Combat!

yarr.

--

The assistant was near a cell with its door blown open. A voice drifted out: "... I guess I'll go deal with your friends first, since they're just arriving now," it said. Gren cracked his knuckles -- it sounded like a fight. Brian dropped into his typical fighting stance, too, but this wasn't the circle and this wasn't just for fun or practice.

The source of the voice leapt nimbly from the doorway and landed flat-footed in front of Brian. Brian's blood ran chill -- this was the person he had seen when Elhaym had been sacked. This was Trass.

"Hello, Brian." The demon smiled, his handsome young face still masking the true monster that lurked underneath. "Good to see you again!" He planted a booted foot into Deis's stomach and laughed when the man screamed. "Honestly, these people are terrible. I bet you and your brother will be more interesting."

Gren put his hand on Brian's shoulder and whispered, "Remember what I said? We run. Now."

Just as he said that, a second voice piped up from inside the cell. It sounded like Alan, but instead of his typical Northerner dialect he was speaking normal Gaelic. "Get the [i]hell[/i] out of here! That guy's nuts!" Alan appeared in the doorway, his still-tied hands pressed against the jamb to keep him standing. He looked terrible.

Gren didn't know what hell meant, but it sounded like good emphasis to him, and he was saying what Gren was thinking. Gren turned and started to run, but not before spinning Brian around. His run was cut short by an armored body in front of him. There was a loud *clang* when Gren rebounded off that armor.

"Oh, come on. Fight me!" Trass threw out a fist, the gauntlet rattling around from the friction of the air. It whistled; it connected. Gren's face exploded in a bright burst of pain and he was lifted off his feet. The pain acted as a catalyst; adrenaline and mexa started to flow through his veins, supercharging him. He tucked his knees up into his chest and turned the fall into a spin, rotating at just the right speed so that he landed on one hand and both feet. Arc electricity bounded between his limbs and core.

Gren stood up and dusted himself off. He was blessed by Nature with great powers; he had been told this many times before. Trass had been a boogieman for so long, the ex-knight in front of him seemed ridiculous, powerful or no. He was human -- he could be beaten.

Off to the side, Brian was assisting Alan down. "How did you speak Gaelic?" he asked.

Alan shrugged. "Not sure. Just happened one day. I don't know if I can speak English or Northern or whatever anymore, haven't really had a test to experiment, haven't... uh... can I sit down for a sec?" He collapsed on his knees and then fell backwards. The clouds were beautiful. They seemed to be escaping, though, the area directly above them a noticeable circle of clear sky.

A blast of electricity sizzled the air. Gren had scored a direct hit on Trass's armor, turning the location of the strike black. It hadn't penetrated, though, and Trass seemed no worse for wear. He strode over to Gren like a general to an insubordinate private and backhanded Gren. Or would have, if the elder brother hadn't expected the tactic and dropped to the ground the second Trass's hand started moving. Gren grabbed at Trass's foot and yanked; Trass fell backwards and landed. The soft grass absorbed most of the damage, but Gren figured that in so much armor, it'd be at least a few seconds before he got up again.

What Gren had failed to notice, however, was that outside of the whistling of his gauntlet when the first punch was thrown, there had been no noise coming from that armor. No squeaks and no rattles, no clanging and no jangling. Trass flipped backwards, sprung off his hands, and landed with the grace of a gymnast.

One of the important rules of a hand-to-hand fight is that you must never, ever ever give your opponent space. The most effective attack is one where your opponent can't attack back, and to do that you have to occupy those positions where the opponent would like to throw his punches and kicks. In a very real sense, the best defense was a strong offense. By letting Trass stand up, Gren had given him several yards of ground. Gren raced to fill the gap, readying to grapple the monster and retain offensive flow, but Trass was too fast -- armor or not -- and Gren felt rather than saw the knee embed itself in his stomach.

He exhaled all his remaining air and doubled over; stumbled back; dropped to a knee. "This is boring. Brian!" Trass clapped his hands together.

"Alan, you okay?" Brian interposed his head between Alan and the softly drifting sky. "You know who that guy is, right?"

"No, and I don't care. I'm going to die, I get it. I can tell he's strong in that weird mystical way that makes no sense. How the hell does magic work? And why does it work -- and why do some people have it, and not everyone?"

"Uh," interrupted Alan, "No, everyone definitely can do it."

Alan stood up. "The -- what -- but -- I thought -- Colvan was going on and on about someone being 'blessed' and screwing with his head! I thought blessed meant blessed with magic!"

Behind them, Brian heard Gren get knocked to the ground. This wasn't the time for explanation. "Let's just say it means EXTRA magical for now and I'll explain later, kay? Right now I've --"

"Brian!" The clap resounded throughout the plains. It dug into your skin and inside your inner ear and vibrated like a tuning fork. There was no ignoring that clap. Brian, who was already on his way to distract Trass anyways, found his feet stumbling one over the other without his input. He stood in front of Trass. The man smiled and patted his head. "There you are! I didn't want you to ignore us." The third time his hand came down he didn't let go and started to grip tightly on Brian's skull. The metal fingers put intense pressure on Brian's skull almost immediately. He screamed.

