure; a tiny part of him felt at home in this place. The tiny figures in the distance, the sun-drenched sea, the very personal honour... Day-dreaming, he fingered at his bandages, wondering how his wounds were healing. A gasp of joy, as he saw the one who had inflicted them: Ares was approaching. Then his happiness bowed down to worry; for the Shield saint was being followed.

*****

Alemon, the Black Hunting Dogs Saint, was gazing over the sea, his mind pleasantly empty. Every so often, his gaze would drift lazily down at the trainees sparring down below, and he would shout an order, watch as they cringed briefly, then resumed their training, just as badly as before, and he would let his eyes drift back up to the sea, content.

A hand, come out of nowhere, suddenly clutched his shoulder. He turned, on a panic-peak of adrenaline, then relaxed.

"Oh, it’s you, Remi," he said. He smiled a bit too broadly, the shock wearing off slowly. "What can I do for the moral saint today, eh? Need someone to talk to after the trial?"

"No," Remi answered, very slowly. His gaze to, kept flittering from the trainees to the sea, though a lot more wistfully and expectantly than Alemon’s. "I just have a question for you."

The Hunting Dogs saint sighed, shifted his position, and sat facing the Remi. "What can I help you with, this time?", he asked, not unkindly.

"A moral dilemma," the Lynx started, his eyes now firmly riveted to Alemon. "As usual, but this one is more important than most."

Alemon leaned back at closed his eyes, casting his last look over the sparkling sea. "Go on, I’m listening."

"Is it ever right to discard honour to win a battle?"

The Dogs Saint’s eyes flew open. "Of course not," he answered, surprised. "Honour is what gives a warrior his meaning; if not, he’s just a bandit. I’m surprised you, of all people, would question that."

Remi’s gaze was worrying him a bit now, he appeared to be almost a ghost, like someone long-dead watching and speaking from another world.

"What," Remi went on, "if there were other lives at stake than your own?"

Alemon relaxed visibly; this was indeed the sort of questions Remi was into. He installed himself more comfortably, looked at the Lynx Saint quizzically.

"Explain," he said.

"What I mean," said Remi, turning away, "is suppose you don’t have just your own life in your hands, but a lot of others; suppose a lot of others will die, your cause will be destroyed even, if you allow yourself to die. Can you be so egotistical as to allow your own "honour" to kill those you love and cherish?"

The Hunting Dogs saint rubbed his chin with a pensive finger. "I see what you mean," he said at last. "Like, say I discovered Angela’s co-conspirators, and they were planning to destroy our blessed island, and I wanted to warn you all, but got involved in a fight with one of them..."

"Not really the example I would have chosen," mumbled Remi. "But do go on."

"Well... Thinking about it, I suppose you’re right. I would use every trick in the book to get the message through, I guess. Our island is more important than my honour." He looked up at the Lynx Saint: "I never thought about it that way, but I guess you’re right."

A pained look crossed Remi’s face, and he looked away. One deep breath. Hands trembling. Another deep breath. A decision.

"So what you’re saying," he managed to force out the words, drop by drop, "is that you think that there are some case where one has to act like a traitor or a coward, if the cause is important enough..." Alemon nodded. "... and also, one of these causes, in your view, is Death Queen’s island; i.e. your loyalty is absolute."

Alemon nodded again, smiling. "Yes that’s about it," he said, letting the warm and relaxing sun play on his features. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, for..." the claws of the Lynx erupted, surges of brilliant light that transfixed Alemon, pinning his throat to the rock behind. "…nothing," he concluded, sweeping his hand like an axe, cosmos playing along its edge, swinging round to decapitate the Hunting Dogs saint. The head rolled a meter away, an expression of pained astonishment on its features. Remi looked at his second victim that day, letting the gushing blood wash all over him. "I’m sorry," he murmured. "Truly I am."

*****

Never were so many eyes fixed on one destiny. The destiny of the Shield. Gol crept along behind him, the shadows, her allies, just failing to conceal her. From his hideout, a wounded Hawol’s swept his worried gaze over the pair, wondering how to warn his friend of the danger he knew only too well. But these were the small fry; unknown to them, the piercing eyes of the ultimate players followed his progression as well. And, hidden within the volcano, deeper even than the Phoenix had reached, at the very edge of hell, one mind spied on them all.

