Redemption

Chapter 5: ...Infinity of Victims

Dez gazed at the prone figures collapsed around him, and sighed. Another glorious victory, another proof of his unassailable power and loyalty, another regret to weigh him down on his deathbed. He moved towards the closest body, Nava of the Black Charioteer, and knelt down beside her, reaching out to check for a pulse.

And stopped, stunned beyond words. A grey cosmos was covering her, shining, glowing, growing. It was not the presence of the cosmos that stunned him, though; the Jackal was a very good judge of the strength of his own attack, and knew it wasn’t invincible.

But he recognised this cosmos, and it wasn’t that of Nava, it was the grey glow of the Wolf. Of Nachi.

His gaze darted around, looking at Nachi, Bel, Adrian... at all his adversaries. The same grey aura was rising from them, just as they were rising from the dust to their wobbly feet again.

"What the hell is going on?", Dez demanded, his voice coming truly alive for the first time. Here was something he didn’t understand at all; something interesting, in other words.

"Wolf Pack," Nachi murmured, his voice coming from far away. The grey auras glowing from their four figures grew stronger, seemed to fuse with each other, suffusing the place with their presence.

Dez looked, one after the other, at the faces of his four adversaries. Each one had a faraway look in their eyes, as if they were communing on some level beyond his comprehension. They all took a step forwards, seeming to move as one.

The Jackal Falconer feinted in the direction of Nava, the closest opponent. She took a step backwards, as the other three reacted simultaneously, throwing themselves at him. Dez flipped in the air, landing several meters away. The four wolves (that was how he thought of them now) had drawn together, but spread out again.

Dez modified his pose, taking the position to unleash the "Jackal’s Cry" on Nachi. This last just smiled, as the other three moved on Dez’s flanks. The message was clear; if he struck out at the Wolf Saint, the other three would hit him at the same second.

"What don’t you believe in, Dez?", Nachi asked.

The Jackal Falconer was ignoring him, scrutinising Dzeta, Charioteer and Lyre in turn. They all moved as one... As if one hand was animating them. One of them would move back, another would move forwards simultaneously. One would turn to the left; he didn’t even need to move his head to see another turn off to the right. None of them were standing still; they were always moving, always offering him a tempting flank to attack, always closing that flank as soon as he made a move. It was a maddening dance, played perfectly, without false note. He was not fighting four souls, but one, one that happened to be split into four bodies.

He shook his head in bewilderment. "How do you do it?", he asked Nachi.

"The Wolf-pack", this last answered, giving a nearly sacred intonation to that word. "When wolves come together, when they all follow the pack, they are far more than any on their own. A pack of wolves can bring down a grizzly bear, Dez. We have all accepted to fight together, to fight as one, to fight under me, the Alpha wolf. Because that is the only way you’re vulnerable, Jackal." Around his feet, Aria was starting to stir; the Jackal bit back a grim grin. At least he’d have a friend of his own soon. "It’s far more than a mere alliance," the Wolf Saint continued, "it’s a sword pact; we all move as one, because they trust me, the Alpha, not only to give us victory, but to ensure that none of us dies today. It’s all a question of trust, Dez."

"How... How can you have got so much trust in barely a minute?", the Jackal responded, craning his neck to follow Adrian, who was now moving in his back.

"We died, Dez." The other looked astonished; that much was clear. His eyes were still hidden, but all his body screamed incomprehension. "Oh, not from your attack," Nachi went on, his eyes still faraway. "We might have died from it eventually, though I suspect you pulled your punches. Again. No, the angel of Death himself cast his "Extinction" on us, wrenching us all from the land of the living. Saving us from your attack at the mere cost of our lives."

Nachi moved forwards again, tracing faint circles with the tip of his sword. He continued:

"And there, in the ante-chamber of hell, we talked. Simply talked. And, our backs to the wall, our existence ticking away, we made the oldest choice of all: to trust each other. Then the Angel of Death called us back, to face you once more." He grinned, not at the puzzled Dez, but at the shadows behind him. Hawol hefted his Scythe, and smiled back, before fading into the darkness once more.

"But you’ve avoided my question, Dez my friend." The Wolf stared down the Jackal, verbal vengeance on his lips. "What don’t you believe in?"

"What do you mean?" the other answered, doubt creeping into his voice for the first time. As a fighter he would never know uncertainty, but in verbal joustings he was vulnerable, and he knew it. And an intelligent author like Nachi was just the one to find the kink in his armour.

"You say you fight for a cause when I have none," the intelligent author continued, "you have a pride at your back where I have none. Fine, you’ve got me beaten. I have no-one I’m fighting for, I have a huge emptiness in my soul. But let me return you the question: who are you against? What are your limits, Dez? You decapitated a disciple to prove a point; would you have killed the Horseman of Death if you were Jabu? Are there any limits to what you’d do for your bloody cause?!? Would you kill every creature on this planet if it was demanded of you? I might not know Good, Dez, but you don’t know Evil."

The Jackal threw back his head and laughed. The sound, resonating out through his helmet, eventually reached their ears as a strange braying. Looking at his face, they were all shocked to see tears streaming down it. They were so shocked, in fact, they moved out of position for a second, rendering themselves vulnerable. The Jackal head tilted pensively in their direction, clearly signifying he had seen their mistake, but just as clearly that he was not going to take advantage of it.

"You’re right, Nachi," he went, still laughing and crying faintly. "I’ve never heard it in words, but you’re right. You can’t kill without hating you opponents, but I never hate, no matter how much I kill. I’m an empty vessel in the service of the gods of Egypt, and will serve them, even if they order me to burn the hearts of my friends on a bonfire to their glory. That’s why I’m on this mission," he paused, pensive again. "That’s why I was chosen, fighting for a cause I don’t believe in. Because one I do believe in ordered me to."

Tears drying now, he looked at Nachi almost fondly. The other returned his look, murmuring: "You know Dez, between the two of us, we might well make one complete person."

"Yes, Nachi, we might just. And now, unfortunately, I must kill you," he added, as if it was the most natural way to continue the conversation, "as the Alpha Wolf, as the strongest of my opponents, you must die."

The Wolf Saint shrugged, drawing a puzzled look from his opponent. "You know, Dez, the Alpha wolf is not always the strongest of the pack. The most tenacious, the best leader maybe, the one all others look up to for wisdom, perhaps," he allowed himself a private smile at that idea, "but the strongest wolf in the pack can be someone else entirely." He nodded at Bel, and asked: "Ready?"

"You bet!", she shouted. The grey wolf-aura that surrounded her grew stronger, then changed to brilliant white as she called upon her own cosmos.

"Black and Viking Tiger Claws!", she shouted, releasing both her fathers’ attacks at once. The claws, sharp and cold as ice, converged straight on the figure of Dez... but there was another figure standing there, Aria throwing her body in front of the razor-sharp claws, a human wall in front of the Jackal.

Blood splattered from a hundred small cuts, blood that was frozen before it hit the ground, where it shattered. And every stunned eye watched the scene, just as frozen.

Dez coughed, spitting out some more blood to join that which was flowing from the hundred of slashes the Northern Claws had ripped in his flesh. He turned round, and cuffed Aria violently.

"You idiot!", he shouted, "What the hell were you thinking of? A glorious sacrifice, giving your life for mine? I’m fast enough to avoid such a pathetic attack. Except when I have to protect some stupid young girl with a death-wish at the same time."

Aria just stood there looking at him, trembling and intact. She had so expected to die there; the shock of realising she was still breathing was intense.

"Dez...", she finally managed. "Our cause is worth dying for."

"Huh?" he said, anger fading slowly.

"You don’t believe in it, you said it yourself." She reached out, look his hand in hers, forcing a bond from her intense eyes to his. "Release the Jackal’s Cry at full strength, annihilate every living thing around here, me included. You’re all we have, Dez. Believe in us!"

The Jackal sighed, looking up at the sky, at the sun that just stared back and never blinked. Aria’s hand was burning in his. Not taking his eyes from the solar disk, he swung his arm violently upwards, propelling Aria towards it with awesome strength. With her out of the way for a few seconds, he would pour all his soul into the Jackal’s Cry, and scorch the earth; so when she fell back down again, they would be the only two left living.

At least, that was the plan; but as he took the position to annihilate Nachi and his pack, his eyes lighted on the horizon for a second, and he stopped dead.

