Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 2

The Wyvern Armband

“ARGH!” the truest Syndie roared in the face of certain death. The air became warm as mana was torn from his old soul, embuing his mighty sword with the strength necessary to do the impossible.

With a gigantic sweep of spontaneously heavier steel, a blast of potent air projected forth, followed by the rumble and grind of stone as the deepest pits of the sand were uprooted, erecting a wall a few feet before the Syndicate’s ‘monarch’.

This natural barrier served its singular purpose immediately as the second shell blasted upon it, dissipating the winds and reducing the sandstone to clouding dust. Alpha’s efforts paid off, but not without cost. Alas, due to his inexperience with magic and his forced exertion upon his untrained soul, his body paid the price; his nose and ears bleeding from the tension.

“Bloody hell, are you okay, sir?” Kev said, draping an arm over his shoulder as the bulky man fell upon a knee.

“Hah… More than well. It’s nice to feel a bit of fatigue in these old bones once in a blue moon.”

“Up, then. Up.”

Kev lifted him back onto his feet, taking cover by the king’s right to avoid the potential wrath of those opposite him if ever they decided to turn away from the inferno of conflict. Under war’s rule, they couldn’t fire if it meant endangering the Head of Men’s life. Speaking of which…

“You there! In the vessel!” Kev shouted, his voice pouring with anger. “Are you aware you have committed a war crime, you animal?! This is the lead of the Syndicate. Did those idiots teach you nothing of battle conduct?! “

“A crime, you say?” A voice chuckled from within the vehicle, his voice echoing within its chamber. “I would wager that’s a futile defence.”

“Your victory would be shunned, you lackey bastard!” the General seethed, firing pointlessly at the tank’s armour.

“Would it?”

“Aye, ye’re screwed, mate,” Emris said, walking up to the pair with a sluggish pace as he fought his wounds. “Ye’ll cook in that fuckin’ thing, aye?!”

“You can’t kill me, you freak.”

“Says fuckin’——?!”

“Hold it,” Alpha commanded, silencing the Guardian.

Stepping forth, the king in knight’s armour asked, “Give us your name, soldier.”

“Heheh, you're never this perceptive, you dog. Using your brain under the pressure?” the voice mocked, prying down a metal shaft that served as a window.

“More so, I donnae crack under the influence. So, we meet again," Alpha solemnly acknowledged, lowering his head at the sight. An indistinguishable complexion.

“You…!” Kev exclaimed, running between his leader and the machine.

Before he could act, Kev was shot in the chest with the force of a speeding car, making Emris boil over.

“Motherfuckin’—— OI! Bein’ who ye are don’t give ye freebies, ye fuckin’ monster!” Emris bellowed, helping Kev to sit up. The armour hadn’t been perforated despite the damage, but the impact had squeezed the General’s lungs empty.

“How could you act so amoral! Do you lack all respect for your equals, Ducasse?!” Alpha demanded, stomping his foot against the desert floor.

Their protests were met by a round of laughter from the single man.

“Oh, silence. War is bad enough, there is no need to add sentiments like those!” the man within, Ducasse, said, before firing another slug of his shotgun.

This time, the bullet shattered upon the wall Emris conjured. Such was the role of the Guardian.

“Ye’re a dead man. Move!” the Brigadier ordered, loud and proud.

Ducasse raised a brow, before feeling the entire steel carriage shift in an instant, pushing him against the wall as the whole tank tilted with a violent creak. It had been rammed by a train. And that train was a fiery one.

“I got ‘em, boss!” Ignus hollered, standing atop the rolled over tank.

“Solid. Markus, cover fire. Avel, keep the old sods safe. Ignus, rip that can open!” Emris ordered, to the amusement of the pryomaniac who proceeded in his efforts to pry the land vessel apart. At the same time, one of the tiger-esque beasts skimmed the corner of the army, a soldier trapped in its jaws as it ran up by Alpha, its steed a lancer of endlessly pompous attitude.

“Missed me, sire? I think you did.”

Despite his cockiness, the liege and lackey shared a smile. Kev raised to his feet, redirecting his attention to a company of men that had split off from the mass of Yanksies.

