It's done.
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9.
MUDBLOOD, DRIED BLOOD…WHAT?
All the breath left Nixion’s chest as
the reality of what the Grand Mage was saying, implying, hit him with full
force like a powerful wave which quickly mounted to the power of a charging
steam train. His eyes did not widen. His hands did not clench into unbreakable
fists. His brow did not furrow. He did not speak. He did not move. He didn’t
even blink. Nixion just stared at the old rusting sword half cast in shadows
against the wall just a bit behind the Grand Mage, not really seeing it at all,
but rather desperately trying to feel something again and break through the
sudden numbness that had gripped him fiercely, the sudden ice that had
surrounded his brain, preventing him from thinking. Nixion did not breathe.
His brain had literally stopped
working, because what the Grand Mage had just said went against everything that
Zathract Mist was to Nixion Strange: an annoying, though reliable and powerful,
detective who had once saved his life, once almost taken it, and a good ally,
now even some sort of a friend. But the Grand Mage was trying to take this all
away.
“I
think the traitor’s Mist.”
He had said it flat out. Plain.
Straight. And to Nixion, incredibly brutal, despicably forced and harsh, intent
on doing this to him.
“I think
the traitor’s Mist.”
But what could he know…? What did the
Grand Mage know about Mist that would cause him to think such an impossible
thing?
“I
think the traitor’s Mist?”
But what did Nixion know about Mist, after all? In just a few long days, Nixion
felt as though he had known Mist for an age and had already begun to count him
as a friend, something he had not done to anyone, even before his stage of
torture. In truth, Nixion did not know a thing about Mist. He was a detective
and seemingly hated evil.
That was all.
“I
think Mist is the traitor. The traitor is Mist. I think.”
But you’re wrong. Nixion’s own voice rang out in the
darkness, harsh and powerful, controlled and yet giving off a very clear
message of rage. You. Are Wrong.
“I
think Mist is the traitor.”
You’re wrong!
“I
think Mist.” The
voice of the Grand Mage in his head, replaying it over and over, the last thing
Nixion had heard, the only thing that mattered now. “I think Mist. I think.”
You think Mist? You think? What do you think, what do
you know? You know nothing. At all.
“I
think….” It spoke. “I think Mist. I think…I think…I think…”
You think the wrong thing! The
impossible!
“Mist.
I think. I think Mist.”
It’s impossible.
“I
think it’s Mist. Mist. It’s Mist. The traitor.”
Shut up! It’s not true, it can’t be!
“I
think the traitor’s Mist.”
“No…” Nixion muttered, finally, the
echoing roar of conflicting opinions still raging painfully through his head.
His voice was weak, sounded weak, probably wasn’t even heard by the Grand Mage
as he detected no movement in front of him. “Impossible.”
But was it? Nixion really didn’t know a thing about Mist. In all
the time he had known him…Mist always had
been secretive.
“Nixion,” the Grand Mage said softly,
obviously having at least seen that he had said something, though whether or
not he had actually heard Nixion’s words, he could not tell.
“No.” Nixion repeated, firmly, louder
this time, anger rising to take charge and quickly pushed all forms of doubt
from his mind. He would not believe it. Would not, could not, whatever. Mist
was his friend, not a traitor and definitely not a Remaining, not one to kill
Thomas, not now not ever. Never had been, never will be. The Grand Mage was
wrong and was talking about the impossible. The plain truth was that he was
wrong. Wrong. Incorrect. Mistaken. “You’re wrong.”
“Nixion, look at the evidence.” He
said, continuing, preparing himself for what he could sense as a speech.
“No!” Nixion yelled this time,
desperately trying to make himself sound larger than the Grand Mage with the
only three words he seemed capable of saying at that moment. “You’re wrong! You’re wrong!”
The Grand Mage looked slightly
disheartened at this, but made to speak again quickly.
“NO!”
Nixion screeched, suddenly regaining control of his body and jerked his head up
to glare ferociously at the Grand Mage. “YOU’RE
WRONG!”
The Grand Mage steered to the right
of Nixion’s line of vision and the door came in to replace him quickly. At
first Nixion thought that the Grand Mage had spun him around to attack, but
after Nixion became aware of his moving legs and the pain in his arm where he
must have shoved the door open, he realized that he was storming away from the
Grand Mage and the rusting, smelly room.
He was in a rage. Again. Another one.
