Enclave

by Brandon Varnell

  Samantha, despite her dislike of the danger it put the one using it in, had applauded it as one of the most ingenious fighting styles ever created.

  Yet despite how amazing it was, it had several weaknesses.

  Wide area assaults, such as an entire wall exploding, sending thousands of sharp, deadly projectiles in the form of wooden splinters, was one of them.

  Unable to do anything more than cover his face and what vitals he could with his arms, Christian found himself being relentlessly pelted by wood splinters. Several of them managed to pierce his body. One of the larger ones stabbed into the left side of his torso. A dozen small splinters pierced his left arm. One large piece of wood smashed into his right arm, breaking it at the elbow. Christian just barely bit back a scream of pain, even as two more several inch-long splinters stabbed his thighs, sending him to his knees.

  His swords clattered to the ground. Christian winced as he moved his right hand over his body, grasping the large wooden splinter and yanking it out. He clenched his teeth, biting back a cry. The splinter dropped from his hand, which moved back to the wound, already pouring with blood, staining his shirt and pants.

  It hurt. By the Almighty did it hurt. No matter how many times he got stabbed, that intense flare of pain that came with it never got any easier to bear. Even now, despite feeling the wound slowly close, agony still lanced out from the wound, causing his brain to jolt as its receptors received the pain.

  The rumbling of feet pounding the ground caused Christian to look up. Another troll towered over him, a large shadow that blotted out all the lights. Its eyes, dark and filled with a primitive rage, glared down at him. Troll’s were basic creatures, violent and stupid. They didn’t have the ability for complex thought, and the only things they seemed capable of understanding was their need for food, sleep, and killing.

  He could see the desire in those eyes, the need to kill.

  It raised one gigantic hand nearly twice the size of Christian’s head, the club it carried held high. His legs were pierced by several shards of wood. He didn’t have enough time to pull them out and let the wounds heal.

  Christian tried to move. He really did. He didn’t want to die there, kneeling on the floor, completely helpless. But trying was completely different from doing. The fact was he couldn’t move. The bones in his legs lanced with white hot anguish at even the slightest twitch. His muscles spasmed and shook more fiercely than a leaf caught in a tornado. He could do nothing but look up and glare defiantly into the troll that was about to kill him.

  He thought he heard screaming. Someone calling his name. Maybe even multiple someone’s. He couldn’t be sure. He could hear nothing. Nothing but the harsh, guttural growls of the foul-smelling creature before him.

  The club came down—

  —and was then inexplicably yanked to the side. It crashed into the ground. The troll blinked. Christian blinked. Then the club was lifted again, and the troll’s arm was swung wide. It struck the side of one of its brethren, bashing the other troll’s face in and sending it stumbling back. Bloodied with what appeared to be a broken nose and several missing teeth, that troll roared, a bellow of outrage, before it returned the blow that had been dealt with a crushing hammer swing upon the other troll’s head.

  Gravity works in its favor. No matter how hard the head of a troll was, it couldn’t withstand the forceful downward swing of another troll.

  The head was crushed like a three-hundred-pound body builder stepping on a grape.

  There was no contest.

  “Come on!” A voice shouted in Christian’s ear. An arm grabbed him by the armpit and began pulling him back. Christian just barely managed to pick up his swords as he was forcefully pulled along, dragged across the ground, to the stairs, where Lilith stood at the bottom, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes.

  He was dropped to the ground in front of her. She knelt, her hands making frantic movements, like she wanted to do something but didn’t quite know what. “Oh, God. You’re injured.”

  “Yeah.”

  Christian almost felt like rolling his eyes. Those words actually deserved a sarcastic response, but this was Lilith, and she was worried for him. He couldn’t find it in himself to respond with sarcasm.

  “W-what should I do?”

  “Help me pull these out. Start with the ones in my arm.”

  Lilith did as asked. Heedless of the blood that became caked to her hands, she pulled the wooden shards embedded into his flesh out. Christian gasped, pain lancing along his nerves as one of the dozen splinters in his arm was removed. Lilith’s hand jerked back at the sound, dropping the splinter to the floor.

  “A-are you okay?”

  “No.” Christian gritted his teeth. “And I probably won’t be until all of those are pulled out. Keep going, please.”

  Lilith quivered but nodded. She reached out, grabbing the next one, then yanking. Christian sucked in a deep breath, hissing. Another was soon removed. Then another. And another. One by one they were yanked from his arm, which began to hiss and steam as the cells were fused together.

  Christian did what he could to numb the pain, or at least distract himself. He looked at the lobby that had become a battleground. Leon had taken his place and was taking great joy in swinging Sandalphon around, bashing it against the body parts and faces of trolls with the kind of barbarianism you’d expect to see from a caveman. His joyful laughter rang out clearly over the roar of combat.

  Christian shook his head.

  “I can’t believe you would do this,” Lilith said as she continued pulling splinters from his arm. There were only a few left now, six, no five.

  “Do what?”

  “Keep throwing yourself into danger like that,” she hissed, prying another shard from his flesh. Christian winced. That one had hurt more than the others. “Every time we’re facing some kind of danger, you just rush in without thinking. Don’t you ever give any thoughts to your own safety?”

