Wolf Moon Part 15
Brittle wind swept across the Valley of Aragon then swooped down the Elon River Plateau's sheer limestone walls like a war hawk. Atop the plateau's wide, level expanse that measured less than a mile, the perpetual currents buffeted brown grass, frail scrub bush and gnarled trees stripped bare by winter.
But the wind carried more than a bitter chill. Blanched mist, mingled with the stench of death, swirled over bodies and the body parts of humans and horses that littered the ground shrouded in scarlet snow. Broken lances, shattered swords and shields bearing the insignias of both armies lay scattered among the fallen.
Groans from the wounded and pleas for help from the dying were barely heard above the whining wind. Those few fortunate men who survived the carnage wandered aimlessly, minds numbed by shock.
Some distraught soldiers stumbled over their comrades and didn't bother to get up again seemingly content to let the cold claim what remained of their devastated humanity.
A lone man stands in the battle's macabre aftermath. His dark blue uniform, black knee-high boots and fir-trimmed cape are splattered with blood. A ranking officer's steel sword, its blade tarnished red, is clutched in an equally crimson stained hand.
Blue eyes, as icy as the wind, survey the battlefield. A satisfied smile mirrors the delight of triumph. "The King won't mock me again." he growls as the cape's fur collar feathers around his face.
The sound of snow muted hoof beats is heard in the distance. The galloping slows to a trot then stops altogether. The chestnut roan horse whinnies and snorts, it's expelled breath crystallized from the cold. The male rider dismounts and picks his way through the labyrinth of contorted corpses and useless weapons.
A mane of snow-white hair flows down the rider's back almost to his waist. His eyes are also blue but their hue is more akin to a cloudless sky. His boots, trousers, tunic, gloves and coarsely woven cloak are black in stark contrast to the wintry mantle crunching beneath his feet.
The uniformed man doesn't turn around, doesn't seek to discover the approaching stranger's identity. He knows who draws near, knows the cadence of his footsteps. The victorious officer can see the man in his mind's eye as clearly as if he stood next to him and for a moment his heart quickens.
Now the men stand side by side. The wind whistling around them is the only sound. Tension surges between the officer and the rider like lightning arcing from an enraged heaven.
The wind rises again, white hair flutters. The rider's voice is low, his throat choked by confusion.
One word, bitter with anger, hisses over his lips. "Why?"
The officer studies the singular question with serious consideration then gives a profound answer he hopes will ease the tension. "I did it for you."
The silence is deafening. The officer would rather the rider shout out his indignation, strike out with fists or slash with a sword but an intuitive statement is the man's only response.
"In truth this betrayal was for yourself not for me."
General Treize Khrushrenada dares to face his lover, dares to gaze into blue eyes lanced with inconsolable grief. "No...for you, only for you."
Treize's hand trembles as he reaches out then drops as Zechs bats it away.
"Disloyalty did not guide my choice," Treize declares, "but I could never be devoted to a King who isn't wise enough to recognize my military expertise or take my counsel seriously. I had to show Peacecraft that his army was no match for my talent and skills. General Septum understands. He, too, has suffered the King's rejection.
"Look." Treize points across the field at a single tattered flag snapping on a staff planted in the crusty earth. "See the standard, the coat-of-arms. The lion is me. The stag is you. We are bound together by a cord colored with the blood of victory."
Zechs Merquise shakes his head sending platinum hair cascading over his right shoulder. "Surly you must know I can't be part of this treachery. I'm a holy man, a man who heals not kills. I can not have these murders on my soul.
Your allegiance is to Septum not to me. You have rent our bond, our fidelity. You have..." Zechs' voice cracks and he struggles to finish, "Treize you have broken my heart."
"But can't you see?" Treize waves frantically at the flag now drooping under the weight of the wind's fury. "The lion is strength. The stag is enlightenment. We are stronger together. Together we can conquer the world."
Zechs sucks in a quivering breath and sighs into the glacial gusts that threaten to freeze his heartbeats. "You have chosen gloom over the light. Your judgment has been corrupted by pride. Your soul has been unlocked and demons have been invited in."