There was a dull thud, and the hand loosened its grip. Trass fell to a knee, and from behind him Gren gave a thumbs up, his own boot planted on the inside of Trass's calf. He raised his foot up and stomped again. This time, the boot struck dirt. "Shit." Trass was not so stupid a fighter, and had already twisted his lower body and used the coiling effect to spring back up, shoulder ramming into Gren's stomach again. The two hit the ground tumbling; Trass landed on top and slammed his fist into Gren's face.

Brian was there and ready, though, and not about to let his brother be killed by some hyped-up children's story. Brian snapped his fingers to start the flow and rivulets of liquid fire ran down his skin. He charged forwards and let out a mighty cry, kicking Trass as hard as he could in the square of the monster's back. The kick missed; Trass had grabbed Gren by the shoulders and pivoted to the right, taking Gren right into the path of the kick. An attempt to redirect his attack worked, but at the cost of Brian stretching himself too far and losing his balance. Trass capitalized on the mistake and thrust his left hand out. There was no doubt: Brian's kneebone had just been shattered. The fist continued its arc and came down against Gren's face again. Blood splattered onto Trass's armor.

Alan watched, unable to help. He was doomed. Doomed doomed doomed. He hadn't noticed when there was no danger, but having his hands tied together was actually incredibly inconvenient. So he did the only thing he felt was appropriate, and gently nudged his toe against Deis's flat forehead in an attempt to wake him up.

It worked. Deis's hand shot out and grabbed Alan's leg. Alan froze in panic, but the grip was quickly relaxed, and patted around. Once a finger looped around the curved rim of the bowler hat, it flipped the hat up in the air. Deis sat at the same time, and caught the hat. He stared at it, melancholy evident on his face. "And to think," he said, "I was going to die unpresentable. Terrible, terrible state of affairs, this is." He stood and patted at his dark grey jacked; motes of frost and dust fell everywhere. "Has anything overly interesting happened?"

Alan nodded his head towards the fight. When he wasn't looking, Gren had somehow managed to turn the tables on Trass and was now slamming his knuckles as fast and as often as possible into the man's face. Each blow was accompanied by a sickening crunching noise. On the nearby grass, Brian rolled and sobbed, clutching his knee. "I see," said Deis.

Gren's fist froze in midair. Blood dripped off it slowly, most of it clinging and flowing down his arm instead. "What?" He stared at his arm, trying to will it further down. He had beaten Trass, dammit! He'd destroyed a nightmare!

And indeed, Trass looked like a nightmare now. His face had been bloodied beyond all recognition, and so any attempt at appearing human was no longer relevant. His face grew in length and width, the shoulder-length black hair receding into nothing. His smile, worn weak by the loss of several teeth and a puffy lip, was replaced by a thin maw too wide for his face. Razor sharp teeth reflected the sunlight. He had no nose, and his ears were flat against his head, elongated, with a pointed tip. There were four eyes that ran in a column on the right side, and three on the left. They all blinked in concert. Gren screamed and clutched at his head.

Trass stood up; great leathery wings unfurled behind him, beating back the air. He flew over to Alan, and said in a conversational tone, "Are you curious what I did to him? It's pretty slick." His voice was the scraping of a rusty iron nail on a well-worn blackboard. "Basically, he thinks that he's stabbing himself in the eye repeatedly. Isn't that crazy? The brain holds a lot of weird tricks like that." He smiled; Alan wanted to throw up.

"YOU FUCKER! FUCKING -- GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!" Brian was screaming now, too, this time in anger. The mexa had reached its chemical peak, and in accordance with his nature the shattered kneecap had fused in fire, reformed into something workable for the time being. Brian had finally drawn his sword, and impatient to kill Trass, had thrown it.

Something interesting happened. The sword was clearly going to miss -- Trass even started to laugh. But as it flipped and turned in the air, the course gradually altered, and before Trass was sure what was happening, the point stuck cleanly out of his chest. "Of course!" shouted Alan. But he didn't say the rest, because he was afraid Trass might get angry that he had given knowledge away. He didn't want to be killed until it was absolutely necessary.

Deis took the sword out and looked at it. "As normal as rain in Reth." He shrugged, and in one violent motion stabbed at Trass again. Trass flew out of the way, knocking Alan over in the process. "Or not! That was -- it seemed to pull at my hand! How strange."

Brian charged into them, knocked Deis over with his shoulder, and reclaimed the sword. "Enough fucking around!"