"I can’t read him, either," the Void Hunter murmured. "His mind is closed."

The child at his side looked up at him, his face illuminated by the lava.

"Are you worried, master Ian? Let me kill him for you."

The Void Hunter looked down at the eager face, at the totally black eyes that reflected the flames of hell, and shivered deeply. Having the ability to read a reply before lips even moved, he rarely bothered with the listening half of conversation. But there was one mind he refused to enter, one mind who’s simple cruelty he would not fathom, and it was housed in that grown-up-child gazing at him in adoration.

"No, there are far more important problems than him. Just find his destiny for me, Mike."

His face suffused with pride, the Heaven Hunter obeyed the order of his master. His black eyes grew golden, shining with inner light, and his voice took on the fuller timber of one talking from another world.

A lesser man would have shivered. The witch-doctors dancing their holy trance, bones spelling out the future of those who watched, the oracles twining their dangerous divination from the midst of the sacred fumes... The gift of true Prophecy was always the most feared. With reason.

But Ian did not fear it. He did not fear the future, he did not fear death. If death would crown his works, he would welcomed it, as an honour.

Finally his disciple spoke: "Ares is not the one we fear. His future is confused, but it is overshadowed by another. Nachi, the Wolf, we must beware more." The glow faded "That is all I can see, master Ian."

"Good. Nachi’s mind is an open book; we won’t have any worries from either of them before a long, long time. The Earth Hunter is a more pressing problem. Since he returned from the Sanctuary, I can no longer read him either."

"But he is one of the weakest Hunters, master Ian. He could not hide his thoughts from you!"

"He should not. But the fact is he does. No-one has ever seen his true face, which doesn’t help matters. A traitor within the Hunter ranks is far more of a threat that any number of rogue shield Saints. The Earth Hunter mission is to follow him, and mine to follow the Earth Hunter."

"You are right as always, master Ian. I’ll kill them only when the time is ripe."

*****

One step forwards. Two steps back. Once to the right. Twice to the left. The dance of light and dark went on. Ares turned to face the sun. Gol slid through the shadows at his back. As he ducked away from the sun’s rays, she slithered over the sunlight rock.

One step forwards. Round a corner. Wait for her to catch up. Leap from rock to rock in a flash. Five seconds pause, then continue. Whistle a love song, and pretend only the echo comes back to you.

Above all, not know she’s following you.

Drift over the surface, unnoticed as smoke, silent as the dead. Carefully dislodge a stone, let him hear it clatter. Round the boulder at running pace, stop two moments. Dive for cover a split second too late, as his eyes very clearly avoid seeing you. The shadows an impenetrable cover, one toe out in the sunlight. Whistle to his tune, and pretend you get it wrong by accident.

Above all, not know that he knows.

One in darkness, one in light, always trading places, two minds linked in ignoring each other, two hearts beating as one, apart. Basking in the other cosmos at their side.

A misstep. The dance could never be perfect, novice dancers on an unknown surface. The ritual becomes real, they lose each other.

The dance waved, and broke, as they seeked the other. Ares swallowed his frustration, his tears and his fears, the agony at the end of a magic moment. "Gol," he murmured, loudly.

A noise behind him. He glanced back, his grin enormous, and just catches the shadow as it disappears. He looked forwards again, and a dark figure was looking down at him.

He greeted it instinctively. "Nachi?", he called.

Then his world stopped. One small detail wrong, one destiny destroyed. The Wolf was behind him. The dark figure’s face was Gol, glaring at him with an unearthly fury.

*****

He swallowed, slowly. Nachi, he thought again, kicking himself; of all Athena’s living Saints, the best known. And here he was, on a casual stroll of Death Queen’s Island, calling his name, the name that was synonymous with the Sanctuary throughout the world. As Gol’s blood-shot eyes drew level with him, he gave up the idea of bluffing, and turned his cheek into her punch.

He smashed against the rocky canyon, and lay there, dazed and desperate. Gol held her pose, fist straight up, daring the sky, and let a single tear fall trickle down to the earth. She lowered one fist, brought the other one up to meet it. Together they started glowing with dark cosmos.