“Inbound, northwest!” Kev announced, unleashing a volley of gunfire from his automatic rifle. Before the enemy could retaliate, Emris stumbled in his place, preparing a barricade of energy for the General.

The shield itself consisted of a short wall split in the middle, forming a wide arrow shape. This spell, along with a range of other barriers, were unique to the Guardians, each with a different purpose in mind. Some served for light protection, others dispersal of force, and some could even redirect an attack at a significant cost. In this case, the spell slid force by the arrowhead’s extremes, acting akin to a roof under rain.

“Incoming!” a feminine voice screeched, almost burying herself from the strength of her landing. It belonged to the winged woman, Erica, and in her clutches a seven-foot polearm with an axe-like tip.

“Ever heard of overkill?” Ignus laughed, jumping off the tank and hiding on the opposite side of the firing squad.

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Erica shouted back, turning to Alpha. “This has to end quick. We’re losing troops."

“Aye…” Alpha grunted. “Let us quieten this rogue of war!”

The leader took the sword in his palms and charged for the tank’s ceiling, evading the barrel’s range. He watched as Ignus grabbed the metal platings and strained to rip them off, trying to pry a hole into the machine.

“Sire, your six!” Kev said, panicking as he could turn his head away for only a second at a time, too preoccupied dealing with the riflemen ahead.

“I got ‘em, I got ‘em!” Ignus, too, yelled, only for a thunderous gunshot to ring from within the tank just as before.

“——Shit!”

The moment the fiery martial hit the floor, a mighty warcry was wrought. The Head of Men couldn’t afford to trouble over the fallen man as he swung all his heft into his sword, clattering against another within inches of his life. Despite the ferocity of his strike, the assault didn't strain, and lo, Alpha’s back was slammed against the barrel’s origin, he gritting his teeth as he pushed back at his adversary’s strength.

Soon enough, the enemy relented, fumbling backwards before smashing his shield into Alpha’s oncoming blow. Taking a few steps back, the two hulks watched each other heave. Their weapons were heavy and wore away at their stamina faster than most, and Alpha had already lost a great deal of energy countering the tank’s blast; such was apparent from the dried blood under his nostrils.

“Father, arest thou wounded?!” the new aid said, never leaving Alpha’s eyes.

From within the tank, a groggily, bassy voice drummed, “Victus, my boy, don’t talk now! Fight! Did you do your chore?”

“He hath come, father! At thy request.”

“Bloody good! Now clear my path, I will join you shortly.”

Alpha gave a large smile, laughing royally to himself. “Gracious, lad. Your speech is impaired!”

“Quietness, black sheep of the west!”

Raising an innocent hand, the Head tried to conceal his amusement. “You do share your father’s features, Auberon. Strikingly so.”

“Quietness, I beg!”

Auberon rushed forth, jumping high and sending his sword down upon Alpha, who swept it aside with a drag of his two-handed iron. Compared to the Syndie’s, Auberon’s broadsword looked almost impish in comparison. But one might wager that swiftness was endlessly more important; and ironically enough, the Syndicate promoted speed over brawn. Just another example of Alpha’s inaptitude, albeit a small one.

Among gunfire and tools crashing into each other, the battle raged upon this fated horizon. Even in the distance, combat could be heard. Mortars located deep within the divided mass of the Yanksies would occasionally fire, reminding the Syndies of their time-sensitive predicament. For every minute the battle was prolonged, more of their supporting fire was torn apart. And not just by the dropping shells.

Avel turned his steed halfway towards the king, as both he and Erica took notice of incoming danger. One that walked formally and calmly, letting the blades behind him rattle menacingly as two swords tapped one another with each of his movements. A slim and healthy young man, alone and unguarded, but wafting a presence that screamed peril.

He was neatly presented, his eyes a translucent green, his hair well-kept and tied, his gown official and militaristic despite the few splashes of tainting red. One could easily deduce the blood wasn't his.

On his right hand he wore a single elbow-long glove of ethereal purple, presumably embued with supernatural properties. On his back rested a sword in its scabbard, and on his left hip, two more were bundled, crossing between each other. Armed to the teeth, but no guns in view. His cold, stern expression showed no fear. He didn’t need a firearm.

