The Grim Legion

by Kindred Ult

  Samael roared more and tore his stick from the ground to swing it in one hand to the side, which Demenn dodged under by bending his knees and sliding over. He used that movement to stab upwards into Samael's body, but then he had to jump back to avoid getting smashed and impaled, and then to the side of another probable death stroke. Samael simply kept stepping forward, swinging twice with each step and kicking and punching with all of his might, growling all of the way. Demenn dodged, skipped, leapt, rolled, jumped, and did everything in his power to dodge the attacks that he simply could not take or block, and even managed to get in a few more cuts, but nothing that was going to be able to stop Samael any time soon. At that point, it was simply a matter of which of them could last longer. Samael was exhausting more energy, but he arguably had more to give, while Demenn had to perform complex dodging patterns with three holes in his body.

  Then, however, Samael began to slow down as his attacks became more sluggish, and his breathing heavy. Demenn noticed this, and put more energy into his dodging and counterattacks, waiting for the perfect moment. He did not have to wait long. Samael had slammed his stick into the ground, which Demenn had slid to the side of, and then kicked out. Demenn, seeing his opportunity, spun towards the kick once and just barely went past it. Then he was inside Samael's guard, and there was nothing the latter could do with all of his attacks spent. Demenn brought his spear back, but then saw a flash of movement, and for just a moment saw Samael's remaining wing heading towards his face. Then everything went black, and Demenn fell to the ground.

  Samael barked a loud report of victory, and he smiled as he had before, but this time it looked different—more feral and ferocious than enjoyable, and his raised his bladed weapon above his head with both hands and swung it down. Yelling in triumph as he did.

  In a flash, three Other form vampires were under the weapon, and their weapons stopped the stick, although the three of them recoiled from the strength. The one closest to Demenn, Valdivai, immediately took control. Her two kama-clubs were crossed just inside the crook, and the blade was inches from her shoulder.

  "Diana!"

  Another Other form vampire flew behind Samael and launched her sword-whip around him. The whip spun around him several times before it caught and the blade turned inwards, catching on the inside of his shoulder blade and keeping him from breaking free.

  "Bilal."

  The vampire in front, with a screw sword, stepped back while still holding it up to the pole, and the vampire in the middle stepped forward and placed his sword with many other blades to the pole. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then smiled and began rotating the sword back and forth with his wrists and fingers, twirling it, and its many other swords, around and around the pole. He then abruptly stopped, spun the other way, stopped, spun, and continued this, moving the pole back and forth through the strength and placement of the perpendicular blades. When the pole was moving in unison with the sword, he stopped again, shifted the sword just a fraction, which guided it to a shorter blade, spun it to the right, which caught it between two crossed blades, pulled it up sharply, and spun the sword around, bringing the pole with it despite Samael's raged attempts to stop it. Finally, he shot forward and lifted the sword until a blade bent at a ninety-degree angle to be a hook was above the pole. With a final stomp, he shoved the sword down, and the hook caught the pole and pulled it from Samael's iron grip. It fell to the ground, and Julius quickly snatched it up.

  "Would have been easier if you two weren't holding onto the other half of it." Bilal muttered as he kept his sword in front of him and circled to one side of Samael.

  "If you want to block his attack on your own, be my guest." Valdivai rolled her shoulders experimentally. "Anyway, how do we get him out of this? Last time he got like this he was at it for months."

  "Let me try." Another vampire, not in his other form, walked up to Samael and looked up into his eyes. "Calm yourself, Samael. It was a good fight, and you won. Let that be all. He was strong, and he lasted for a very long time. Be satisfied."

  Slowly, Samael's face lost its menacing visage, which was replaced by a look that was a mixture of happiness and apprehension. He grinned sheepishly.

  "Sorry about that everyone, just got a little carried away, it all. That wall really did a number on me. I'm okay now, you can let me go Diana."

  With a shrug, She flicked her wrist, and the sword disengaged itself from his shoulder blade while the rest of the whip simply fell to the ground. When she did, Valdivai, Bilal, and Julius all sheathed their weapons in their various sheaths, while the captain of the first unit looked over Samael's wounds and Diana curled up her whip. They all shifted down into their regular forms as well.

  "I think he should be okay." The captain looked to the others. "His wounds were not too bad."

  "The same goes for this guy." They all turned to see Ezekiel kneeling over Demenn's body with his palm outstretched. He looked like he was concentrating. "He's got some deep punctures, but that last hit was superficial, only knocked him out. All of the rest will heal with some blood too. In all, your most controlled fight yet Samael."

  Samael obviously could not tell if he was being serious or making fun of him, so he just smiled like he always did. "Thanks Zeke, I kind of did get too crazy on him there at the end, though. Sorry."

  "You should probably tell him that when he wakes up." Ezekiel smiled. "Good thing he still has two more days to recover. We'll need men like him for the battle."

  "All I know is that I'm not saving him again." Julius spat on the ground. "Next time he decided to take on a first class werewolf without his Other form, I'm just gonna' laugh at him and let him die. Ah, crap." He yanked his sword out of his body, looked down, and shoved it back in again. "Did it too fast last time, missed a bit."