"You lied to me," she said, both their hearts catching at her betrayed tone.

The Wolf Saint couldn’t know. All he saw was a black saint calling her cosmos to finish of Ares, his comrade, his friend. He couldn’t know she’d never strike.

Ares shot forwards, a bullet from a gun. Startled, Gol let loose a stream of black fire that scorched his already crippled hand. Dodging under her arms, he made it behind her... just in time to take two "Wolf Claws" in the pit of the stomach. Nachi had aimed to disable, not kill, but he was so much more powerful... Ares doubled over, spitting blood, as Gol turned to face him.

"What was that all about?", she demanded, furious.

Please leave Nachi. Please leave. Let me deal with this, he begged with his face. The Wolf Saint held his gaze. I’ve trusted you so far, I’ve let you lead me from the Sanctuary, was the clear response. Don’t let me down now.

And Nachi was gone.

"Well?" came the angry voice from behind him, unaware of the Wolf’s fleeting presence.

Ares planted both fists in the ground, and arched his face backwards, stared up at Gol.

"Come with me," he croaked. "Let’s leave this blasted island together."

She stopped. She stopped everything. Her body shut down, all her soul concentrated in her eyes as she detailed his broken face, as if for the first time. After an eternity, she moved again.

"Tell me the truth," she said.

"Come with me," he repeated, turning his body to face her properly.

"First, tell me the truth," she insisted, grim.

He held her gaze, anguish spreading over his features. He couldn’t, that was so plain.

Gol took a step back, called her cosmos. Black fire coursed over her arm, lighting their confrontation with unholy fire. The wind brought the smell of burning flesh to Ares’s shocked nose. Her flesh began to singe as she turned her powers against herself.

"Tell... me... the... truth!", she enunciated, painfully.

"Purple Tornado!" Rising from his prone position in a flash, he careened bodily into her, sending her flying into the same rock that had broke his fall, interrupting her self-rage.

"Stop that," he implored.

Tears started falling down her cheeks. "Tell me the truth," she repeated. The force of rage started creeping into her voice, vying with the anguish. "Tell me the truth, or I’ll have the Black Dragon personally skewer you and every one of your companions. And then... then I’ll make a point of giving myself to every Black Saint. And then I’ll move to the Sanctuary as a prostitute, and give myself to every... single... saint of that bloody island."

"Do you even know what those words mean?", he said, saddened.

She just held her knees, and glared and trembled.

"OK." He sat down again, drained. "I’ll tell you everything."

*****

Ian thought, and brooded. Often he sat, letting time pass, letting events limp to their inevitable conclusions, never intervening, never seeming to do anything. Those who knew him but slightly assumed he’d gone terminally soft, a cobra coiled to long to strike again, a manipulator grown to used to manipulation to do anything else.

They never felt the sting of his bite, for he stung very rarely, and none who lived knew what had hit them.

An enemy cosmos was fast approaching Death Queen’s island, and there was only one thing to do about it.

"Commence the pogrom," he whispered to the wind, to the minds of his sacred troops, to the division already on the way. He was never one for mincing words.

Mike, the Heaven Hunter, looked up at his master lit by lava, and smiled proudly.

*****

Propellers. The smell of gas, of sweat, of fear. Nikolai looked around the cramped plane, and felt a flush of pride. These were his troops; these iron warriors were there to do his biding, to kill or die at his command. Drawn from the elite warriors of various gods, they were the first, probably the finest shock troops of this war that was just about to begin.

And he, the Water Hunter, was to be their leader.

"And I, Nizzar, East Wind of Ishtar, Babylonian goddess of Fertility, swear to take no rest until the abomination is destroyed or my bones are reduced to powder."

The last warrior hesitated a second before putting his hand in with the others. He was slender, his face hidden by a jackal helm that masked his expression. He was the only representative of the gods of Egypt in their alliance, and knew their faith was upon his shoulders. They did not agree with this war, but he had to fight to the upmost, to uphold a cause he didn’t believe in, so that the rest of Egypt would be safe.

"Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die."

For all their flaws, the english definitely had a way with words.