Another rage. Again. Nixion was in another rage once again. And this time it
was absolutely uncontrollable. Because this rage had been caused, sparked,
started, due to utter confusion, rather than something petty that had enraged
him. Nixion had no idea what to do, where to turn, who to turn to, and what to
say when he found this person. His immediate thought was Mist, but then Nixion
remembered that this entire thing was about him, and he could hardly confine in
him the matter of the question addressing whether or not he was a traitor to
the group and working for The Remaining.
Confusion was knocking Nixion around,
as much physically as it was mentally. His mind spun as did his world and
Nixion was constantly staggering into walls and rebounding off them only to
crash into another one just as quickly. And yet, he was still the numbest he
had ever been, so even when one of the flaming torches smacked him across the
forehead, Nixion did not feel it, did not slow and did not speak.
Mist. He could not believe the Grand
Mage could think such a thing. Either that, or he was still having an awful
amount of trouble comprehending the matter. It was impossible. Nixion had
already straightened that out with himself; Mist was not a traitor. It made
about as much sense as Nixion did himself. And yet the matter remained that
Nixion knew virtually nothing about Mist.
Coming to a halt, backing up against
the brick wall yet again and sliding down to the ground only half-consciously,
Nixion thought back to when he had originally met Mist.
Back to his darker days again.
Nixion
scowled at the small horde of zombies as they drew nearer. Not many of them had
the muscles left to scowl back, but the ones that did certainly used them,
abused them even. These zombies were disgustingly rotten, even more so than
other ones, and Nixion vaguely suspected that they had been in use (or waiting
to be put to use) for many years now. The stench was horrible. Anyone else
would more than likely be hesitant or downright refusing to go anywhere near
them, but Nixion had been through much worse, had murdered stronger people and
dealt with corpses just about every day. And there was also the fact that he
was still insane, thought his sanity was still slowly returning to him, strand
by strand. Nixion leaped closer, tucking his machete close to his own rips and
jabbed a finger into the skull of the nearest zombie. In one instant, Nixion
felt an amazing power surge from the centre of his body, through his arm, into
his finger and then transfer into the skull of the zombie which seemed to
collapse immediately, sending tiny bits of brain flying outwards. Nixion
guessed that the blood had all dried up by now if they had indeed been dead for
such a long time. Nixion withdrew his hand fast enough to avoid getting dead
skin, crumbling bone and bits of brain all over him and laughed when the zombie
collapsed to the ground after it staggered around for a moment or two clumsily.
Even insane and loving death, he grimaced. There was no fun in this. Things
that did not feel pain? They didn’t scream. They didn’t care. They just
attacked him. The ones that still had a head. They weren’t even afraid…this
would not be fun at all. Nixion was disappointed.
But
Nixion still fought. Most other people would have fallen by now, dead or living
dead either way. Nixion slashed his machete through the air, in the attempt to
cut a zombie in half. But it got caught half way, and as the zombie fell
backwards; it took Nixion’s machete with it. Nixion reached for it, but his
hand slick with blood couldn’t get a good enough grasp.
“Son
of a…” he muttered as another thread of sanity wriggled back into Nixion’s
mind.
Ignoring
his machete, Nixion punched, kicked, and magicked his way out. And in this situation, magicked meant Nixion
broke bones.
Nixion
thought about this word. “Magicked.” He could not yet tell if it was a word. He
figured it must be for some reason, but it just didn’t sound right to him, and
Nixion attempted to think of some other way to put it. “He broked de bones.”
For
some reason this made Nixion laugh.
Unfortunately,
it also made him lose concentration. For a second he was standing, laughing as
an army of the undead surrounded him. The next he was overwhelmed. He fell, his
head smacking against the concrete, the mass of zombies trampling him
underfoot. Just before he lost consciousness, he caught sight of someone
drawing a dagger, running out from an alleyway and towards the zombies…
Zathract
watched as the boy fell underneath the putrid things he knew to be zombies. This
boy Zathract had been watching at a distance for the past hour now was a
killer, and seemed to be a rather good one at that. Zathract had been assigned
to bring him in under the charge of multiple, repetitive and intentional
murder. Other than that, the Sanctuary knew nothing more of this child other
than his appearance. Nothing on his name, no background whatsoever, not even an
available assumption on his age (something that Zathract did not entirely
understand). Something that had surprised him was that the boy also seemed to
be rather good at evading capture. He was fast, but disorientated.