Trass laughed. "You stupid bastard! I've eaten the hearts of demons! Why should stabbing me kill me? I don't get it," he added. He shook his head. With dawning awe, Alan realized that Trass really didn't get it. In a serious, fundamental way -- he was like a young child who had been given a gun for christmas and not told that using it was wrong. Was Trass actually a child? Or was he simply some kind of idiot savant? The way he spoke and acted was not typical magalomaniacal behavior. It wasn't really consistent with anything [i]but[/i] a child, petulant and spoiled.

"Come down here, coward!" The younger brother's shouts filled the sky, his words punctuated by the heavy beating of the demon's wings. "Face me!"

Through all the yelling, Gren was trying to ignore the pain and crawl towards his allies. It was tough going, though. Although he could feel both palms press against the chilled grass, in his mind he saw his right hand holding a dagger, swinging it up into his brain, pulling it out, juice and blood just spilling everywhere, then back in to stem the tide, then out, each swing accompanied by very real twangs of pain. Movement went slowly. He could barely hear anything, his ears were so filled with blood -- but not, Gren told himself, not really. This was devil's magic. This was Trass's true power. He whimpered and sobbed but kept on moving anyways.

Just before he reached Alan and Brian, something heavy landed on his back and crushed him to the ground. He didn't need to look to see what -- who -- it was. He didn't have enough breath left to yell, or do anything but lay there. The sudden force had stunned him so badly that the images had stopped. Or did Trass simply think it was time for something new?

Through the murky distance a voice bubbled up. It was... Alan? He was shouting something to Brian. Something to do with the sword. Then he heard his name, over and over. Gren! Gren!

"Gren! Grab the sword!"

Grab the sword? What sword? Gren looked around, and sure enough, it sat almost right in front of his face. But grab it? Why? He did as he was told, anyways. He could barely see; his eyes had been watering and still felt like they'd been stabbed out. The blade cut the insides of his palms. What was he doing?

Despite the obvious potential of a trap, Trass just stood there. He was smiling his wicked smile at Brian. "I wonder how much longer he can live like this. I weigh a lot, y'know. This armor was special-made for me; extra heavy for others, extra light for me. Isn't that cool?"

Oh. Gren figured it out. He tugged the sword out of the ground (which wasn't hard, as it was barely hanging on in the first place) and sent a burst of electricity through it. Trass started to tumble forwards just as the sword started to tilt upwards, inexorably coming towards one another. The sudden release of weight was heaven-sent; Gren rolled out from under the falling demon and let loose his first unhindered breath in minutes. It scraped his throat and he started coughing. Brackish blood splattered all over his side, and his coughing stopped along with his heartbeat, frozen in fear that it might poison him.

Trass's center eyes were squeezed shut in pain. The other four darted back and forth. His wings beat against the ground as he attempted to right himself. Brian laughed, harsh and cruel. "Shows you, asshole!" Trass found his way back to his feet, wavered slightly. This time he'd been stabbed in something vital. Alan was sure of it.

With a soft thud the sword landed on the ground next to Gren. The blade was coated in ichor, which reflected a kind of anti-light that hurt Gren's already-aching eyes.

When Trass spoke next, his voice was much deeper, and every word was laced with pain. "Fine. Whatever. You win. But I'm tired of playing. Brian, come here." Brian did, much to his own chagrin and every effort to stay where he was. Alan attempted to tug at his arm, but it was like pulling at a stone statue.

Brian tried to avoid looking at Trass's face, but his head lifted of its own accord.

"You have two choices. I kill you where you stand or you follow me. If I kill you, I'm going to kill Gren as well -- there'll be no one left to stop me. This world is a lot more peculiar than you think; looking at Alan's thoughts has already shown me a lot of very interesting things. Things you'll never know if you die, and that I will tell you if you follow me. I know you're curious, Brian -- nothing that anyone does seems to make much sense, does it? All this talk of Gaia and Mars, of the Golden Lands and Gods. It's not quite logical, is it? It doesn't fit with a sane worldview. I apologize for my previous crudity; there is more than one 'me' in this vessel, this body -- this avatar. I swear that I will not act so madly.

"All of which is irrelevant, because if you don't follow me now [i]I will kill you.[/i]"

Brian's geas is suddenly freed; his shoulders slump and he turns his head away. Disgusted, he realizes that he might rather live and serve this monster than do the honorable thing and die. He was raised better than that. Just as he opens his mouth to tell Trass to shove it, though, Gren says: "Don't forget what happened to mother and father." Brian remembers: he remembers the pyre and the promise to forget agreed by all the stupid villagers, and the implicit agreement by his own brother to support that madness. It just doesn't make sense.

"Fine. I'll go." He pauses, then adds: "If only to strangle you later."

There is something even more frightening about Trass's smile than before. It seems like it fits his monstrous face this time; it isn't a human wearing a mask, but a demon wearing a human. "That will be a most interesting night."

The two disappear.