Finally, he stepped forwards, and placed his hand on top of the others. "And I, Dez of the Jackal, Falconer of Horus, Anubis and all the gods of Egypt, lords of the Nile, of Time and the Cycles of the Universe, I add my oath to yours. Until my body or my honour are reduced to shreds, I will be battling by your sides."

Nikolai put his hand on to top of the pile. "I seal this pact in the name of Nikolai, Water Hunter." He paused a second, looked at the six faces under his command.

"And may all the gods have mercy on Death Queen’s island."

*****

Ian’s eyes flashed with anger, seeming to dim even the glowing lava.

"Concentration camp guards, the whole lot of them," he whispered angrily. "They’ll do it, but only if someone else utters the order." The Heaven Hunter looked up at his master, reached up to take his hand, trying to sooth an anguish he couldn’t understand. Ian was normally so emotionless.

"So be it, as usual. The sin is on my head. And I hope some of them have enough sense to disobey me." He briefly scanned their minds again; the chances of that were depressingly slim.

"Master Ian," said the boy at his side. "Please... I don’t want you to be pained in any way. If there is anything I can do, you’ve just to say the word..." The Void Hunter ruffled his hand through his disciple’s hair. "That’s the problem, Mike..."

*****

Everything? How can you sum up your existence in a few words? Explain all your emotions, all your reasons, all your justifications? Pad out the bare facts to the point where no-one need ask "Why?"

Ares took a breath, and started: "It all began with a mistake I made in a cave once, and me trying to make amends."

He went through all he could, his war with Morte, his victory in the cave, the subsequent battle, Morte’s defeat, their banishment from the Sanctuary. Their arrival on Death Queen’s Island, and his time as her disciple, unable to tell the truth, gnawed by the fact he could not be honest.

As he spoke, he felt the events neatly fall into place, and for the first time, he understood Nachi. Writers did not just describe events, they re-defined, they created them even. It must be wonderful.

As he finished, quite proud of his efforts, he looked up at her again. She’d recovered her composure, and through her fading anger, he saw a hint of wistfulness, of envy for the adventure’s he’d had, the places he’d been. And with that look, he was certain she’d never left the island.

"That wasn’t too hard to tell, wasn’t it," she said, the beginning of an uncertain smirk on her lips. She looked at his face, and was taken aback by the deathly look it bore.

"What is it?", she said, then fell silent.

"Come with me, let’s leave," he said.

The pause lengthened. Finally, she understood him. He, a Saint of Athena, had told her, the Black Furnace Saint, of secrets that implicated not only him, but also others, his companions, his friends. He had put their lives in her hands. And that meant...

"Would you kill me if I didn’t leave with you?", she demanded, expecting him to avert his eye.

He didn’t waver. "Yes, I would," he said.

"If I promised not to tell?", she turned away, faced the sea. "If I swore not a word would pass my lips, if I walked away, would you strike me in the back?"

A hand grabbed her shoulder. She flinched, and listened to the low voice:

"Nachi, Bel, Ushio and Hawol. Yes. If I had to, I’d kill you from behind. My honour, my morality would demand it. Please don’t make me."

"Other people matter more than your honour," she insisted.

"My honour is what makes other people matter to me," he replied.

She turned to face him, knocked his hand from her shoulder, took a step back. "You see Ares," she said, "the truth will set you free. Now we’ve cleared the air, and we understand each other." Her cosmos started glowing, the blue-black aura vying with the light of the day. She concentrated, and suddenly the Black Furnace armour appeared between of them, splitting up, already covering her, some petals of roses still clinging to it.

The red armour was there almost as fast, released from Hawol’s cave as soon as the Horseman had realised the danger his friend was in. It covered Ares in seconds, making him look the warrior he hoped he was.

Gol wiped her eyes a last time. "I might as well say it," she said. "I probably loved you." She smiled. "Now prepare to die."

They threw themselves at each other, their tormented emotions finally finding release in hate. A smile played on both their lips just before the first impact; for here, at least, was something easy to understand, free of complications. Just the Fight, and nothing else.