At
first Zathract thought the boy might be smart, smart enough to kill and hardly
leave any evidence that linked him to the murder, rather like Zathract himself
had once been like. It soon became apparent, however, that this child was
nothing like the killer Zathract had once been. This boy was just insane. There
was absolutely no pattern to his technique, to his murders, to anything. There
was no connection between anything he did. The only thing this boy seemed
intent on doing was killing. Zathract could understand that; he had been in
that position once before, but right now he hated this boy. He hated everyone
like that, just like he hated his old self. Even so, this boy was still full of
surprises to Zathract. Leaving a bloody trail of bodies wherever he went,
though he did, Zathract found that this boy was almost impossible to track.
That was one of the many things Zathract had yet to understand about this boy…
After
searching, losing the trail a few times, and getting into many fights, Zathract
had managed to catch up with the boy for the third time that day. Now it was
night and now that Zathract had gotten used to seeing unmoving, bloody corpses
in the wake of the boy, he had been taken by surprise when he peered around the
alleyway to see the boy fighting zombies. He had just witnessed the boy laugh
for what seemed to be no reason at all, then fall to the ground under the
zombie attack. He was either more unstable than Zathract had originally
thought, or had given up. He was currently assuming it was the former.
Zathract
stepped forward, drawing the attention of the zombies. Wonderful, he thought bitterly. Though he was fighting zombies virtually every
single day, Zathract was still no more pleased with their presence than he had
been on his first encounter with them. Muttering darkly, he took another step
closer to the zombies who seemed to have forgotten about Nixion for the time
being. Zathract had heard of necromancers having a certain amount of control
over zombies as they were powered by the death magic, but had never tried it
before.
“Stop,”
he said, surprising the zombies. They recognised a master telling them to stop,
and an enemy saying something that did not matter at the same time. But these
zombies were rotten and seemed to have their original commands hardwired into
their rotting brains...One master had told them to attack this boy. Another was
telling them to stop attacking the boy. But, between the orders of kill and
don’t kill, a zombie will always go for the kill. This was not a hard fact to
figure out, but Zathract had also seen it displayed many times before…
Zathract
swore as half of them turned back around to kill the boy while the other half
lurched weirdly towards Zathract. He pushed at the air, snapping his palm and
flicking his wrist, and knocked back a zombie, which hit another, sending two
clattering to the ground. Unfortunately for him, the zombies Zathract was used
to battling always happened to be close together due to the sheer number of
them. But this group of approximately fifteen zombies were spread out among
themselves which meant that Zathract’s techniques were going to have to vary a
bit more this time.
Summoning
blade-like shadows to his side, Zathract hurled them like a spear towards to
different zombies. One sliced through the first zombie, ripping it to shreds
and sending it to the ground in a crumbling heap, but the second zombie moved
just before the shadows tore it apart as well. Whether or not the movement had
been triggered out of the knowledge that it would have been destroyed if it had
not moved or simply because it had felt like it, Zathract could not be sure. It
didn’t matter all that much, though, because another zombie had lumbered closer
to him and was now about to throw a fist into his face. Easily, Zathract
stepped to the side and the zombie ended up punching thin air and was thrown
off course, stumbling again.
Zathract
send a dancing fireball hurling in the direction of the zombie and it caught
flame at once which sent it dancing around the streets, waving its decaying
arms around and crashing into other zombies as it went. No screams escaped its
rotting mouth, though, so Zathract assumed that its vocal chords had already
rotted. He quickly spun around, seeing that there were no more zombies in front
of him, and saw three of the rotting creatures bending over the boy, mouths
opening towards his neck. Zathract cursed loudly and pushed his gloved hand
forwards towards the zombies and a swarming wave of shadows burst from it,
pelting full force towards the zombies. He saw the wave expand as it went and
quickly consumed the zombies. But as it dissipated and revealed the rotting
remains of the three zombies, it also became clear that the boy was no longer
there either. Zathract immediately panicked. The wave of shadows he had sent
slamming into the zombies was only powerful enough to destroy them, not a perfectly healthy human (physically, of course). But then he
understood that the boy could not have been destroyed. There were no remains of
him whatsoever for one thing.