His eyes were riveted on what he’d seen, erasing all else. Aria fell back to earth with a cry, but he didn’t hear it. Bel’s gaze searched for his, but he didn’t see it. Only one thing existed in his universe at that instant.

A huge plane was falling out of the sky.

*****

The plane was heading straight for Death Queen’s island. In its cockpit sat the best pilot in the world, hands resting lightly but lovingly on the controls. The moment the island had appeared before her, she had digested the view in an instant, stripping it down to the essentials. Possible landing sites, none. Possible crash-landing sites, none. And anyway, the plane was already beyond her control, sucked in by the mysterious forces emanating from the isle...

She took one look at the co-pilots and stewards in the cockpit. "Go!" It was an order the gods themselves would have obeyed.

Alone in the cockpit, she gently teased the joystick in every direction, feeling the movements of the plane, feeling the flow of the air that surrounded it, feeling the height and the wind, the entire plane an extension of herself.

She opened her eyes again. The island was still there, the glowing volcano the only thing that brought any colour to that burned-out land. Cliffs, gorges and ravines scared the surface, not a single flat expanse could she see. A crash landing was completely out of the question. So that’s what she’d have to do.

All planes have a stalling speed, a speed they cannot go under. If the plane hurtles through the air any slower than that, the wings no longer lift, and it falls from the sky. She was already well under this speed, reacting to the air as it flowed round the wings, round the fuselage, adjusting the flaps at every vibration, faster than the eye could see, feeding just enough power to the motors to keep them flying, bringing the speed ever downwards as she did. All four motors were screaming out in pain; the ones on the left, particularly, would not last more than a few seconds. Good.

She smiled, an unholy ecstasy flowing through her. The best pilot in the world gets bored flying perfectly stable super-jets for hour after uneventful hour over featureless oceans. Now here was a challenge forged at her level. Far beyond her level, in fact, but she’d give it her best shot. She angled the joystick...

The plane hit water. For half a second, there was the brutal strength of impact, all on the plane, even the pilot, filled with the cruel certainty that they would die... then the plane was free again, skimmed off the surface of the sea, their speed dying even more.

The plane hit the water a second time, as she used flaps, engines and every trick in the book, plus many she had just invented, to keep the impossible balance between flying and drowning.

It was out again. And it hit the water a third time, water soaring towards the cockpit... only the shear force of desperation saved them this time, she was sure. By all rights, the plane should not have lifted itself out of the water that last time. But it had, giving its last strengths just as she was giving hers. It would not survive a fourth impact with the water.

Fortunately, that would not be a problem, for the ground was approaching... still far too fast. She had angled the plane so it was heading straight towards the point where the river of lava joined with the sea, fire met water, shrouding everything with steam. If she’d calculated right... well they were only totally certain of dying, rather than absolutely totally certain.

Faith is an overused word. Mouthed comfortably on holy days, or shouted into the darkness to ward off the distant day of death. Sung in the epiphanies of saints who presume to live a "life of faith", or chanted by the soulless crowds who follow it blindly. That isn’t faith.

Faith exists only for the briefest instant, when someone stares into the abyss, sees the claws of death closing on them... and take a decision, trust yourself, your friends, your gods, your plane, and plunge into that darkness, eyes open, immerse yourself in it on order to emerge later. Trust.

She hit the reverse on all engines simultaneously.

They screamed, trying to tear the wings from this doomed plane. The first left engine tore itself from it bindings, and full of fuel, it fell towards the river of fire... at precisely the moment she had estimated.

It hit the lava and exploded. The flash tore through the bottom of the plane, killing three passengers outright.

The plane was flying far to slowly now for any trick to keep it in the air. Even the best pilot in the world could not keep it flying... were it not for the clouds of steam that boiled up constantly from this place, and the updraft generated by the explosion of the engine she had sacrificed.

She was flying on steam, flying two meters above molten rock (her shoes were already starting to burn; she ignored them), flying blind, flying the mental path from her memories of a minute ago, flying too slow to keep in the air but still so fast it would kill them all on impact with the ground.

She angled the joystick to the left, gently... a millimetre’s error here, and it would be all over. But her hands had never felt so steady. A great shuddering shook the plane as the right wing snapped precisely at the moment she had planned, falling behind them, deflecting their course down on of the short ravines...

They hit the ground. Hard. The plane screeched, the bottom of the fuselage ripping open like an egg, bouncing from rock to rock as peaks flew by them, too fast to see...

But she wasn’t finished. Yet. Some of the flaps still obeyed her, so did one engine, so did the remnants of the landing gear. Her control was slipping, but hadn’t disappeared.

The remains of the landing gear extended, snapped instantly, gouging the earth, killing their speed yet more and giving them a vital half meter. Her eyes were closed now; she was flying on instinct.

The left wing was gone... good... only the tail aileron could she move now. Like a virtuoso playing an impossible tune, she played with it, ignoring the impacts that jarred every second, ignoring her burning boots, ignoring her own heart-attack, as the plane spun, throwing some of the passengers out through the gaping hole that used to be metal... She played like a diva, impacting from rock to rock, from one near fatal impact to the next, mapping out the course she had seen in her mind’s eye from up there in the sky...

She coaxed the plane to a stop, planting her feet on the ground as it passed below, through the bottom of the torn out cockpit. She willed it to a stop, on the very lip of the lowest crater of the volcano.

And then, satisfied, she died.

*****

Ares lay in his tomb, in the grave that the spirit of fire had sculpted for him. It was a relaxing place to be, his limbs resting comfortably on the soft pools of molten rock, all the sharp edges melted away by the Gol’s fury. Even the burning sensation on his skin was strangely soothing, the pain a pleasant background sensation that numbed him pleasantly. He was dying.

He’d realised that the instant Gol’s attack had hit him. Half of his soul had been screaming out for her to stop, imploring her, but the stronger half had just watched, indifferent, as the Black waves had obliterated him. He didn’t believe in Fate, but it had still crushed him.

He was not giving up. He was just dying.

Already his mind was starved of oxygen as he breathed only the rasping, burning but strangely intoxicating fumes. Living is dying; every moment of our lives, our brain loses neurons, loses pieces of what makes us, and this destruction fuels our creativity. Ares was just living, in this sense, but a lot more intensely.

Fragments of his existence just vanished, dropping out of the universe, strange thoughts and special moments that only he remembered. And now, that no-one remembered. Huge holes were being punched through the fabric of his past, neatly erasing them. Soon he would be nothing, be reunited with Eleanor. He smiled. He had so much to ask her. So much to tell her.

Even the crash and the whip-lash of over a hundred nearly simultaneous deaths failed to rouse him much from his torpor. At the most, it made him want to savour these disappearing fragments of his personality.

His fight with Gol... so many pleasant memories there, as they had sweated and pummelled each other, flesh on flesh. But those were recent memories, they would be the last to die, he could savour them later. His mind turned to his first memory, where men had paid in blood the crime of being slightly rude to a five-year old kid... No, he didn’t want that... he was pleased to let that one die... His training, his Shaina, the most painful yet fascinating period of his existence... He could still hear her lecture, as they all nodded, and looked wise, and pretended to understand: "Cosmos is what gives a Saint his identity. At the beginning, it is unformed, it can evolve in any direction at all. As you power grows, it become more focused, more exclusive, it becomes the path that you follow..."

A numb rumbling in his ears... Somewhere within him, the deepest part of him was raging, was screaming at him to pay attention to his own thoughts...

*****

In the shadow of the dead plane, a man was kneeling. Figures were moving around him, passengers and crew ripped from their world of safety, blinking as they emerged from the death inside into the hell outside. There was no real screaming yet, just a few cries of the young and the dying, as the others stood, too shocked to think. The man ignored them.

He was staring at the ground in front of him. A bleeding three-year old girl was gazing up at him there with glazed eyes, thrown from the belly of the dying metal bird that had brought her hear. She was curiously serene as her life deserted her, drop by drop.

If she had been dead, it would have been easy. Dead children... a tragedy of course, but these things happen. Nothing you can do. He’d have just shrugged his shoulders, felt some pain, moved on.

But she was alive, still. And that was a terrible burden on all who were close. It placed a responsibility on their shoulders, bowed them down with the knowledge that there was something that they could, no, must do; they must do all they can to save this child. By being alive, she forced them to make choices, tore away all excuses at indifference.