*****

The rush of air. The first exhilarating few seconds, as the world clawed at you, and you fell, laughing at it. It never seemed to move, the earth, far down there, another planet, as you danced alone, just you and the wind. The ground would grow bigger, bit by bit, so slowly you’d have to stare at it intently to notice anything. Then suddenly, without warning, it would be rushing straight up infinitely fast, an express train with you as it’s only destination. A fumbling with the handle, a white canopy opening, a jerking at your shoulders, and you’d be floating down delicately, the mad tumbling just an insane memory.

Nikolai threw his head back, and laughed at the thrill. Surveying the scene, he counted the other parachutes. Three... Four... Five... And the East Wind was flying with his own powers. Good, his entire division was there. Seven sacred warriors versus one island. He grinned again. Love all. Nikolai to serve.

*****

"Purple Tornado!"

"Wind of Ashes!"

Like two dancers in a whirlwind, two destinies drawn together in concentric circles, Ares and Gol converging on the same spot.

His body filled with Cosmos, Ares twirled at incredible speed, hoping to get to close combat, hoping to catch Gol in the maw of his attack. For it was a true tornado; the first blow was just the start of a storm. Kicks, punches, elbows; Gol was caught in the twister, taking hit after hit, rebounding off her sombre armour or impacting on her unprotected flesh. The twister went on, surrounding her with a wall of flailing limbs. Till she was finally expelled, like a pebble projected from a wheel, propelled through the air at bone-breaking speed.

She flipped in the air, set up her legs to receive the impact, and landed... badly. One knee bent, nearly touched the ground. Straightened, bent again. Four centimetres from the ground, three, Gol the warrior fighting against Gol the being of flesh and bones.

Two centimetres. But still she refused to kneel, to give in.

One.

Finally, a supreme effort, mind triumphed over body, and her knee started to rise again. Satisfied with her victory, she lowered it suddenly, deliberately, planted it firmly against the hard rock, and let lose the Wind of Ashes.

Ares, who had been watching, bemused, barely had time to change his expression, as the black tornado enveloped him, roaring an eerie silence.

He saw her hands, as she twisted the winds like bed-sheets (he smiled at the image), sending burning cinders at him from every direction.

And yet... and yet... Nothing. He felt nothing; now and then, a faint spark of heat for a fraction of a second, like a timid and fleeting caress. The tornado made not a sound; in fact, it seemed to suck any other noise from the air. In his mind’s eye, he could see the burning, imagine the fire striping tortured and blackening skin from his soon to be immolated bones, his eye ball exploding, sending it’s burning juices everywhere, while his brain was torn asunder, shredded into burning fragments that fell from his grinning skull, but... in reality, nothing. Nowhere was his body touched, or his defences breached.

The power difference between them couldn’t be that big, surely?

Then he saw her posture change, she brought her hands together, a blue glow started appearing between them. Another blow was coming. He called his cosmos.

Or rather tried to. Sluggishly, a faint spark lighted his body, flickering as he fought to maintain it. In wonder, he started at the dark wind as it died down, and understood. It was not an attack like any other; it didn’t harm him, physically or mentally. It was far worse than that.

The gory images of himself consumed by the fire, he had thought it was his own imagination. He had been wrong. They had whispered to him that he was nothing more than lumps of organic matter; that his mind, his thoughts were unimportant. He was just carbon, like a tree or a shrub, and like them, he would burn, return to the ashes from whence he came.

How could a lump of carbon have cosmos?

"Spirit of Fire!" she screamed, releasing a torrent of flame in his direction. The burning mass bore down on him, far outshining the sun in its wrath.

The managed to get his indestructible shield in the way, just in time, and stopped nine-tenths of the blast.

The rest of it soared through him in a hurricane of heat, setting clothes, hair and skin alight, lifting him up and shattering him with incredible violence against the rocky cliff behind him. He heard a bone break, distantly, and fell, the rocks behind him still smouldering.

The impact as he landed was as soft as a caress, in comparison. As unconsciousness welcomed him into her sombre arms, he had time for one last thought.

The power difference between them couldn’t be that big, surely?

*****

The Master’s blood was boiling. Enemy Cosmos, all around, he could feel their presence, and it grated on his soul. There had always been shadows lurking, eyes hidden in the darkest corners, but this was overt, the island he had built, the island he had loved, was under attack. He didn’t know who, he didn’t know how, but of one thing at least, he was certain.