Tears glisten in Zechs' eyes but are wiped away before they track down his cheeks. "You are the Lord of Darkness. I can not dwell in your shadows."
Zechs' shudders, not from the unrelenting cold but from the dying of the last ember of love. "I have to leave." He pulls the cloak tighter but it does nothing to stem the arctic tide of hopelessness.
"Where can you go?" Treize asks, knowing that he and Zechs have no life outside each other.
"I'm departing to Twilight."
"Twilight is a myth--outlandish tales told by old men who have lost touch with reality." Treize declares. "I beg you don't take my light away."
Zechs looks with pity on his lover but his conscience can no longer bear the pain. "Good bye." he whispers as he mounts his horse.
"NO!" Treize wails but his plea is swallow up by the howling wind.
"No." Treize mumbles into the pillow he clutches to his chest. The bedcovers tangle his arms as he reaches for his vanishing lover just as he has every night since Zechs left for Twilight.
His chest heaves. His forehead beads with sweat. Eyes pop open and anxiously searched the pre-dawn dimness. Then his hand brushes a bare shoulder. His fingers stroke long silky hair.
"Zechs." The name falls feebly from his lips.
At the tentative touch Andrea stirs in her sleep and Treize's mind once again retreated into madness.
*********
A soft knock sounded at the bedchamber door. At first Treize reasoned the tapping was the product of his dream-altered state of reality. A second, more forceful pounding prodded him fully awake.
Wearily letting his hand slither from Andrea's hair, he eased up on the clammy pillow. "Who is it?" he muttered, not caring if the question could be heard through the thick wooden door.
There was a pause then a barely audible voice answered. "Odin."
"What in the hell do you want?" the Dark Lord growled out his annoyance at being disturbed at such an unsuitable hour.
Hearing the slurred words and the distinct irritation in the curt reply, Odin leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and reconsidered pursuing the conversation.
He really wasn't in the mood to endure the incoherent ramblings triggered by Treize's wine overindulgence. But a strategy session was in order and it couldn't wait until mid-morning or later when the cobwebs sufficiently untangled in Treize's addled brain for him to stagger from his bed.
Odin rolled his eyes and cursed the muddle-minded ex-General. "Damn drunkard." then raised his voice, "I need to speak to you now." he insisted in spite of his better judgment.
Wrapping a blanket around his nude body Treize eased out of bed. By means of shaky handholds on the bedpost, the washstand, then the wardrobe he carefully navigated through a maze of wrinkled clothing, mismatched footwear and empty wine bottles strewn about the floor.
He pulled back the stubborn latch and cringed as the squeak scraped inside his skull like a sword being drawn across steel.
The door cracked open far enough to see into the hall. One bloodshot eye peered out at the mercenary. "What's so important it couldn't wait?"
"We need to discuss the quinque."
The crack widened. Treize stepped aside to let Odin limp in. As the door closed to ensure a private discussion, he squeezed his eyes shut against the shrill whine from rusty hinges that was multiplied tenfold when processed through a hangover.
"I ought to slit your gullet for mentioning those mare-fucking bastards." the Dark Lord declared as he slowly made his way back to the bed.
Odin stopped midway into the chamber letting his sight linger on Andrea's flaxen hair spread out on her pillow and her torso that was scarcely hidden by the bedcovers. He licked his dry lips and tried to ignore the tightness growing in his groin.
Treize more flopped than sat on the bed. When it felt like his brain slipped off center, he winced, swore under his breath and cradled his head in his hands. The jolt woke Andrea who sleepily rolled from side to back baring both breasts.
"You have something to tell me?" Treize began before realizing that ogling his employer's temporary mistress had otherwise engaged Odin's attention.
"Odin." Treize hissed but the subdued volume still ricocheted in his ears.
A lecherous grin plastered on his lips, Odin redirected his thoughts back to the reason for his early morning intrusion. "Ah...the warriors are...in Twilight." he finally managed to finish the sentence.
Treize's throbbing head was made worse by Odin's inability to express an idea and since Andrea was the obvious cause of his henchman fumbling over his words she had to leave.