And Remi, the Black Lynx, the moral saint, the secret chief, heart and soul of the resistance he had forged to save this island from itself, knew, kneeling before this child, that he would not save her. He had talked passionately all those secret nights about the need for restrain, for violence that was necessary but not blind. About never forgetting what they were fighting for. And he had believed them, and still believed them, to the core of his being, and had written those beliefs in letters of fire into the Cross of Lorraine, the symbol of freedom and humanity that united them all.

And yet he knew that he couldn’t save this virtual baby. Too much was at stake. The entire island was at war; the Master was dead, certainly, but too many of the black saints, on one side or the other, were running rampage without anyone to guide them. So many lives that had to be saved, so many lives that only he could save... But that meant that he would have to abandon this child to its fate, to its death.

"So it seems I really do believe that the ends justify the means, after all," he murmured, and, his soul reflected back at him in those words, he decided he didn’t deserve to live.

It was the cowardly option, he knew well. He was shirking his duties and his beliefs in every way; betraying every single living saint that trusted in him, and every death he had had to inflict. Angela and Alemon and all the others... he was deserting them, he was throwing in the towel in the most abject manner, he knew it. But all that was the past now; he could not go on living with what he now saw he was. What was a spot of cowardice in the mind of a monster?

Black cosmos started playing around his hand, as he brought it up towards his throat, preparing to rip it out. Then he would let himself die by inches, let the coldness and the pain tear him apart, savour his ending life.

A shadow fell upon the ground before him, covering both him and the child with darkness. Darkness in the shape of an angel with a Scythe.

"You’re a few seconds early," Remi murmured, eyes fixed on the shadow, still not turning round.

"I don’t want you," said Death. "I don’t want you now. People are being killed all over the island, and all you can think about is taking your own life?!? What sort of a man are you?"

"A monster," the Lynx saint answered, simply. "That’s what I’ve become."

"You can keep the self-pity, I don’t need it" Hawol responded. He judged that a bit of verbal brutality was appropriate here. "Give me information, instead."

Remi kept his eyes down, tracing the shape of the shadow of the scythe-blade, enjoying the image’s sharpness. "Are you ready to hear my confession, father?", he said. "Is there anything I could say that could shock Death? You know, Death, you have a very similar voice to that young hot-head we got from the Sanctuary. You know, the furious one who joined the Horsemen and went off to assault the greek Island. I wonder what happened to him. Do you know?"

A significant pause, before the Lynx Saint went on, keeping his eyes firmly lowered: "... but that’s irrelevant now. For me, at this moment, you are Death, and you will here my confession. That’s all that’s important." He shifted his weight, straightened his shoulders, as if he was deriving strength from his own words. "I won’t talk about the past, that’s dead and buried. I’ll talk about the now." He sighed. "There’s a fleet of ships circling around the island now, hundreds of small fishing boats, approaching, waiting. We’re evacuating the island, Death. Death Queen’s Island must end, the curse must be broken, but we’re saving all we can. There’s a place on those ships for every saint or trainee on the island." His fist impacted with the ground, drawing blood. "In fact, we should have finished the evacuation by now. The attack should have scared most of the saints away, and our people would have organised the runaways, get them off the island bit by bit. But it’s all crumbling to dust, our plan, our ideals and our lives. A real field day for you, Death."

Hawol winced at the bitterness in the tone, as it opened a raw wound in his soul. He had wondered about that when he had received his armour; was he just the symbol of Death, a powerful warrior with a cool name, or did he bear some share of responsibility for each life that ended? And as time went on, that worry had just grown, especially now, in the hecatomb that was Death Queen’s island.

"Why... why did you do all that?", he managed.

"To save humanity," Remi answered, his tone signifying clearly that that was the only answer the Horseman of Death would ever get.

Hawol straightened, giving his posture and voice a regal touch. If he was truly Death... well, he had powers as well as responsibilities. "Remi of the Black Lynx, you have a penance to do, to redeem yourself. And that penance is simple: save what you can. You have the ships, you command the resistance, you have the charisma and the brain. Save all you can."

Remi bent forwards, scooped up the bleeding child, and lifted her above his head, averting his eyes, holding her up like an offering. "Take her."

"You’re offering that kid to Death?"

"Yours to take, or yours to refuse," the Lynx said. "I’m not perfect. And I never will be, no matter how much I try. I can’t do everything. Do you know how hard it is for me to admit that, how much it tears at my heart? I’ll do what I can, but this child is yours."

Hawol hesitated. Of all the millions of priorities zipping around in his mind at the moment, worrying about a child who would probably die anyway was not even on the list. Why should he even bother, when there were so many vital things for him to do? He sighed. ‘Eternal probation’. I really hate you, Nachi, I hope you know that.

He lifted the girl out of Remi’s hands. Guilt, that’s all. I’m not saving you for any altruistic reason, little girl, just for guilt.

Released from the weight, the Lynx Saint seemed to crumple, closing in upon himself until the shadow of Death had faded well away. Then his mind fed determination to his limbs, and he rose to his feet once more, something he had never thought he would do again.

Many passengers had run from the stricken wreck, under the shock of being ripped from their pleasant boredom thousands of meters above the waves, peppered with expectations of friends, lovers or meetings to come, ripped out to this piece of hell on earth. Only one idea was left in their minds: Run! Run! To wherever! Just run!

The crew were nominally in charge, and could have prevented this mad stampede, had they not been leading it. All air-crew know that the pretty coloured cards and the inane safety routines were there merely there to reassure the passengers; no-one had ever survived the crash of a major airliner on the high seas. No-one. So they were just as unprepared as anyone. The captain could have guided them perhaps. But she was dead.

So about a hundred desperate human beings were fleeing blindly, straight into the middle of the greatest conflict the Island had ever seen.

But there were still a few milling around the wreaked plane, to scared or wounded to panic.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Remi called out, his voice firm and warm once more, the voice of a leader people would gladly die for. "May I have all your attention for a few moments?"

*****

The plane had nearly killed them. It had roared through the battlefield where Dez and his adversaries were facing off, ripped open, a metal coffin shedding sharp fragments of steel as it hurtled past, flattening everything in it’s way. A wheel strut, transformed into bullet-fast pike, had impaled the ground where Bel had been standing. A fragment of the wing had shattered on War’s sword, as Nachi brought it up to save his face, and a large chunk of fuselage, complete with passengers, had impacted with the ground, on the very spot where Aria had lain, burying her in a high-tech grave.

And the five survivors, Nachi, Bel, Nava, Adrian and Dez, were surrounded by the dead and the dying.

Only Dez had avoided the plane with a semblance of dignity; while the others had scrambled madly out of the way, he had gracefully soared into the sky, and landed again, perched now atop the piece of fuselage that was Aria tomb. He glanced downwards; about seven seats were still attached to this wreck, seven passengers still bound to them by the seat-belts that were their chains. About three dozen more bodies were strewn on the rocky floor, some still breathing, some even still screaming. Ignoring the howls, he searched for Nachi’s form amongst the wreckage. If he was to save Aria, he would have to get this damn combat over with.

He made him out. He was leaning on War’s sword again, rising to his feet, looking around him. His eyes met the Jackal’s, briefly. Dez put himself into position for the Jackal’s Cry. This time, there would be no pulling of punches, no wolf pack to save him. The Wolf Saint was finished.

Nachi just gazed at him, seeming to look both at him and within himself. Finally, he spoke:

"Ares truly is the soul of our group. When ever I want to take the easy way out, I just think of him, and I can’t bring myself to do it." With these enigmatic words, the Wolf Saint sighed, and turned his back to Dez. He reached down, and slowly started taking the pulse of the woman who lay bleeding at his feet.

"What are you doing?", howled the Jackal Falconer. "Fight me!"

"No," came the answer. There was nothing he could do for this woman, she was too far gone. With another sigh, the Wolf Saint moved on to the next body.

"You think you can avoid your fate by pretending to care for these people?" Dez screamed; he was really getting on edge now. "I’m a killer! Remember that!"

"Kill, then," Nachi answered, moving the unconscious passenger to a safer position. "You’ll never have an opportunity for such a killing spree again."

Dez flinched, as if Nachi had slapped him. "That’s unworthy of you, Lupus," he said, voice low. "I just want to get our fight finally finished so I get round to saving Aria and all these people here."