  “Of course, I do.” Christian frowned, then winced again when another brutal yank caused his arm to jolt in pain. “But my safety is secondary to the safety of others.”

  “You should try thinking about yourself for once.”

  Christian shook his head. Lilith didn’t understand. He was a protector. His purpose was to protect. Humanity. The weak and defenseless. And now Lilith. He had to protect her. Any danger to her had to be exterminated with extreme prejudice. That had become his task and duty, his purpose in life.

  “Don’t bother trying to talk sense into him,” Tristin said, coming down the stairs. “He’s an idiot who doesn’t listen to anyone unless it suits his purpose.”

  Christian grunted. Lilith had finished with the splinters in his arm, and now had both hands wrapped around one of the larger fragments in his thigh. Gritting her teeth, muscles straining, she yanked, prying the shard out in a spurt of crimson gore.

  “I resent that,” Christian said, shuddering, his breathing heavy as he tried to stifle his urge to scream in pain. That shard must have hit a bundle of nerves or something because that really hurt.

  “Resent it all you want, my friend. It doesn’t change the fact that you have no sense of self-preservation.”

  Christian didn’t say anything. Partly because he had nothing to say, but also because Lilith was pulling out the second of the large shards. He bit his lips, muffled groans escaping his mouth. It was all he could do not to shout in anguish.

  The shard was soon pulled free. Christian released a slow, hissing breath, the pain spreading out, then numbing as the wound began to heal, the flesh knitting together at a steady, if ponderous, pace.

  Tristin saw this and whistled. “That’s interesting.”

  Christian gave a noncommittal grunt as he and Lilith pressed their hands onto the wounds in his legs, trying to stem the flow of blood while they healed. He didn’t want to pass out from blood loss. His head was already beginning to feel light and dizzy.

  Their allies were beginning to get overwhel
med. Without Christian to help stem the tide of enemies, Andrew, Leon, Samantha, and Sif were forced to retreat, losing ground with each second. It wasn’t long before the only space they were left defending was the staircase.

  The fighting then stopped, startling the defenders.

  A surging pressure filled the room. It was choking. Stifling. None of the defenders dared breath for fear of breaking this silence.

  Footsteps approached from outside. Unhurried and unconcerned, the sound reverberated around the room.

  The sea of goblins and trolls parted, allowing the person in question to walk forward. It was a man. He wasn’t very tall, but neither was he short. Dark, neatly combed hair with a part down the middle sat atop a pale face. His sideburns had turned gray, which, when combined with his salt and pepper goatee, made him look distinguished. Eyes the color of granite peered out from sunken in sockets, complimenting the gauntness of his cheeks.

  A cape flowed behind him as he walked, dark purple lined with silver, billowing out as if it had a life of its own. His clothes looked like they belonged in a Renaissance fair: a short-sleeved brown leather jerkin worn over a padded, lace-up cotton gambeson of an off-white color, the sleeves of which were laced with Nordic designs; a pair of fitting black cotton velvet pants adorned his legs; he wore dark leather boots and equally dark gloves. Strapped to his waist was a double wrap belt, attached to which was a Celtic sword sheathed in hardened leather.

  The man’s eyes, cold and emotionless in ways Christian could scarcely comprehend, glanced at the group, pausing on him and Lilith.

  “You two,” he said, eloquent and articulate, his tone like velvet. He sounded almost as smooth as Tristin when the incubus was hitting up a member of the opposite sex. “You are the ones who have been giving my master so much trouble.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Christian said when everyone stared at the two of them. “I have no clue what he’s talking about.”

  “It matters not if you know of that which I am speaking of,” the man said. “My master will be very pleased with me when I bring him your heads.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Leon!” Samantha barked.

  “Aye!”

  Leon laughed as he swung Sandalphon around like it weighed less than a feather. Every goblin within five feet were subsequently blown off their feet when the overpowered swing smacked them. The crunching of bones as they were broken was overpowered by the shrieks emitted by each goblin struck as they were sent flying off, some hitting the walls, while other simply soared through the air until they struck the ground.

  Most did not get back up.

  Her path now clear, Samantha darted forward, Zaphkiel sliding out of its sheath at lightning speeds as she swung it. The blade, soaring straight for the man’s throat, was abruptly halted by the Celtic sword that had appeared in his hand so quickly Samantha swore he used magic.

  Sparks flew. The two ground weapons against each other before Samantha was pushed back by the gaunt male’s greater strength. For someone who was so pathetically thin and bony, he had an awful amount of power.

  The man swung his Celtic sword. Samantha raised her sword, sheath and all, blocking the blade with two hands, one on Zaphkiel’s hilt, and the other near the edge of her sheath.

  Using the advantage granted to her via her grip, she spun sheath and sword in a clockwise circle, disentangling the two weapons and causing the Celtic blade to strike the wooden ground, which became embedded deep within the surface.

  She then struck out with her blade again, using her Iado technique to pull her sword from its sheath at speeds that would normally be impossible for most humans. The man clicked his tongue as he was forced to jump back, pulling his sword out of the ground and soaring across the room.