The Dark Lord took a moment to also enjoy the young girl's exposed anatomy before he snapped. "Get out!"
Andrea grabbed the sheet, covered her nakedness then slid her legs over the bed's side. She found her simple cotton frock, slipped it over her head and put on her shoes.
With a servant's submissive posture, Andrea threaded her way between the bed and the lewd mercenary. Odin reached out and snagged a handful of pale blond hair.
Andrea froze.
Lifting the silken tresses to his nose, Odin breathed deeply. "You smell of sex." He scowled at the timid maiden. "You'd better wash off your master's scent before I add mine to it."
*********
Treize leaned over to find his breechcloth in the rumpled clothes heaped beside the bed. In spite of his cautious movements a queasy wave churned in his gut and he had to wait before tugging on the dingy undergarment.
"I know the warriors are in Twilight." he informed Odin. "Shit, where's my trousers?"
Odin used the bedpost to steady his balance. With his own degree of caution he sat beside the Dark Lord. "Now is the time to attack, when they can be eliminated with a single strike."
A wiggle and a yank pulled the trousers over Treize's hips. Next a shabby shirt was fished from the pile, put on but left unbuttoned.
"The magic guarding Twilight is too strong."
The Dark Lord rubbed his sore temples and silently wished for any brand of fermented liquor to pickle his brain or keep the memories at bay. "My spy tells me the quinque will soon journey to Deep World."
"Then they will die on the road."
"No. Zechs," Treize paused to savor the sound of his lover's name, "is in Deep World and I want to know exactly where he is.
That young apprentice, the new Priest, he knows the way. Let him be our guide, he and the other mystic men. Once I find Zechs, you and your army can do as you please with those impotent Warriors of the Rose."
*********
Icy wind howled across the Elon River Plateau. Men's angry shouts, horse's terrified whinnies and the clang of tempered metal resounded over the battlefield. Sparks from clashing swords sizzled in the air and gushing blood turned white snow to scarlet.
In the midst the combat, at the height of the bloodshed, a man-child of sixteen aimed his crossbow and planted the bolt in an enemy soldier's throat. Another arrow, another soul snuffed out in less than a heartbeat, shot after shot until his quiver was empty and he had nothing left to defend his life.
A burly warhorse bore down on the defenseless archer. The rider, wearing a gleaming breastplate adorned with a lion and a stag bound by a scarlet cord, swung his broadsword and barely missed the archer's head.
As the human target ducked under the blade, the sword's tip sliced the young man's woolen coat and grazed his chest opening a gash from shoulder to breastbone.
Wounded and stunned, cold air seizing his lungs, the youth struggled to stand as the horse and rider came around for a second, most likely, lethal pass. To his left, the body of a decapitated soldier, his head still in his helmet and his hand closed around his sword, sprawled in the crimson snow.
The archer crawled to the fallen swordsman and with pounding hooves vibrating through the ground, he pried the bladed weapon from stiff, death-curled fingers then stood and faced his foe with only fearless determination as his armor.
By the youth's awkward stance, the way the heavy broadsword wobbled in his uncoordinated two-handed grip, it was clear the dark haired man was unskilled in the art of swordplay.
But there was a boldness in his brooding glare that gave his attacker a moment's pause, a defiance that displayed the courage borne of nobility.
Unexpectedly the rider pulled back on the reins, the horse abruptly halted its charge. With an amused sense of superiority, he dismounted and gave his novice challenger a mock salute.
"What's this, a boy trying to do a man's job?" The rider taunted, as he believed the youth was no match for his battle-honed proficiency.
"A warrior cannot be judged by his age."
"So warrior, what's your name?"
"Heero Yuy. May I know your name before I kill you?"
"Odin Lowe." came the reply as the soldier-of-fortune reassessed Heero Yuy's maturity irrespective of his age. "All right, lad, let's see what you're made of."
Heero set his jaw, narrowed his piercing blue eyes and hardened his muscles until they were like tightly coiled springs. He fixed his steely gaze on his opponent, steadied his stance and angled his sword. "Make your move."