"Yes," said the Wolf Saint, dredging the caverns of his mind for half remembered lessons of first aid. "Yes, you’ll hit me. And if I don’t die immediately, Dez? And if my friends are still alive? Will you continue the fight, two sides battering each other for hours while everyone dies around them?"

Dez was on the point of answering, when he was interrupted by a cry:

"Black Tiger Claws!"

And a hundred cuts opened throughout his body, as Bel’s attack hit home, ripping at his flesh. Ignoring them completely, he spun to face the Northern Star, rage flowing happily through him. Here was someone he could fight, simply and easily. None of the morale agony involved in talking with Nachi.

But he was to be denied his easy target. Having let her attack fly, Bel lowered her hands, making her decision, abandoning the battle. "You see, Dez," she said, "we can’t kill you. And you can’t kill us quickly, either. Are we going to slug it out forever, as Nachi said, each one saying we’ll help these victims "once it’s over"? An eternal war that will leave everyone dead, because we’re too proud to stop?" She reached down and helped the youth next to her get back to his feet. Of all the passengers around here, he seemed the one in the best shape, and looked up at her in gratitude... a second before the "Jackal’s Cry" tore him to shreds.

"I am a killer!", Dez screeched. "I am a merciless murder machine! Now face me, if you don’t want me to assassinate every single living being around here!"

Bel just glared up at him, with a look of dark reproach, before dropping the bloody limb she was now holding, and moved on to the next passenger. As she and Nachi continued with their work, Dez just stood there, quietly sobbing.

And then, his eyes riveted to the ground, he climbed down from his perch, and mechanically started freeing some of the bound passengers from their seats, carrying them to flatter ground. And there, in the old tradition of triage, they split the victims into three groups. For each breathing body, they had but a second to decide its destiny, with god-like power. To hesitate any longer on one person that that would have been tantamount to murder for the others.

Three piles. Those who would live by themselves. Those they must help. And those they had not the equipment or the time to aid; those who would die. The bloody origin of the word triage. The third pile was the biggest.

Adrian had struggled to his feet, and wordlessly joined them in their task. Nava made as if to attack the Jackal Falconer, but Nachi just looked at her and shook his head, and there were four saints working amongst the wailing and the dead. Two of the less wounded passengers pitched in, making the transition from victim to saviour.

Mistakes were made, of course. Some died, who could have been saved. They wasted their time on some, struggling for minutes to bring back a spark of life, while other around them slipped away, unattended till to late. Some even, who would have lived, were killed when their saviours too clumsily tried to help them.

But all in all, they saved lives.

In the midst of it all, Dez and Bel brushed hands, as they were working on the same woman. Dez raised his face for a second, and the Jackal mask murmured: "Our duel isn’t over yet."

"Of course not," answered Bel. "I’m looking forwards to the end." A smile spread over both their features, as they remembered those care-free times when life had been simple, when it had all been merely a question of killing or dying.

Then they turned back to their work.

*****

The left wing ploughed through the ashes, drawing a deep furrow as it arced to its finale resting place, a monument to dead machines everywhere.

Nikolai contemplated it with the slightly quizzical expression that was his trademark. It had drawn a straight line on the ground, neatly separating him from Gol. He sniffed the air, curious. "Something tells me," he started, "that the situation has just got a lot more complicated."

He tipped his head at Gol, who was staring at the broken wing with total fascination. During her life on Death-Queen’s Island - which was essentially all of the life she cared to remember - she had never seen something so beautiful, so advanced, so purposeful. Even shattered, those intricate, connected parts gleamed and tantalised, promising mysteries and strange designs far beyond her comprehension. She wanted to see that wing when it was still intact. She wanted to meet the men who had made it. She wanted to see it fly.

"Ahem," Nikolai cleared his throat. Gol swung her still starry eyes towards him as he continued: "With this new event, my soldiers now need my guidance more than ever." He tipped his head at her. "Seeing as we have both finished off our opponents, madam, I feel we should get this combat finished as soon as possible."

"Yes," she answered. "Ares is dead." She sighed. "And soon I will be."

"That’s the spirit," the Water Hunter responded. "It will, of course, be quite painless." He knew that he didn’t have to kill her, that he could guide her towards the awaiting fleet, but he didn’t have the time. Not now, not when there was so much to do. And the way she was waiting there, limp... Death would be a relief for her.

Gol looked up at the wing tip again, at the intricate mysteries she would never know, and the cold fury gripped her again. What right did this stranger, this invader, have to kill her on a whim? And what right did she have to pine away to some romantic death because of some weak idiot of a Shield Saint? A dead weak idiot, moreover?

The black cosmos flared, far brighter than before. "Sorry, I seem to have made a mistake in that sentence," she shouted, wincing at the strength of her own voice. "Soon you will be! Spirit of Fire!"

The black wave rolled over Nikolai, seeming to set even the rocks alight in its path as it ploughed towards the Water Hunter... But Nikolai just smiled sadly, extended a hand, and blocked the attack. Then, with barely a grunt, he inversed the flow, sending the wave of black fire returning to its master, trying to fry Gol with her own attack. She jumped out of the way just in time, and landed, crouching, her hair smouldering.

Nikolai just shook his head, scolding a stubborn child. "Fire against Water," he said, "only one possible outcome." He waved at her. "Adieu! Harmony of the..."

"Pray help."

The regal call resounded, shaking them both out of the private world of their duel. It was not begging or imploring, no. It was a voice that had never begged or implored it its life, a voice of authority, a voice that requested and demanded. A voice made to be obeyed.

An elderly man stood near the entrance of the ravine, and looked them over, once. Though clad mostly in his own blood, or so it seemed, he had the regal air of absolute dignity that comes only with total, confident arrogance. Arrogance that was confirmed every day; he was born to rule, and he ruled. He was a Master of his own small empire.

Behind him, six younger men and women were crouching, more fearful.

"Help us, will you,", the old man went on, more a statement than a question. "We have just crashed on your island." They both just stood, staring at him, mouths agape. "In that thing," he continued, annoyed, designating the broken wing. "We were flying," he added, as neither responded.

"You... you dare?" asked Gol, her voice soft and hesitant. "You dare?!", she continued, gaining assurance. "You dare to interrupt us with your pathetic stories? My island is dying, fucker, and if you don’t leave soon so will you!"

The group behind him cringed, but the old man seemed unfazed. He smiled apologetically, half-bowing in her direction. "My apologies, madam, we did not mean to intrude, and I perceive we have disturbed you at an inopportune moment. We were merely hoping that you might be able to give us some help or guidance; a lady such as you must be well acquainted with the ins and outs of this place." His eye glowed like new-born suns as he said that, and Gol felt herself go weak at the knees and watery in the stomach. It was her first encounter with Charm, and this old man practically incarnated it.

His gaze flicked towards the Water Hunter, releasing her. "Sir?"

Nikolai was torn as well, burning inside. That voice... that voice, coming from an ordinary, cosmos-less human, yet he felt virtually shamed into obeying it. It was the voice of his teachers, the voice of someone who could always spot the flaw in your perfect exercise, the voice that told you to stop wasting everyone’s time and do as you’re told. The voice you always followed. No man should have such power on him!

"Yes," Nikolai finally said, after a long internal struggle. "Yes, we can help you." He strode over to were the old man was waiting, expectantly, and pointed behind him. "You see that rock outcrop there?", the Water Hunter asked, and as the man turned to look at it, Nikolai killed him.

Still sweating from the emotional efforts he had had deployed to kill the Voice, Nikolai murmured, sweating out his rationalisations: "I gave him a far easier death that he would have had at the hand of the Black Saints. And there isn’t enough room on the boats for all these new passengers... Stop!"

This was to the old man’s followers who, panicked, were running for cover.

"I said stop!" the Water Hunter shouted, and power flew from his fist, killing one of the women. "Come back here or I’ll slaughter every single one of you!"

And at that, they did. Trembling, wetting themselves, wishing they were anywhere else, but they did. The five survivors huddled together, quailing before him.

"He deserved that," Nikolai went on, talking far too rapidly, "treating us like that! More to the point, of course, such an old man wouldn’t have survived evacuation." He nodded sagely, visualising the huge strain that a few hours in a fishing boat could inflict on a sixty-year old body. "It was a kindness more than anything else. Anyway, you keep calm, and I’ll try to find you a place on the boats. But one of you moves... and I’ll kill you all."