Ares was a spy. That was blatant now that he had inflamed his aura. And Gol was fighting him. Alone.

The Black Dragon roared, and the island roared back at him.

*****

Nikolai, still floating in the sky, cringed, almost as if he’d been slapped. And many, across the island friend and foe, cringed in symphony, as they felt the incredible aura race, coiling, through the blasted valleys. The fury of the dragon was upon them; few had ever dreamed of such power, or imagined the might of the Dragon released in full battle.

It skimmed over the rocks, bearing down on Ares like death itself. Nachi stopped, stunned; he was the only one who’d ever felt such power before. It wasn’t on the level as the Gold Saints, but... if they were the sun, this was the moon; what difference would that make to mere mortals like him?

The ancient dragon soared over the rocks of his homeland, the place he had built, hated and loved, searching for the Shield Saint. The rocks echoed with the symphony of his passage; and from the inside of Death Queen’s island, the doomed souls of the fallen black saints roared their support, lending their power to this dragon of rage.

And so he came at last to the small depression where Gol and Ares were having it out. A flicking of his eternal eyes as he took in the scene, body still flying forwards on the wings of the dragon. In the distance, a vague parachute. Gol, panting under the effort, cosmos fading from her, and Ares, shattered on the floor. A decision.

He pressed one toe on the ground and pushed, diverting his trajectory on the run. The Master soared into the sky, black cosmos flaming. Gol was evidently more than a match for Ares, he thought proudly; this parachutist, whoever he was, was obviously also an enemy, and would feel his wrath instead.

Another parachute swam into view, behind the first; he modified his trajectory a bit, so that the dragon’s fury would take them down both.

*****

A man died. His name is not important. Nor his hopes, nor his dreams, nor what he had been and would never be again. Had be feared death, had he accepted it, was he prepared, did he maybe welcome it? It had no importance. Epitaphs are a sacrilege, a lie, a way of pretending something could be saved. Nothing can be saved. A man died. His broken body swung easily in the breeze, suspended from the ropes of the parachute that had brought him to this place, and would bear him, gently, to the soil of Death Queen’s island that was now his tomb. The Black Dragon’s trajectory hadn’t even been deflected.

Nikolai saw the Dragon race from the dead body of his companion, and knew he would be the next. In a few seconds, he would also be a limp body, floating gently on cords of silk. An uncontrollable trembling seized him, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to face death with dignity, as the Master’s fist closed in on his face, all the power of the Dragon behind it...

Reality blinked. Ian, Void Hunter, appeared in the sky between the two combatants. His hand flashed in front of Nikolai’s face, dissipating the black strength of the Dragon by mere contact, and stopped the Master’s fist, grabbing and crushing it in one smooth gesture.

Ian spun in the air, his super-heated mind seeking an ideal landing spot for the Master of Death Queen’s island.

Ah... There...

He swung his arm, angling the body towards the place where the Earth Hunter was hiding. If ever there was test of the Earth Hunter’s loyalties, this would be one.

He didn’t even release his grip on the shattered hand, just teleported away, back under the volcano, letting the Black Dragon’s body continue on its doomed course.

And, back amongst the lava, Mike, Heaven Hunter, looked up at his master with pride and awe in his eyes. Ian inhaled deeply, sucking in the breath he had exhaled a split-second before. The air had not had time to move.

And when Nikolai cautiously opened his eyes again, all he saw was empty sky...

*****

The blessed darkness faded, and Ares found himself looking at Gol once more. Sluggish, his limbs refused to move. Still affected by the Wind of Ashes, his cosmos refused to burn. Ah, he thought cheerfully, light-headed from loss of blood, but there was a solution to this...

"Purple Tornado!" Instincts took over. His body and cosmos reacted instantly, a gesture honed so many thousands of times that it was part of himself. It would be the last part of him to go; he could still have invoked the Purple Tornado from his death-bed.

Twisting through the air, he bore down on Gol. She was initially too stunned by his sudden transformation from dying corpse to enraged tornado to react, but she managed to land a punch at the last second. He went sprawling, flying again through the air, landing at precisely the same spot.

Trembling, supporting himself on his shield, Ares painfully got back to his feet. A deep depression gripped him. He was the Shield Saint, all right. Nearly indestructible, destined for the protection of his friends, honourable, brave and endurant...