“What the…?” Avel muttered, tilting his head. To carry two swords was unorthodox alone, but three? How on earth would one wield so many blades while restricted to having two hands?

Redirecting her attention to the newest hazard on the field, Erica held her ground, pointing towards him with her halberd and saying, “Stand there, don’t move. You’re a dead man walking if you think now is a good time to get involved.”

Obeying her command, twenty feet from her position, the man stood still. His movements were almost robotic.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“Oh, Goddess…” Avel said, his arrogant personality melting as he noticed a cloth around his right shoulder. “The Wyvern Armband…”

Erica flinched as she heard those words, eyeing the swordsman carefully. Indeed, the armband he wore had an artistic depiction of a silver dragon-like creature.

“You’re kidding me. You have got to be joking me. A Wraithsman?!” Avel complained, sweating bullets at the sight.

The man whose heritage carried with it the heft of a mountain sighed, his eyes closed and head slanted forward.

Erica took a deep breath. “It makes sense. Zachary was a Yanksie.”

Turning to the angel, Avel showed his panic. “So this is his descendant? What are we supposed to do now?!”

“It’s obvious, no?”

Though she tried to show courage, her body’s shakiness betrayed her. With her axe-tipped lance firmly in her grip, she discarded her fears and looked onwards, determined.

“We’re kicking ass today.”

“The things you say, Brigadier!” the lancer said, kicking the sides of his beastly mount. “I suppose we might as well. We've much to lose. Onwards!”

Avel's steed roared, leaping forth as Erica too shot towards her opponent with a blast of her heavenly wings.

As the two tried to reach the supposed 'Wraithsman', he withdrew the sword on his back before lobbing it high with complete indifference. Before either of their spears could graze him, he vanished.

Recognising the spell from Corvus' battles, Erica raised eyes skyward, only to find his figure in the air gone in a blink.

Avel struggled to turn the beast quick enough as uncountable swords danced around them in midair, always changing direction and height. The swordsman used all three of his blades to navigate the air, tossing them and relocating by the handles as he made a joke of his opponents' senses.

The beast below him growled and hissed, giving Avel a loosened grip of his mount. A cut had been spontaneously and evenly carved over his neck, slicing through the tough skin and barely missing its vitals. Before the lancer could recoil, the beast was gashed again.

"He's hacking at Ursula!" Avel said.

"I can hardly see the guy!" Erica said, her eyes darting in all directions.

Suddenly, a gladius was thrown in her direction, giving her no time to parry the sudden attack before being slashed from chin to chest; throwing her onto the earth. The cut wasn't deep but she still bled.

"Shit! Erica!" Avel shouted, taken aback as the son of a weapons master appeared before him. By a stroke of luck alone, he was able to whack one of the swords away, only to lose balance and fall from the feline’s back.

The steed, free of guidance, shook its head vigorously, roaring pointlessly as it was sliced from every direction. In moments, its tail had been cut through, but no matter how much the beast swiped and turned, it never came close to hitting its mark. Once its left eye had been lacerated, it cut its losses, giving a final whimper before running off into the distance.

“Victus, what in the hell?!” Avel said with a dropped jaw. The sight was outstanding. In the years he had witnessed supernatural sword users zip around he had never seen anyone disperse themselves to such a degree.

Erica dragged to her feet with clenched teeth.

“Oh, that is it!” she said, keeping her distance and narrowing her eyes. There were no patterns she could identify. This person may as well be as hard to hit as dust in rain, but there was no point in waiting around to be chopped into cubes.

Emptying her mind and relaxing her body, she focused, materialising a dozen translucent swords and spears that floated idly by her knees. Then, raising her hands to her target, she awaited a proper time to set them off, before casting them upon her opponent at random. Inevitably, the weapons missed, flying past him without so much as parting his hairs.

Discouraged for a moment, Erica focused once more, continuing to cast the flying weapons upon her foe.