That comment finally spurred Gol into action. She had stood there paralysed, ever since Nikolai had killed the old man. That gesture should have spurred her into action, but, to her shame, she hadn’t moved. It had gone so quickly, of course, that was what had stunned her. The surprise; she had been marshalling her forces, preparing herself; the sun was in her face, a disadvantageous position to attack from...

Her mind clamped down firmly on those rationalisations; she could face the truth, she was strong enough. She had been mesmerized and terrified by the Voice, by its power, by its authority; in her heart she had approved Nikolai’s gesture. Her conscious mind had screamed that it was wrong, that he was a civilian, an innocent... but her dark instincts had reacted far faster, nailing her to the ground, a consenting spectator.

"Stop that, Nikolai!", she screamed with a fury that was directed mostly at herself. "Have you lost all honour? How dare you?!"

"Sometimes you have to make these choices!" Nikolai shouted back, just as angry and unsure as she was.

"Yes. But this wasn’t one of those times." The voice was surprisingly calm, clinical. Ushio was levering himself back to his feet. "I’ve killed for a cause, I’ve killed in the heat of passion, I’ve killed because I had no other choice. But I’ve never killed because I was feeling uncomfortable with someone, Nikolai." Fully on his feet now, he regarded the Water Hunter with disgust. "You said I wasn’t worthy to face you, didn’t you? Well, it’s the opposite that’s true; you’re not worthy to face any of the sacred warriors. You’re not even worthy to look us in the eye."

"You died!", Nikolai screamed back..

"How could I allow myself to die when one such as you still breathes?" Ushio responded. "You’re very lucky I didn’t know what sort of monster you were earlier, or you’d have Poseidon’s trident buried in your throat as we speak."

"You think I don’t feel pain as well?" Nikolai said, on the edge of sobbing now. "You think I don’t regret what I did?"

"Then why did you do it?" the Steel Saint continued, implacable.

"I... don’t... know...", the Water Hunter forced out, tearfully, before the fury finally exploded from him: "Just go to Hell! HARMOMY OF THE OCEANS!!!"

*****

A hand cloaked in rags dipped down, hesitated, then plunged into the dead rib-cage, filled itself with blood, and rose again, drawing a ragged and bloody line on the naked rock. Another hesitation, and the makeshift brush dragged out two more segments, completing the arrow. An arrow of hope written in lines of blood. The hand paused for an instant, whishing it had a minute, an hour, to survey its own handy-work with the pride that it deserved...

"Over here!"

...but it was interrupted.

*****

"Over here!"

At the cry, Dez, Nachi and their companions looked up, searching the sky above them. Atop a rock spar, brutally spearing the blue afternoon heavens, a man clad in the remains of a co-pilot uniform was shouting and waving.

But he wasn’t waving at them, but at some unseen figure on the other side of the spar. He held out his hand away from them, all five fingers raised, and they could just-about make out his voice: "Five! Two black Saints, three weird ones. One cross of Lorraine. Lots of passengers, lots of blood." And, at that, the man was gone again.

They felt the earth tremble. There was no way on an ancient volcanic island of basalt, granite and broken shale, arrogantly lancing the eternal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean, that mere humans could ever feel the earth tremble under something as minute as foot-steps.

Yet they felt it tremble.

There is no way that over the cries of the dying and the even shriller cries of the living, that they could have heard a thing.

Yet they heard it tremble.

A strange army was approaching, bearing down on them with irresistible purpose. Behind these cliffs and ledges of rock, an invisible army was moving forwards, its ultimate goal: them. An army of unknown, and therefore infinite, size. Against such knowledge, mere human senses are nothing: the earth trembled, as they knew it must.

Distractedly, they turned back to their vital work, but their heart wasn’t in it; they could have just as easily sat back and watched the sky, it would have made no difference. What they were truly doing, even as they lifted bodies and resurrected breaths, was waiting. With sullen hearts and a painful ball in their stomachs, they were waiting.

Wait... mechanically check a pulse... Wait... move a broken limb to a more comfortable position... Wait... heave a heavy sigh, or a shout of frustration, at the death of one they worked so hard to save... Wait... move on to the next... Wait... glace up, give up, unable to stand the tension, sulk in such a petty way... Wait... filled with remorse, return to the job...

Wait...

Wait...

Wait...

And wait some more...

And so when the black clad figure finally appeared, stepping over the strewn boulders and smoking wreckage, they received him as a deliverance, almost as a Messiah. Their doubts and their waiting were at an end; whatever the situation was, they would know.

Seeing the figure, Adrian started trembling, and bowed to him incoherently: "Remi... Remi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry... I just don’t believe in the Resistance any more..."

Remi of the Black Lynx just smiled, and nodded, and took Adrian’s hands in his. "Don’t worry," he whispered, loud enough for them all to hear, "neither do I." He raised a hand, and a half-dozen black saints emerged from the shadows where they’d been hiding, coming somewhat sheepishly into the open. Another hand signal, and a caravan of people emerged behind him, clad only in misery.

Or so it seemed at first... but looking closely at the rag-tag band of ex-disciples and ex-passengers that made it up, Nachi realised he had misunderstood them. Yes, they were often bleeding, or stumbling along, or carrying the heavy bodies of the wounded between them, but...

There was a pride. There was a fierce pride in the eyes of these men and women, whether they had started the day on this island of Hell or in a luxurious airport air-conditioned airport; they were one and same. A sacred purpose united them all, now.

The Wolf Saint looked at Remi, and whistled; this man, this leader, had forged these desperate individuals into a family united by fate, given them a cause they truly believed in. They were doing something amazing, you could read it in their eyes, and they were proud of it.

Already, at Remi’s command, the ones who knew the most about first aid were moving amongst the bodies, lending a hand where they could, showing Bel, Dez, and all the clumsy saviours the best way to truly help. But already Remi’s eyes were back on the Wolf Saint.

"How many have a chance at living?", the Black Lynx asked.

"Uhm, around sixteen," Nachi responded.

"How many can walk, and of those, how many can carry others?" Remi continued.

"Uhm," stammered Nachi, sweating slightly, unsure of how to deal with such crisp, definite requests for information, "uhm... About eight and five, I’d say...", he hazarded, guessing.

Remi seemed lost in a little calculation, as he looked up at the sky and pondered. "Good," he said, finally. "We can take them all, we won’t have to leave some like last time." Nachi shivered slightly, imagining what that must been like, taking such a horrible decision... then snapped out of it, remembering that he himself had been taking such decisions constantly over the last hour.

Remi turned away from him, not wasting any more words when time was of the essence, and started talking directly to the wounded. And, Nachi knew, his work was now finished. Oh, he might still lend a helping hand or carry a wounded body, if asked, but the crushing mantle of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders. His mind shut down all at once, cashing in the debt it had accumulated when it had allowed him these hours of razor-sharp intensity and emotional resilience. Nachi was exhausted.

He could but stand there, mouth agape, listening to the distant swell of the sea, and the occasional disjointed sounds that his ears plucked from Remi’s speech... The whole thing just washed over him like a forgotten dream, but he did make out some fragments... "Ships", "saviours", "a few hours", "help others as we have been helped", "living" and especially "together" were recurrent words.

But whatever the words, there was no mistaking the expressions on the faces of the survivors, as they went from sullen despair to faint hope to missionary zeal. Remi had worked his miracle yet again. As his ‘troops’ started organising themselves, he looked around, and dipped one of his bandage-clad hands into a pool of coagulating blood upon the ground. Then, as Bel and Nachi watched, feeling vaguely sick, he proceeded to paint the following message on a prominent piece of fuselage: "Safety", followed by a large arrow pointing out to sea.

All this had taken fifteen minutes, from when the co-pilot had first discovered them, to the moment Remi finished the last stroke of the arrow. This efficiency was slightly terrifying, made possible only by the extreme need.

"Ok, scouts, move out!", Remi called, and six of the sprightlier survivors trotted away, fanning out, their faces suffused with the traditional certainty of the éclaireurs that their job was really the most important of all. As it indeed was.

The Lynx Saint surveyed his band, and noticed that even with the scouts dispatched, there were still two able-bodies men unburdened. So he nodded them over to the pile of dead bodies, and they picked one up each, averting their eyes from their own load.