But not, when you came down to it, very strong.

The Purple Tornado was weak. Sure, he did not master it perfectly; there was a lot of improvement in the traditional attack; generations of Shield Saints had honed it to a level he could only dream of.

But still. Most saints developed their own attacks, or variations on their masters’. The Shield Saints’ had always stayed the same. It was the only attack that suited their philosophy; since their body was so strong, covered by an armour invincibly defensive by nature, they had always tried to use that offensively, shatter the opponent’s body on it.

The tactic of defensive Saints with no imagination. A tactic so basic it could never surprise more than once. And it was the only tactic he knew.

But, he remembered, he had once offered his body, naked and defenceless, to the greedy spikes in the Shield cave. He had overcome a torrent of lava, when even Gol had fled. He could win this.

And so he took a firm step forwards... and jumped back, as a foot brushed his head.

Recovering, he and Gol watched silently as a mangled corpse drifted down, landing between them, seeming to stand for a second, taking two steps in a grotesque dance, then collapsing to the ground, its parachute slowly deflating above him.

The silk canopy partially enveloped Gol, and the two adversaries stood still, the corpse silencing their adrenaline and filling them with the dread of their own mortality.

Shrugging of the canopy that covered her, Gol moved over to the corpse. She did not look at Ares, and there was a signal, and a trust, in that fact. Bending down, she turned the dead head, and closed its eyes as well as she could. Shrouding it in the parachute that had brought it there, she took Ares’ hand, and together, wordlessly, they looked upon the body of the man who had come to the island to die.

"Please say a few words," she whispered.

Ares smiles sadly, sweeping his gaze over the ruined cliffs and blackened soil. If ever there was a place for these words, here it definitely was:

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

They continued standing for several minutes, gazing deeply at the body that made them realise what the stakes of this fight really were. Then Gol turned, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then, wordlessly, still holding hands, they started punching each other...

*****

Just outside the main trainee encampment, Bel stood still, and waited, immobile. She was the only one that was.

All around her, people were running. Running, fetching their stuff, shouting, gesticulating, arguing and panicking. Many were bellowing orders, with the furious certainty of those who were terrified by their ignorance. No one had a clue what was going on.

She breathed in, and the world seemed to freeze, slowing down nearly to a crawl. The sky, the island, the noise, the ash, the expressions on the faces of those who knew nothing, and were hence irrelevant. All that faded to nothing, was washed away by the wind. She willed all that away, and nearly all was dark around her. She fought to keep her breath in, as the dull rumbling in her ears grew louder.

Finally, her mind’s eye beheld the situation stripped down to its barest essentials. People.

Slowly, she followed the relations she could find, who was looking to who, which ones were in control, which ones knew more, which ones knew less. The rumbling was threatening to overwhelm her; she couldn’t keep this up much longer but she saw...

The majority were ants. Ants panicked after the anthill had been crushed. So much fear, so much hate, so much anger... There was a trainee and a black saint, confused and worried, but trying to organise the rest somehow. They didn’t know anything either... One trainee, burning with inner fire, looking for an opportunity in this chaos, a loose cannon with an excuse to go on the rampage... A couple, loving each other, holding hands to prop each other up... Another couple, with the girl leading her lover away...

SHE knew! She knew something! Bel was certain of it. The darkness was nearly total now, all her being screaming out for air, but she ploughed on…

An important black saint, one of the Death Guard, staring numbly at the small group that were looking at him for guidance... A gang, grouped together in uncertainty, looking for a target to lash out on... A pair of black saints, with a strange white cross painted on their armour, trying to herd the masses somewhere...

They knew. They definitely knew, or thought they knew... No, they didn’t know. They had an idea, they had been expecting this, they were part of the plan, but things were starting to move faster than they expected, starting to slip away from even their control.

A few more unimportant ants, and, right behind her... Someone who would definitely know what was happening.

She finally let out her breath, and the world exploded into colour and movement. She allowed herself one second to gasp, then turned around. "What are you doing there, Nachi?" she asked.