“Well done, Erica!” the grandiose voice of Alpha cheered, allowing his few openings for a counterattack to be dedicated to witnessing his compatriot’s labours. He valued their efforts over his own a hundredfold, and while Auberon wasn’t lacking in strength, he did lack finesse in combat, giving him little feeling of accomplishment. As much as he wished to assist Erica and Avel, he knew well that engaging such a swordsman would be pointless, what with his short speed and drained mana. For a similar motive his involvement would be fruitless when combatting the diminishing squad of soldiers engaging Kev. Emris’ shield was more than good enough, and Kev’s use of guns surpassed that of the simple Yanksies by a mile. Instead, he would focus on rescuing Ignus from his predicament.

Inspired by the heat of battle and the skill of his men, Alpha gave a conclusive cry of rage, engaging Auberon with adrenaline pooling in his veins; giving his fight far more gusto.

Alpha jumped into and back from the tank, slamming his greatsword down upon Auberon’s shield and giving little time between swings, breaking through the younger soldier’s stance and teetering him off his heels. One more slash and his attacker was knocked down, his sword thrown from his clutches. Bringing the edge down upon the young, well-built man, the blade quaked the earth as it landed just short of his head, allowing the vibrations of the metal to ring soundly in the Ace’s ears.

Caught off guard, Auberon opened his eyes, surprised to see his life hadn’t ended. He could still see colour, hear the cries of battle and feel the unkind wind on his skin. Most outstandingly, Alpha looked down upon him, victorious, but not cruel. He wore the smile an elder might cast a child; endless pride, but not in oneself.

“What art thou doing…?! Sheepish beast! End me!" Auberon demanded, too tired to even raise his shield.

“I take no joy in robbing the life of my adversary’s son. Nor anyone’s, for that matter. Get your feet under you, young man.”

Auberon was stunned. So stunned he couldn’t bring himself to stand — that or he was too fatigued to. Nevertheless, Alpha’s amusement would be cut short.

“He won’t be taking a loss from you, Head of Men,” a familiar voice spoke behind him, followed by the pump of a rifle. “Not on my watch.”

Turning around slowly, Alpha faced his true rival. The man with the iron eyepatch, who held both a shotgun of high calibre in his left and a steel cutlass in his right.

“Well, Ducasse. Nary long it has been since we last breathed the same air,” the 'King' of the Syndicate said with a chuckle, reciprocated by the General of Yanksee. While they were contenders of this continent’s land, they didn’t spite each other with malice. If anything, the desire for vengeance and competitive spirit were to blame.

“Quite, eh? I trust your endeavours are working well for you.” Receiving a simple nod from Alpha, Ducasse turned to the fallen Lord. “And how courteous of you to spare my kin. However will I repay you?”

“Let us discuss it over wine!”

The two leaders shared a hearty laugh. How strange it might seem, that their intent was to kill each other. They were the only ones authorised to do so in the entirety of both armies.

“You did well enough, my son. Withdraw from battle or give aid to your men. You aren’t fit to spar with this old geezer.”

Without a word of complaint for the patriarch he idolised, Auberon stood, taking his broadsword from the all-consuming sands before running off towards the army’s mass, taking cover within.

“Shall we do battle, then?” Alpha said.

“For whatever else do we stand here?” Ducasse replied.

With a final chortle, the two titans lunged at each other.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The angel and the lancer were tiring. Avel’s armour had been shredded, and the wounds on Erica were becoming too much to sustain. Luckily, so too was the swordsman beginning to fatigue. Having practised his last set of teleportations, he landed upon the earth conclusively, a sword in each hand. Now that he was no longer moving at such ludicrous speeds, the sharps he sported could be identified. Each one was different. The two from his hip were a gladius and an estoc, and the one strapped to his back was a slender scimitar of magnificent curve and design; easily the most treasured of the three.

Avel fought his diminishing stamina as he rose to his feet for the fifth time, his body shaking as once again he wielded his lance. If Erica could land even a single projectile on him, the skirmish could be won. Even if that meant taking a very stupid risk.

Approaching the sole man with shy steps, Avel realised just how scary the Wraithsmans could be. The combined effort of their reputation, tactical prowess and even just appearance alone made for a display that demanded both respect and caution.

He stood there, unmoving, but Avel’s body stiffened. Yet still, the Syndie pressed on.