Zathract
took a glance to his left and saw the boy taking his machete out of the
zombie’s chest before kicking the corpse back down again. The remaining four
zombies slowly advanced on Zathract and Nixion from the right side of them and
at once Zathract begun to feel slightly overwhelmed. The zombies he could
handle, the boy probably as well, but he wasn’t so comfortable with four flesh
eating creatures in front of him and an unstable, most probably insane,
murderer boy holding a machete behind him, where Zathract could not see. But he
need not have bothered. Because the next second the boy had blurred forwards to
meet the zombies and the next the sliced remains of three of them were falling
to the ground.
Stunned
slightly at this attack that was as sudden as it was vicious, Zathract did not
move and simply watched as the boy turned to the last zombie and whacked it
sideways across the forehead as it leaped at him. The zombie hit the ground
hard which sent a small cloud of dust puffing up into the cool night air and
rolled quickly, coming up on its knees; arms outstretched in a provocative gesture,
a snarl clear even on its rotting face. This must be the leader of the pack –
Zathract thought. It seemed stronger than the rest, faster and even more
intelligent. It seemed to know its way around a battle anyway. The boy seemed
only too happy to succumb to the zombie’s provocation, though, as he hurled
himself toward it, dropping the blood drenched machete, something that confused
Zathract even further as there seemed to be no blood left in any of the zombies
so far. Perhaps they had been turned earlier than he had thought after all. The
boy reached the zombie in what seemed no time at all and brought his fist up
again,, but the zombie seemed more intelligent than Zathract had thought, even
with his knew assumption that it was smarter than the other ones. This zombie
seemed to be trained in combat as well. It ducked under the
boy’s fist and slammed itself into him, sending the boy stumbling back and
tripped over, having lost his footing. The zombie launched itself forward, arms
outstretched and mouth open. It landed on the boy who attempted to kick it off
himself, but the zombie sent a fist slamming into his forehead which hit the
ground hard and sent him spiralling back into unconsciousness. The zombie moved
in for the bite to his neck, when Zathract moved forward in one swift motion.
His kick sent the zombie flying backwards across the ground and when it came to
a slow halt, the zombie waited a few moments before getting back to its feet,
disorientated.
Its
jaw had fallen off…
Zathract
almost laughed when he saw that another fifty or so drones of the undead were
now advancing on him from behind the last zombie. Cursing again, Zathract took
a step backwards and drew his first dagger. Suddenly, the boy was beside him,
temple bleeding heavily, eyes unfocused, yet displaying a fine example of pure
fury.
With
a simple gesture from the leader zombie, the new army darted forwards, this
time much more crowded than the last fourteen. Good. Something Zathract was
more accustomed to. He made a quick decision to deal with the boy after the
zombies had been eliminated: after all, he didn’t seem to want to do much but
get them out of the way either and he had not yet a single move towards
Zathract, let alone attempt to attack him. So when the zombies got close
enough, Zathract and the boy attacked in unison.
Zathract’s
dagger came high, slicing the top off a zombie, taking half of its brain with
it. It stood there for a moment looking dazed before collapsing in a heap
before him. This pack of zombies was new. Fresh blood was still running through
them for the time being and their skin, though most definitely dead, was not
rotting as such.
The
boy did not bother with his machete, which he had picked back up before joining
Zathract. Instead, his hand blurred towards a zombie’s head and as it made
contact, a deafening crack rang out from the skull of the zombie.
Zathract saw bits of the skull stick out from the head of the zombie as brains
went flying everywhere and it collapsed to the ground. So this boy was a bone
breaker. That would explain rather a lot, actually…
The
boy’s hand blurred again and tapped the side of a second zombie’s head.
Zathract saw the zombie jerk away and the boy kicked it so it went flying
backwards.
Zathract’s
train of thought was interrupted by a zombie crashing into him. He pushed the
air again and the zombie flew out of sight. He stood and looked at the chaos
around him. The army, though defiantly lessened by this point, was enough to
overwhelm him, even with the added assistance from the insane, wanted murderer
bone-breaker boy. Zathract looked over at him. The boy was a whirlwind of
energy, taking out every zombie that got too close to him. But as Zathract
expected, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before either he or
the boy fell again and then the other would surely be killed or turned by the
zombie army. He was used to fighting zombies and armies even larger than this,
but these zombies seemed to be just as strong as the leader of the last, much
smaller horde. Stronger, faster, smarter. Hard to beat, harder to kill.