Bel raised her eyebrows, not understanding why they were burdening themselves with these corpses. Remi just shrugged, and answered her implied question: "Paint," he said.

Her expression of total horror caused him to continue: "It’s all we’ve got to leave messages with. Blood, shit, other bodies secretions... that’s all we have to work with. Piles of stones are to uncertain, they could mean anything. If a single living person sees these messages and follows them to safety, it’ll be worth far more than any disrespect to these bodies that are dead." Seeing that her expression failed to soften, he reached down and passed his hand several times over the vacant stare of a corpse. "See?", he said, "Once the soul is gone, there’s nothing left."

And with that, he called out to his little group, and they all set out, following the direction of the arrow. He looked back at Nachi, Bel, Dez, Nava and Adrian, really looking at them for the first time. Also for the first time, they could think clearly, and they realised that Remi’s speed of action was part of his strategy; they had gone along with him before they had time to think about it. He had forced their co-operation simply by acting as if they had already given it.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning at them either. He simply nodded, and said: "Thanks for your efforts."

Another pause, and then: "Will you come with us?"

Dez and Bel looked at each other, then back at Remi. Bel shook her head sadly, the others agreeing with her. "Go," she said, "we’ll catch up with you. There’s something we have to finish first."

Remi was already turning away before she had finished speaking. In a couple of firm strides, he had reached the gorge his little army had disappeared into. Still not turning round, he waved a slow arm back at them before disappearing himself, his mind on his mission once more.

For two long minutes they just stood there, gazing emptily forwards, under the shock of this man who had entirely shifted their fates and futures in that quarter-hour.

Dez was the first to speak: "He truly is... extraordinary."

Then the Wolf reached out, and rubbed the Jackal softly on the shoulder. "You’re not as bad as you like to believe, Dez," he said.

The others were less restrained, Bel, Nava and even Adrian embracing the pair, all five drawing closer, tears and emotions bursting from their worn-out bodies as they clung to each other, the tension finally exploding from them. They had been through a hell far worse than any they had even imagined before, and now it was over. Even though they were still surrounded by the dead and the dying, their hell was over. There was nothing more they could do; they were free. Even Dez allowed himself a smile.

The moment passed. They broke the embrace, and shuffled back self-consciously. They gazed more at the ground than at each other, unsure of what to say. Finally Dez spoke.

"Shall I start?", he asked, softly.

Bel just nodded, wordlessly. Then Dez released the "Jackal’s Cry" straight at her. The massive wall of air slammed into her at full brunt.

*****

She sat, and gazed deeply into the mirror. Not that there was anything for her to look at, of course. Any mirror angled at her face could reflect one thing only: perfection. She knew this, accepted it with neither excess arrogance nor false modesty. All around, her temple was filled with artifice, light beams jumping delicately from sharp colour to shard of colour, imprisoned for an instant in the gurgling springs that sang, then leaped through the delicate incenses and perfumes that gave a subtly erotic tinge to the mellow breeze, before alighting ultimately on the most desirable destination for any light-beam: Her.

Mighty Aphrodite, Venus of Love; far too many had lost their mind to her ferocious charms. Like her palace, she was covered in all the artifices of civilisation; and like her temple, these refinements served merely to emphasise the raw, beating heart inside. Love was the only child of nature that had not only survived, but thrived within the palaces of civilisation.

Naked innocence or the refined, languorous gazes of the courtesan; Love was one and the same. Eternal. Brutal.

No, she was not gazing into a mirror to fix her features once more in some vanity-filled mind; she was gazing into it to test the mettle of her visitor. So far, for over half an hour, he hadn’t moved at all. Though Love and Beauty were enthroned before him, carefully ignoring him, he had not moved at all.

There was nothing she had to fear, of course. The outer circle of her temple were guarded by the Maiedras, her sacred prostitutes. They were not warriors, of course, but they had other tricks, which they had spent just as long perfecting and refining. Though she despised the crassly manipulative aspect of Love (the dance was much better played between two equal partners tearing at each other), it had its uses; and she could be sure that no visitor, especially a male, could ever make it this far without being totally under her control.

"What is your name, little one?", her voice purred to the wind.

The figure didn’t lift his head, still staring intently at the ground before her feet. "Ian, Void Hunter," he answered, his voice strangely empty of emotion. "Messenger from Parvatti, Indian goddess of love."

This perked her interest for the first time; she drew in a scented breath, then released it. "Really?", she said. "And what does my lovely asian counterpart want with me?"

"The message isn’t from her," Ian went on. "It’s from me."

And with that, Aphrodite was aware for the first time of a false note. Nothing major, nothing to ripple the surface of her certainty; but some deep ancient instinct, as old as Love itself, was whispering that something was amiss.

"What do you... require of me?", she answered, letting amusement drift into her voice at that ludicrous idea. A human demanding something from her!

"I require neutrality," Ian went on, not missing a beat. "Neutrality from you and the other gods of Olympus. The Seal is in danger, and we will protect it. But for that we need you and the other gods to keep out of it."

Not for the first time, Love trembled and hesitated; for the first time, Love felt uncertainty and true fear. Something here was threatening her, and that very idea was so diffuse yet at the same time so powerful that her mind trembled when she tried to contemplate it. Threaten... her?

And like so many in human history, she traded that fear for rage. One of Love’s twins was Violence, sharing with him the heart of man. So Mars, the god of War, and all his berserkers, when they dreamed of anything else but slaughter, dreamed of Her. One of the berserkers had even incurred Mars’ wrath by dedicating to her his scimitar, his sacred weapon. Mars had killed him, of course, while admiring and envying the gesture. He had calmly accepted death for the honour of looking upon her true face.

Her fingers closed now upon the hilt of that scimitar, consecrated by the sacrifice of its owner, and she swept it in a holy arc, all the divine force of a living god behind it. The ground split asunder where Ian had been kneeling, the Void Hunter sailing through the air, barely avoiding her wrath. When he landed, he knelt down again, eyes averted as before.

"And how does a man like you dare demand such a thing of a goddess like me?", she demanded, her voice filled with all the fury only Love could master.

"A man such as me? Indeed. If the Seal breaks, there will be many men such as me. Many evil men, barbarians bowing to no-one, more powerful than the gods themselves. Men who will fear nothing, men drunk in the cup of their power. If you don’t help me now, there will be many such as me; and they won’t ask, they’ll take."

Aphrodite smiled, her fury fading to amusement once more. She knelt down close to Ian’s ear, let him smell her breath, and softly whispered: "Do you think I’ll ever have anything to fear from a man, little one?"

The effect on the Void Hunter was immediate. He turned read, all his capillaries bursting simultaneously under the emotion. He started sweating, his heart pounded, and his crotch bulged painfully. Aphrodite passed her arm under his chin, lifting his face to look into his eyes for the first time. "So tell me, little man, what do you think? Do you desire me?"

"More than anything else in the world, of course," his voice, unlike his body, remained totally detached and emotionless, as empty as his eyes. "But..." he shrugged, "duty comes first. So do I have your agreement or not?"

It was the shrug that did it. His body, his hormones, all his instincts lusted after her; yet his mind had controlled those urges, controlled them to the point of producing a shrug, that supreme gesture of total indifference. She reeled from that blow, a huge chasm starting to open in her soul, as she saw for the first time the limits of her powers.

It was not rage. Aphrodite was far too confused for rage to have a grip on her soul. It was instinct, maybe, part of her body acting without stimulus from the brain. The hand that held the scimitar lifted it, distractedly, and swung down towards Ian’s neck. Though nonchalant, the scimitar still had the power of a goddess behind it, an entity hundreds of times more powerful that the mere Void Hunter...

It stopped. Something was in the way. Or rather someone. Elemora, one of her chief Prostitutes, had thrown herself in the way. The scimitar trembled, but stopped, as Aphrodite regained control of her arm.

"Please, your highness," Elemora implored, her voice trembling, her eyes averted but her body unmoving. "I won’t ask you to forgive me, for what I have done is unforgivable. But I implore you to listen to him; only he can prevent the great disaster threatens even you. Please listen to him..."

Aphrodite let her eyes swing from Elemora to Ian and back. Ian was as expressionless as ever, but Elemora...

Love. That was what it is, She of all people could not be mistaken. Elemora, her sacred Prostitute, who had known many men and women in her young life, was deeply and passionately in Love with Ian, a man she had seen for all of ten minutes. In her own temple! How was that even possible?!