  Samantha took off in hot pursuit.

  ***

  Most people who knew her tended to fall under the belief that Sif was cold and uncaring, and they would be right, to an extent.

  Sif was an unusual woman in that she believed emotions hampered a person’s judgment. It was only when looking at things from a cold, logical perspective that people could truly perceive the world around them as it was meant to be perceived and make the correct decisions. Some people called that cold, but Sif preferred to think of it practical.

  As she looked at the situation she found herself in, the chaos around her, the roar of battle, and Leon’s laughter, Sif felt the part of herself that was cold, logical, and unfeeling warm up. While not as enthusiastic as her partner, Sif did enjoy battle. It was what made her such a good Executioner.

  Her body moved before she became consciously aware of it, feet gliding along the surface floor. The first goblin in her path, one that thought to stick a sword in Leon’s back, was felled when she pushed Daniel, the gauntlet on her left hand, into its lower vertebrae. The creature cried out, its body falling limp as the weapon was pulled from its spine.

  She moved onto her next enemy, gliding toward Leon’s right as her giant partner smashed a goblin like a tomato, crushing it into the floor. Gladreel, her right gauntlet, found purchase in the pliant flesh under a goblin’s chin. It sank through the skin, into the mouth, through the roof, piercing the brain, killing it instantly.

  Another success.

  Gunshots began going off. Sif, after killing another goblin by severing the tendons in its neck, saw Christian sitting on the staircase, firing rounds into as many goblins as he could. The rate of his fire was insane. All twelve bullets from each gun were discharged in less than a split second. Not only were all the bullets fired in about .002 seconds, but every shot was a headshot. Christian then reloaded the guns in less than a second and fired again.

  So, that was the famous quick load ability? It was one of the two skills that had earned Christian his place among the XIII. How terrifying.

  Turning back to the battle, Sif leapt into the air, catching a goblin with a heel kick to the face. It reared back as struck, stumbling into one of its brethren. Sif spun, Daniel slicing a into the throat of a goblin on her left. She then thrust Gadreel forward, impaling the goblin that recovered from her spin kick through the chest.

  The roar of a troll filled the air, followed swiftly by Leon’s laughter. The roar, a loud bellow, was abruptly cut off. After Sif finished tearing five long gashes in a goblin’s stomach, she turned her head to see one of the trolls already dead, its face crushed inwards, various fluids leaking from its mouth and eyes.

  Leon’s laughter permeated the air, joyful, like a kid who’d just been told Christmas had come early.

  “Come, troll! Let us see if your strength is a match for mine.”

  The answering roar was met by a bellowing laugh. Sif shook her head. At least someone was enjoying themselves.

  ***

  Samantha and the gaunt man traded strikes at unparalleled speeds. Flashes of light emitted between them as he used his Celtic sword to try and slay the former Executioner commander. Using her unique two-handed grip, the young woman, her raven hair flowing with her movements, maneuvered both sword and sheath to intercept the blows coming her way.

  A strike from below was blocked and diverted to the side. Another came from above but merely glided off the sheath as Samantha held it at an angle above her head. Two thrusts came back to back in quick succession, each one avoided when Samantha stepped back and to the left.

  A pause appeared in the battle as both combatants took a step back to reassess the situation. Samantha used that time to also catch her breath, something that her opponent did not seem to need.

  “Faust,” he said.

  Samantha paused. “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Faust.” He smiled. “I thought you’d like to know the name of the man who killed you.”

  She twitched. “Do not speak of killing someone when you have yet to actually kill them.”

  “Hmph!”

  The two engaged again, dashing forward and meeting in the middle. Sparks and flashes emitted from between them as sword met sheath. The sound o
f metal grinding against metal, of clanging weapons, resounded through the air.

  Samantha moved left, shuffling to avoid a blow to her face, bringing up her sheath at the same time. She thought she had avoided his attack, but a sharp sting and the feeling of blood trailing down her cheek let her know she was a second too late to react.

  “First blood goes to me.” Faust smiled again.

  Samantha narrowed her eyes.

  Deciding to go on the offensive after deflecting another series of strikes, the young woman knelt, shifted her grip on Zaphkiel, then dashed at Faust with speed. She slid her blade out of its sheath and was upon Faust in a flash.

  A flurry of strikes were defended against by the faultlessly swift movements of impeccable swordsmanship. Faust managed to block most of the lightning quick strikes. Those he could not block were dodged by swaying his body from one side to the other. His feet shuffled, moving him backwards as Samantha pressed her attack. After exactly five seconds, he struck back.

  The first blow crashed against Samantha’s sword, causing her arms to move wide. The second attack would have impaled her through the chest, but she proved quick in turning her body sideways and leaning back. She still ended up receiving a cut across her bosoms, but it was a light wound compared to what she could have received.

  “Second blood goes to me, too. It looks like you Executioners are not as strong as I thought.”

  Her lips pursing, Samantha rushed forward and attacked using a more methodical and basic stance. She watched as the man arrogantly batted aside her sword strikes. He looked like he wasn’t even paying attention anymore.