Zathract,
looking regretfully at the boy and quickly made a rather difficult decision. He
could tell now that this boy was insane, but he hoped, for both their sakes,
that he had enough sense left in him to move out of the way.
Zathract
summoned flame to his hand and hurled it into the crowd of zombies. One of the
zombies was suddenly alight. Then the flame leaped onto the next zombie. And
then the next. From one zombie to another, Zathract’s enhanced flame after
years of advanced practice in the field leaped until the smell of burning,
rotten flesh filled the air, and the crowd of zombies ended up looking like an
oddly shaped fire-field.
Zathract
couldn’t see if the boy had made it out in time or not. He concentrated on
keeping the zombies burning until he was satisfied with the level of damage. He
let go of the flames and let the zombies burn and burn until the ashes fell to
the ground. But through the huge ground of ashes that was no in front of him,
Zathract could see no sign of the boy. Yet, just like before, he didn’t see any
remains of what could possibly have been living flesh either. Zathract turned
around and there was the boy standing in front of him, holding the machete and
looking back at him blankly. He couldn’t
have even been a year younger than Zathract. He was wearing a cheap jumper and
pants, with shoes that looked like they had been through a shredder. One arm of
his jumper was burnt, showing his bare skin underneath. His brown hair was
messy and untamed. It looked like he hadn’t washed or cut it in years. But it
was his eyes that really showed everything.
They
were dark brown, like his hair. They had lost that slightly unfocused look they
had when the boy had woken. But they still looked weird enough. You could see
pain, misery, anger, torment and untamed madness in those eyes. Zathract had a
feeling that even if the boy was smiling, the eyes would not change.
The
boy had a sheath for his machete which he promptly placed his weapon back into.
“You
burnt me,” the boy said. He had a curious voice. It wavered at some points,
getting higher and lower for no obvious reason.
“I
did.” Zathract said steadily. He did not apologize. Something told him that
this boy had no care for such I didn’t mean to”
The
boy did not rpely.
“What’s
your name?” Zathract asked.
The
boy gave Zathract a curious look, like no one had ever asked him that before. Knowing
what he had done, the chances were that no one actually had.
“Nixion
Strange,” he said finally.
“Nixion
Strange,” Zathract said firmly, attempting to use the amount of control
sorcerers had over given names. “You are to come with me now.” He took a step
backwards to see if the boy would follow, but when he didn’t, Zathract figured
that he must have taken the name himself, or else forgotten his given name
through his insanity.
“Zathract
Mist.” He said to Nixion, taking a step backwards and pretended as if nothing
had happened.
“Zath-rast…”
the boy said, narrowing his eyes and speaking slowly, trying to understand.
Zathract decided not to mention he had pronounced his name incorrectly. He
nodded. “I call you Mist,” Nixion decided after a long pause. “Easier.” Then he
thought deeply for a second. “Should I kill you?”
Mist
was taken aback. Not only he wasn’t expecting that the boy would be so
friendly, but he was actually asking Zathract for his opinion on the matter of
his death. He was not accustomed to that. Everything or everyone that ever had
wanted him dead simply attacked him.
“No.”
he said, brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t kill me.”
The
boy nodded, as if it was a wise move. Then he suddenly grinned. The change was
so unexpected that Zathract almost too a step backwards again. But he was right.
The boy’s eyes did not change.
“You
help me kill?” he grinned madly.
Mists
shook his head.
“No.”
he said firmly. “Killing is wrong”
The
boy stopped grinning.
“Oh,”
he said, disappointed. Zathract could not yet tell whether this was because he
wanted him to help Nixion or because he had just been told that the thing that
may potentially be the only thing he knew how to do or the only thing he was
good at was a bad thing.
“Do
you want to come with me instead?” Zathract asked him, deciding to get back to
his task of bringing the boy in to the Sanctuary. He was now having doubts of
whether or not Nixion was entirely responsible for his actions. Surely there
was some law that exempted the mentally unstable from charges of murder…?
The
boy tilted his head. Then he shook it.
“No.”
Mist
nodded. Then he caused a shadow to hit the boy on the back of the head, where
he had landed on the concrete. The boy didn’t even have time to look surprised
or, the more likely, angry. He fell to the ground hard and Zathract dialled a
number on his phone and waited for the response.
In
that moment, Zathract Mist decided that he was going to do whatever he could to
stop Nixion Strange from being prosecuted under charges of murder.