Suddenly, Avel sprinted, thrusting his lance as far forward as he could afford to. His life flashed before his eyes, but still, Avel forced the spearhead through the air. The Wraithsman turned smoothly, and with a chop, the steel rod was off its course. Avel wouldn’t give in, however, as he slipped under the swordsman’s second blade, slipping away for a moment before jumping back in and using the rear end of the pole to push back at the Wraithsman’s swipes.

The two became locked in a one-on-one, with the swordsman able to repel the lancer’s attack as well as dodge Erica’s magic with relative ease. He even had time to fight back, giving the spearman hell as even his most effortful advances were shut down insignificantly. The Wraithsman’s stern look never left him, and the only noises he produced were quiet grunts as he manoeuvred his weapons around, over and under each other with brilliant expertise. Meanwhile, Avel was pouring with sweat, trembling from the constant rush and cocking up many of his hews and jabs.

Taking a sudden handle to the jaw, Avel recoiled, losing his sight for long enough for an edge to graze the skin of his neck on both sides, forming a cross-shaped cut that tipped right over his Adam's apple. He pulled away enough not to have his throat slit, but the shock brought him to the ground in an instant.

“Good Goddess, good Goddess, good Goddess…!” he gargled, writhing as he became all too obsessed with the fluids in his throat. The slightest wetness could be blood. For all he knew, he was about to choke on his own life.

The Wraithsman brought his estoc down by his head, crushing a projectile spear into nothing with his gladius.

“Avel!” Erica cried, taking a quick step forth only to fall on a knee. The excessive use of magic had left her nauseated and weak. Her eyes turned to pinpricks as she looked on ahead.

“Avel! No!” she screamed, reaching a hand out in hope. The sword was brought high, and then…

CLANG

The metal fell halfway before being pushed back in an instant. The parry was so swift it wasn’t even visible. That, or the tears in her eyes kept her from focusing.

A fourth figure fell a short distance, landing between defeated and victor before rising with uncanny majesty. From her forearms, eight razor rods extended outwards roughly a metre; her ebony skin decorated with white scars and old wounds that told of her long-fought battles like tattoos.

The swordster raised his head to meet her gaze, taking a step back. He never seemed surprised at anything. In fact, his dull face didn’t seem capable of displaying emotion of any sort. Was he even alive?

Breaking the silence, Eclipse gave a short cackle. “How dramatic. You do look like half a prize of a son. I’m sure Daddy Misfits was very proud of you.”

“No,” he spoke, saying the first words since he had arrived at the scene. “In fact, he was barely impressed. ‘Subpar’, he called me once.”

The triple-wielder gave a professional dueler’s stance, with one leg forward. His estoc followed his knee, dropping gently by the ground and lifting some sand with a spin of the tip.

“He sounds unfair. Was he cruel to you, pup?” Eclipse asked without a hint of provocation. The man whose skin hadn’t felt wounds in much time shook his head.

“Not at all. I deemed him so too.”

In an instant, he swung his sword back, before removing the distance between them. In a mere second, the blade swiped four times, each thrown back by Eclipse’s efforts, before standing before her once more. Eclipse huffed, gulping a mouthful of air, but showed persistence. He barely flinched. The effort was one-sided.

“Did he love you?” Eclipse said.

“Of course he did," he nodded.

“Honestly?”

“Truthfully."

The two cut at each other again. The lass was forced to use acrobatics to leverage his strikes away from her. She didn’t get a single opportunity to slash back before they stepped away from each other.

“These people, do you hold a grudge against them?” Eclipse asked, joined by a heaving Erica, who too readied her weapon.

“No,” he replied, letting his two swords hover by his sides. “I’m just a mercenary on his payroll.”

“Well, we’re not far off then,” Erica said, taking a deep breath and shaking her head. “I put my betting money on us winning. I don’t get paid enough to take chances, so you’ll be cool with me doing my best, right?”

The man raised a brow for a short moment, and a small smile appeared on his lips, much to his dismay.

“Alright. I’ll indulge you again.”

“Girl power?” Eclipse joked, giving the lass a nudge.

“Sure thing, jungle lady. Advance!” the halberdier said, charging with a thrust.

“Ooh, how rude,” Eclipse teased, sprinting forth to lend aid to the Celestial.

Three legends would match; one by race, one by name and one by deed. In total, three irons met nine.