Ian spoke then, answering her hidden question: "People. You might now love, Aphrodite, but I know people."

And looking into Elemora’s eyes, Aphrodite could not doubt that. Even when she’d heard what Ian had said, she hadn’t flinched. Even before her goddess, before Love incarnate, she would protect a man who confessed to using her and wouldn’t even look at her.

A man like him... how many were there across the world, across the six billion souls of humanity? How many of these monsters? She felt her fingers going limp; her entire being going limp. And if the Seal were broken...

"Why me?", she managed, her voice suddenly as dead as the Void Hunter’s itself.

"Divine armies," he answered, his voice calm and clinical, "Zeus will never dare march openly against us. That leaves Hephaïstos, your husband, and Mars, your lover. You have influence over both of them."

"There’s still Artemis, and Apollo, with their troops..." she managed.

"Few troops, and I’m counting on you to convince them," he said, hammering the last nails firmly in. "I’ll help out if you have any trouble with them."

A last surge of rage, a last gesture of defiance, and the scimitar swung, avoided Elemora, and stopped, quivering, on Ian’s neck.

The Void hunter hadn’t even moved, this time; he knew she wouldn’t complete the gesture. Aphrodite trembled again; was she not even going to be able to salvage a small piece of her pride from this confrontation?

"Tell you what," she continued, her voice soft and low, as assurance crept into it again. "I’ll do what you want... But there’s a condition. Aphrodite requires a sacrifice on her level." She smiled; this would dent his bloody certainty, for sure. She was curious how he was going to talk his way out of this one... "I require... your life, Ian."

Ian acknowledged this with another of his infuriating shrugs. "Of course," he said. "I can’t give it to you right now, my presence is still required on the battle-field. But I have already made arrangements with her majesty Parvatti; my head will be delivered to you within a month, as soon as the war is over. Is that all?"

Outthought... Outthought, outguessed and humiliated. No escape at all. She had lost on every level. Whether he actually intended to die or not was irrelevant; his to decide, hers to obey. Ian reached up, and gently took the scimitar from her unresisting hand. A man like him...

If there was even one other man like him in the world, it was too much. She would do what he ordered, without a shadow of a doubt. For Love’s soul was broken.

*****

Mike stood whistling at the sun as Ian emerged from the temple of Love. The Heaven hunter’s face lit with a huge smile as he saw him.

"You made it, master Ian!" he shouted, enthusiastically. "And you got the scimitar as well! Mission accomplished, master?"

"Indeed," he said, turning his face to the sun.

*****

"Just go to Hell! HARMOMY OF THE OCEANS!!!" But Nikolai’s fury and uncertainty were far too high; he was unable to maintain the concentration, and the Harmony of Oceans fizzled out.

Barely pausing after the failure of his attack, he strode straight over to Ushio, and shattered the Steel Saint’s helmet with one angry fist. Ushio’s bloodied face collapsed to the ground once more, and Nikolai stood over him, breathing heavily. A flicker of movement attracted his attention, and he lifted up his tired gaze, surveying the scene once more.

Gol was still staring at him, confused. There was also the very slightest hint of empathy there, deeply hidden; she despised him, but she understood him. His gaze flicked onwards. The five others still hadn’t moved, nine fear-filled eyes following his every move. That was good; nothing was amiss there... Nine!?!

He stared back. One of the passengers was blond, and he definitely didn’t remember that being the case a few minutes ago... And still he could count only nine eyes gazing up at him...

"Ares!", Gol shouted.

The Shield Saint stood up slowly, towering over the four passengers in front of him. He took a few uncertain steps forwards, protecting them with his body. He wasn’t wearing his armour, but though his body was battered and bloodied, it was far less damaged than it should have been after receiving the brunt of Gol’s fury.

He smiled timidly at her, as an expression of pure joy passed over her face. Now it was Nikolai’s turn to feel uncertain as to what he should do. He hesitated, took an uncertain step forwards himself... and stopped and smiled, a vice-like hand gripping his ankle. Ushio again. His glazed smile grew wider. That man would never take no for an answer. He could turn around and kill the Steel Saint in an instant, of course; but he chose not to. This would give him an excuse to stand away from the Gol-Ares confrontation and just watch, letting him get a handle on his thoughts again.

He hazarded a backwards glance; apparently the effort of clutching at his foot had been too much for Ushio, and the Steel Saint had fallen into unconsciousness again. Nikolai shrugged, then sat down on him. The Steel Water armour was surprisingly comfortable, and he suppressed a trembling as he sat down, forcing himself to relax, to calm down after these few hellish minutes.

Gol was running towards Ares, skipping even, joy filling her heart and limbs. The Shield Saint moved away from the passengers laterally, removing them from the firing line. Gol jumped even higher; she seemed on the verge of bursting into song. Half-way to Ares, she shouted with glee: "Spirit of Fire!", and let the black flames leap at him.

Ares’ cosmos burned, flaring high... then slowly diminished. "Cosmos is what gives a Saint his identity. At the beginning, it is unformed, it can evolve in any direction at all. As you power grows, it become more focused, more exclusive, it becomes the path that you follow...", Shaina had said that, not realising (or had she? With such a woman, you could never tell) that there was another side to that coin: As your power shrinks, it loses its shape, it loses its focus, it’s identity, it becomes like a child again... A child capable of evolving in any direction...

"Spirit of Fire!", Ares shouted, letting his own fire loose to do battle with Gol’s. It was not as strong, of course; he could not let loose with the same power as someone who had dedicated their entire life to the Flame. But it served its purpose, Gol was so surprised her attack faltered, and Ares’ Spirit of Fire cut straight through it, impacting violently on her chin... a second before Ares’ fist did as well. She was so stunned, she barely had the time to sweep the Shield Saint’s legs out from under him, before collapsing on the ground like a ton of bricks.

The two just lay on the ground, dazzled, gazing first at the deep blue, nearly purple, above their heads, then at each other. The two reached out for each other, timidly, huge smiles beautifying their faces. Their hands clutched, each feeling the heat of the other. "This is so fun, no?", Gol murmured, and Ares nodded, just before they traded blows once more. They both lay back, still hand in hand, their bodies tingling with the contact of the other. And the roar of battle, of adrenaline, and the rush of hormones and emotions; all these were bringing them to the verge of ecstatic feelings they barely knew existed.

Ares was the first to emerge from his trance, stealing a glance first at Nikolai, still sitting on the poor Ushio and watching them, then at the four remaining passengers, still crouched helpless and hopeless in the same spot. He looked back at Gol, shared another moment, then said:

"There’s got to be a way of getting rid of this tension that doesn’t involve killing each other in the process."

Gol paused for a moment, giving his statement the deep reflection it merited. "Well, there is sex," she finally said.

Another pause.

"Yes, that would be the obvious thing," Ares allowed.

The thoughts of both of them were running on nearly identical lines. Children are always convinced that sex is simple, that they understand it. The mechanics are easy to grasp; as for love, that’s just like being a best friend, only a bit more so. Those who were lucky enough to have a television to lighten up their childhood, had been exposed to hundreds of movies and images that, horribly simplified and saccharine though they might be, at least proclaimed one thing very clearly: sex is not simple.

But Gol and Ares, uncorrupted by these ideas, just emerging from a childhood of battles and blood, clung helplessly to one idea: sex is simple. In their hearts, in their loins, they both knew this was wrong, but their minds were desperately blanking out that knowledge. He/she is my friend; sex is a pleasant thing to do; whatever more could there be to it?

Gol tried out an experimental caress on Ares cheek, couldn’t maintain it, turned it into a punch instead. Ares went the other way, his first blow to her throat giving way to a soft stroking motion under her chin.

Their gazes darted all over the other’s bodies, alighting for an instant on each others eyes, before turning away immediately. It was obvious that they were going to kiss; each was just waiting, whishing that the other would take the initiative, do everything so they could just lie back and let it happen.

When it became obvious that each of them would have to do their share of work, they both straightened up, brought their faces close to each other. There they paused for a time, savouring the breath of the other, enjoying each other’s smell. This was so much more pleasant than what was about to happen next...

Finally they took the plunge, first bashing nose against nose, but, eventually, rolling their eyes, they locked lips.