The Wolf Saint was trembling, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He had faced death in battle, that was easy; but now he had responsibilities, he had people depending on him, and everything was spinning out of control. The Black Dragon was unleashed, and he was angry, the island was under attack, Ushio was behaving strangely... he was the father of this little group, and if he didn’t get them together soon, they would undoutably die, and there would be nothing he could do about it.

Still in Wolf armour, he burst out of the shadows. Some of the other fleeing disciples were looking at them strangely, but he definitely didn’t have time to waste on the foot-soldiers of this cursed island.

"What the hell’s going on?" she demanded.

"I don’t know," he replied. "Cosmos everywhere, I don’t know any of them, it looks like we’ve stumbled into the middle of a full out war!"

She gave him a look that clearly signified that if that was his only contribution to the conversation, she really didn’t need it.

"I think Ushio is connected with it somehow," he added, stung.

"Ushio? How?"

"He’s been acting strangely recently. Then this all started... Just after he left us." He saw the ideal occasion to ask her: "Would you get it out of him when we see him? It’s really important to know."

Doubt crept on her face for the first time. Seeing as she hesitated, he prompted her:

"You know how he feels about you."

She raised her eyes, her mind made up.

"I won’t," she answered. "I won’t abuse his feelings like that. He’ll tell us when he’s ready; we’ll just had to trust him."

Even as he started arguing with her, his heart was sinking. He’d seen that certainty before; a child, with a firm belief in good and evil, determined to do the right thing, come hell or high water. Nothing could break that.

He’d admired that in her before, but still he argued, pouring futile words upon the granite of her certainty.

He paused for breath a second; they were both getting flushed, and angry. Then he noticed that some of the disciples had stopped fleeing, and were forming a circle around them. In the sudden silence, the word "Sanctuary", floated to his ears.

He let go of Bel, cursing loudly for the first time in his life. The situation was totally out of control, and he felt his own self control slipping in the same way.

"What are you doing here, scum of the Sanctuary?" said a voice.

The sword of War was in his hand in a second, glowing with unholy light. He advanced on the circle of disciples, point first. They stepped back before him.

"Go," he said, his voice utterly cold. "Go, or I will end your lives this instant, and enjoy listening to your last breaths." A trembling of fear shook him; biting his lips, he transmuted that into rage. There was no doubt he would win, but he hated having to kill or even fight such children...

The disciples were stepping back more quickly now, some already fleeing. And it might have ended well, had not four black Saints appeared on the scene. They were warily circling each other, two with the Cross of Lorraine, the cross of Resistance, proudly emblazoned on their armours. Uncertain and angry, the four ex-friends had been on the verge of ripping out each others throats, when they stumbled upon an enemy they all could agree on.

"Scum of the Sanctuary!" one of them boomed. "I’ll use your blood to wash away the smell of your presence!" The four moved towards him, the disciples finding new courage by their sides. The mass advanced on Nachi as he slowly backed off. Still holding the sword aloft, he moved back to where Bel was standing.

"Go join them," he murmured under his breath. "They saw us arguing, they’ll think you’re one of them!"

A hand grabbed his ear from the side, twisted his head towards her. She planted a quick kiss on his lips, then turned back to face their opponents.

"Please don’t be ridiculous, Nachi of the Wolf," she said, loudly. "What gives you the strange delusion that a Asgard warrior will shrink from the fight?"

The white cosmos enveloped her, the first hint of frost the island had ever known. "Come on, losers!" she shouted. "All my condolences to your loved ones." She licked her lips.

Symmetry. All combats resemble each other; the rush of blood, the fear, the exhilaration, the blows, the final victory or defeat. Always the same. Some say it’s because there are only so many ways people can fight; others that we are all re-enacting the same mythical battle, cycle after cycle, life after life.

But this fight was to be much closer to Gol and Ares’, much closer than mere affinity of battle. For, like the previous one, this combat was interrupted by a figure falling from the sky. Suspended under the white canopy, it fell straight in the middle of the disciples, captivating all their attention, the symmetry nearly perfect.

But this one was alive.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, he raised his arms, and power flew out from them, shredding the parachute above him. As the last few shreds of silk dissolved in the wind, the jackal face turned and surveyed them all.

"I am Dez of the Jackal," he said, by way of introduction. "Your executioner."