Odin's lips curled into a thin-lipped smile. "This is going to be easy." he announced. His blade arced up then zipped through the air straight for Heero's head.
Heero watched the blade's downward slope, mentally calculating its strike point. "Wait." he mumbled under his breath, "Wait."
"Now!" Every muscle recoiled at once.
The swords struck crossways. The echo of blade on blade was distinctly heard above the battle's din.
The power and precision of Heero's countercheck caught Odin off guard. The smirk dissolved into a frown as the possibility of being bested by the young upstart hit him like a fist in the gut.
A throaty growl and a glint of light was Heero's only warning before Odin's sword came around again, this time with the intensions of an excruciating evisceration.
Heero reacted instinctively but lacked the strength to totally parry the thrust. His sword almost left his grasp with only a last minute tightening of his grip preventing the weapon's dislodgement.
Now Odin could sense the young man's weakness and moved in for the kill. Blow after blow he beat his rival down. Heero gritted his teeth and fought back until his arms quivered and exhaustion caused his legs to buckle under the strain.
One last frantic block upset Heero's balance sending him backward into the snow. Lungs begged for breath, salty sweat stung his eyes but at least the cold had numbed the cut across his chest.
With a blade poised over his heart, Heero stared up into Odin's face that showed no sign of leniency.
Odin pressed his boot on Heero's wrist, pinning his hand and the sword it held to the frozen ground. "I must admit you mounted a better offensive than I expected but I would've enjoyed a longer fight."
"You won't hear me beg."
"I didn't think you would."
"You won't win. That devil Septum and his damned Lord of Darkness will betray you."
Odin raised an eyebrow at the lad's prophetic declaration of his downfall. "Its make no difference. You won't be alive to witness my disgrace."
There was an odd glimmer in Heero's eyes or perhaps it was the waning sun reflecting off the snow. For an instant the cobalt blue became black as midnight then Odin swore that fire flared across the enlarged pupils.
"Today is not my time to die." Heero proclaimed.
Heero's free hand was a blur of motion as it planted a dagger in Odin's upper thigh until he felt the tip scrape the bone. A few inches to the left and the mercenary would've been transformed from stallion to gelding.
An anguished wail bellowed up to heaven but Heero was certain the angels had long ago hardened their hearts. Odin dropped his sword and collapsed on the ground where he writhed in agony and clawed at the slender blade buried to the hilt in his leg.
Having been granted a reprieve, at least for that hour, Heero scooted back and left handprints in the snow where he pushed to stand up.
Odin's broadsword lay at Heero's feet.
*Finish him!* Heero's inner counsel commanded.
"I can't."
*Why not? You've killed before.*
"Only in battle but never in cold blood."
*Do it! Carve out his hell-spawn heart and feed it to the wolves.*
"NO!" Heero screamed as he ran blindly into the white mist.
But as hard as he ran he couldn't escape the voice inside his head. *Coward!* echoed again and again.
"No." Heero mumbled in his sleep. "Please leave me alone."
Duo braced an elbow on his straw-stuffed futon and raised up until he could watch the angst-ridden expressions play across Heero's face.
Duo had shared Heero's dream just as he had many times but this night the images were scattered in disassembled scenes that never formed a complete picture.
Heero flinched. Arms and legs jerked from residual tension in his muscles. His breathing quickened from the exertion of fleeing the battlefield and foolishly trying to run away from himself.
Duo used his thumb to smooth out the Tracker's creased forehead. His fingers traced down Heero's temple, over his high cheekbone's curve before resting lightly on Heero's lips.
"Shhh." Duo whispered closed to Heero's ear. "You don't have to fight your demons alone."
With a surrendering sigh Heero relaxed. The laborious panting evened out into a rhythmic ebb and flow. He opened his eyes and beheld the intercessor that stood between him and the dream creepers.
"Duo?"
"It's all right, I'm here."
The Duel Spirit interlaced his fingers with Heero's fingers, settled down with his head against Heero's shoulder and repeated his nightly entreatment for the brave warrior's sake.
"No more dreams."
TBC...
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