It was a currently leathery feeling at first, just a piece of flesh pressed against their lips, and they held the pose for a few moments, emotions broiling but confusion wining out, unsure what to do next. Ares raised an experimental hand to Gol’s face; Gol slipped an uncertain tongue out through her lips...

"Ah, the things you see when you don’t have a camera," Nikolai’s sardonic voice broke in. They broke the embrace simultaneously, somewhat relieved at the interruption.

The Water Hunter was standing up now, and had easily shaken off Ushio’s death-grip. His self-confidence had returned, and with it his certainty. "Since it seems you’ve decided to make love, not war, it seems I’ll have to do the killing myself." He smiled at his cultural reference, a reference that sailed straight over the couple’s heads. "Again, nothing personal, you understand. In fact, if you surrender, I’ll let you live. It would be a shame to waste such young lives, not counting that of the baby that’ll join you soon. That’s useless, I’ve already told you," he said, catching Gol’s ‘Spirit of Fire’ easily, and sending it straight back at the flushed Furnace Saint.

Ares meanwhile, had looked up at the four civilians. "Run!" he said, and they were off like a shot. Nikolai didn’t even bother to make a move, the new, sardonic Water Hunter now totally indifferent to the fate of these non-combatants. In the rush to be away, one of them tripped and brought down a the guy in front in his fall, their heads impacting on the rocks simultaneously. The woman looked back as she was running, hesitated a second, then rushed over to them. Her companion, meanwhile, disappeared without a backwards glance.

She grabbed one of the prone forms under the arms, and started dragging him away. But she had not the strength or maybe the desire to save the other one; so it was, that after the pair had disappeared themselves down a canyon, there was still one civilian left upon the battlefield, quietly bleeding to death.

Ares stumbled over to him, leaving Gol momentarily to deal with the Water Hunter. But Nikolai disposed of her with an irritated twitch of his finger; he was starting to get bored with the whole set-up.

So as Ares knelt over the wounded form, he smashed a flurry of power straight into the Shield Hunter’s back, winding him.

"C’mon, fight me!", he said, as Ares turned to face him once more.

"There are more important things to do first," Ares answered.

For all answer, Nikolai sent another wave of power to hit Ares’ un-armoured figure. As long as the civilian was at his back, he daren’t move.

Another wave... "Leave that..." another wave, another blow... "idiot..." another wave... "alone!", Nikolai shouted. "He’s already dead anyway!", he said and sent a huge ball of energy to impact straight on Ares’ chest. Ares spat blood and fell to his knees, but held his own.

Nikolai prepared another huge ball of pure cosmos... "Wait!", shouted Ares. "What if we surrender?"

The Water Hunter stopped, stunned at the idea. The Shield Saint went on, forcing every word out painfully: "If we surrender, will you let me save him?"

The agony of indecision was written plainly on his one-eyed face. The fatal word had been said. Generations upon generations of Saints raged at him, the unbroken continuity he was shattering.

Surrender... unthinkable... The implied cowardice was nearly too much for his pride to bear. Throughout history, all saints, from the most generous to the most brutal, had shared one overriding certainty: better to drown in an ocean of blood, that to take one step backwards. After all, why live, when your only purpose was to fight, and you’d proved you couldn’t do that? What sort of life would that be like?

The strength of cultural conditioning is immense, and irresistible: it can overcome every human instinct. It dedicates ordinary humans to a cold life of celibacy, it makes a mother smile as her son is slaughtered, it makes speaking mere words into a capital crime.

It can even overcome the survival instinct, the very urge to live. The trick is easy: given a choice between life and death, make that life worse than death itself. Then no-one will ever retreat. Such is the way of the warrior.

But Ares’ own sense of honour was stronger than his pride and his shame; humiliation and disgrace were a small price to pay for an innocent life.

Nikolai took a few moments to think the idea through, then gave Ares a sneer that hit him straight in the guts. "So it’s all out in the open now, mister brave knight?" He turned to Gol, who was struggling to her feet. "Well, madam? Do you go along with this? Also surrender to me, to the conqueror of your pathetic island?"

"No fucking way!" was the answer, exactly the one they had all expected. "See?", Nikolai said to Ares, flicking a water-ball at him.

The thought patterns of Ares went along these lines, as the water-ball soared towards him, bearing down with all of Nikolai’s power: Gol will never surrender, not after the death of The Master, not to save someone she doesn’t even know... And I will never let her die, I will never let myself give up if she fights on... All lives are equal, that’s what I’ve always believed, but I still won’t trade this man’s life for hers... Not a hundred lives... Nikolai just wants the fight... He wants opponents, he doesn’t care about this man... He’ll keep on hitting me until I die or accept the battle... Either way, Nikolai is right, this man is already dead... Not because of fate, but because Nikolai has decreed it, and I cannot reverse that decree without fighting... And if I fight, this man dies anyway... Now, could I justify what I’m about to do to this man’s mother?... Could I tell it to her, to her face?...

Yes, Ares decided, as he leapt out of the way, and let the water-ball impact on the civilian’s body, shredding it. Even as he was in the air, Ares called up his Cosmos, flared it high... then let it drop... Once more, he was standing on that unformed cross-roads, where Cosmos was born, where it chooses, where destinies are forged. He chose.

Ares extended his hands the instant his feet touched ground, not even waiting to find his balance. "Harmony of the Oceans!" he shouted, hitting Nikolai with the full brunt of his own attack.

The seven geysers of water shot up, Nikolai caught in the central one, as the other six raced above him, headed their meeting in the heavens. Ares stumbled to an ungainly crouch, trying to maintain the power as he did so.

The central column of water faded, leaving Nikolai in free-fall, still rising... Then the other six turned round in the sky, and bore down on the Water Hunter with all their might...

Ares and Gol, looking up, knew what Nikolai was feeling, from their own suffering at the hands of his attack. First, the blessed feeling of freedom as the central column released you, and you felt you were floating on air... Then the sudden, limp realisation that you were floating, yes, but hundreds of meters above the ground... But before you had time to really think that through, the ton of water that smashed into your back, banishing every thought... then, just as you struggled back to conscious control, half a second of pride that you had managed it before utter fear replaced all, as you saw the ground hurtling up at you... Just enough time to scream, and then...

Nikolai impacted with the earth, so hard he shattered rocks and bounced up again. The second fall was less ungainly than the first; he managed to land kneeling rather than sprawled.

And his face was purple with rage.

He was on his feet again in an instant, ignoring a broken leg as he faced them, and shouted:

"I will rip out your heart and all your internal organs one by one, Ares, and feed them back to you. Then I’ll rip away what remains of your face, and present your lips to Gol, see how she likes them then, before skewering her! I’ll teach you to blaspheme against the Oceans’ Harmony, against my father and his father’s before him who handed it down to me. Now," he finished, his voice grim, "you die."

In that incoherent speech, Ares suddenly had a far clearer view of the Water Hunter than he had ever had before. He saw a young teenager, joining the ranks of an army he was not really strong enough to enter. Tolerated by his companions because of his great father, living as that man’s shadow, worshipping the techniques and the skills he had learned from him. Growing up with the knowledge that he was unworthy of his title. Yearning to prove himself, unsure, flipping from sardonic certainty to angry defiance. An adolescent, in other words, much like himself.

And in that second, Ares realised they had won. This was his last blow; if they survived it, it was over, for Nikolai was broken inside. Another man had mastered his secret technique in a few minutes, the one he had spent all of his life learning, perfecting and loving, and that was a blow far more devastating than any physical one could be.

So if they just survived this next blow, they had won.

If they survived...

"Now die! In the name of Parvatti!", shouted Nikolai, concentrating all his power, all his hate, all his rage and all his soul in that one blow: "Harmony..."

Ushio had launched himself straight at the Water Hunter, taking him by surprise. He was a bare meter in front of his opponent when Nikolai realigned his aim.

"...of the Oceans!"

The huge central geyser hit the poor Steel Saint with a power than rivalled the Black Dragon himself, flipping him upwards like a cork in a tsunami...

But not before one of his outstretched arms, just out of the geyser’s impact, had closed on Nikolai’s wrist. Brute servo-motors held the grip, while specifically designed hocks and levers caught each other in a fraction of a second, locking his hand firmly in place. Locking them together.

Water Hunter and Water Saint soared into the sky together, caught in the liquid inferno of Nikolai’s greatest attack...