  "I agree," the captain of the first unit said, walking up to Demenn. "He will have to realize that there is a limit to honor if he wants to survive in this war. If he does that, he may just prove to be the best of us."

  Samael pulled Demenn onto his shoulder and they all began to walk away.

  "Still, I think he would have won if he had been in his Other form, don't you guys?" Ezekiel said as they walked.

  "Shaddap." Was his only reply from Samael.

  Afterthought

  21

  AfterthoughtThere were many towers in the vampires' city, and they shot into the air like bladed spires over the huddled forms of the lesser buildings. None could boast the knowledge of what each and every tower held, of even when it had been built. To many, the towers had simply always been there, and served as little purpose as the artificial constellations that littered the pseudo-sky above them—as many of them had never been inside one, or even seen the entrance to one. Those who hold that view, however, are drastically mistaken, for each and every one of those towers serves a distinct purpose. Some were filled with enormous vats of magically preserved blood, and others held countless weapons of every imaginable shape and function, while others were filled with cells to store either human slaves or vampires who, for any number of reasons, have been deemed unfit to live in normal society.

  It was to the last of these that a figure walked. He was a dapper vampire, which, while not entirely usual, was also not an oddity in vampire society. For while there were many warriors amongst the vampires, there were even more that simply lived their lives as if nothing were different from a normal society save for the fact that they drank blood instead of devouring flesh to live. There were those who were completely oblivious of the war, or who would consider it only in the prospect of being able to expand their holdings, and there were those who flooded the gambling houses in an attempt to bet on who would win the war. So it should come as no surprise that there were those who wished to pretend that nothing had truly changed since they had become damned, and among those were a sect who wore clothes of the latest fashion among the Cattle. How they discovered those fashions is certainly a far larger secret than any other in that for
est.

  Regardless, this man walked with the dignified air of one who was simply traversing through an area of which he had nothing to do with. The sound of his cane clacked against the cobblestone, and his top hat was tucked into one neatly bent arm. Many who passed him by, especially in this area of the city, would sneer at him, but none would pay him very much heed save those who begged from the alleyways, and they were far too emaciated from lack of blood to do more than call out to those who passed by for money or blood. He ignored their calls, as any of his class save the most benevolent would do, and continued walking towards the tower, which was placed in the middle of a courtyard that the locals had taken to using for a bazaar of sorts to sell their wares.

  Wading through the press of the populace, the vampire eventually found himself at the very tower itself, with its impossible smooth walls shooting up to the sky that showed no sign of craftsmanship. As any religious one would, he brought up his hand with the hat in it and placed it on the wall as if in passing, but scarcely had he done so when he disappeared from sight.

  The crowd was so great that not more than a dozen people saw him whisked away. Half of them passed it off as an oddity, while the other half claimed that it was divine judgement for touching one of the spires with a great trespass in one's life. What none of them saw, however, was the vampire reappear inside the tower and place the top hat upon his head.

  When he did, his entire visage changed. His face morphed completely, and the expression went from one of amiable superiority to one of abject hate and anger. His clothes changed from those of a dapper to one dressed in leather, with large boots, and a strange hat upon his head. If one looked hard enough under the hat, one would be able to see the terrifying scar of the crucifix still burned into his forehead.

  He stood in a small room, with only one doorway, and a desk right next to it with a vampire sitting behind it. The vampire looked up from the papers in front of her and smiled. "Good evening mister Dimitrious."

  He did not return her courtesy, but immediately demanded the condition of the prisoner. The woman nodded absently. "He is being well taken care of, and has even been growing slightly stronger over the years. As it is, though, he will never be able to completely recover unless he is given a large amount of blood."

  "Good." Dimitrious stepped past her and into a large winding stairway with doors at every twenty feet or so. He began walking up the stairway, enjoying the strange screams he heard every once in awhile. This was a prison for the insane of the society, those who had let their bloodlust overcome them and became beasts who would attack anything with blood inside it—the bloodwraths, and those whom someone had paid enough money to have put here. It was, of course, the latter of these that Dimitrious was here to see, and he once again lamented having the vampire placed at the top of the tower, as he would once again have to walk all of the way to the top.

  Just as he always did, though, he thought of seeing the prisoner's face, and that was enough for him to walk up the seemingly endless flight of stairs until he reached the doorway at the end of it. Reaching into his cloak, he withdrew a bundle of keys and, after fingering through them and finding the correct one, placed it into the lock of the door and turned it. A subtle shift ran through the air, followed by a loud clank, and he pushed the door forward.

  Inside the cell at the top of the tower was a spacious, comfortably furnished circular room. A fire burned inside a hearth, but no smoke came from it, and the warmth that came from it was negligible. In front of the fire were two large, cushioned chairs, and sitting in one of those was the withered form of what looked to be a very old vampire. He was facing away from Dimitrious, who walked to the second chair and sat down.

  The other vampire took no notice of Dimitrious, but simply sat staring into the fire. In fact, if not for his occasional blink of the eyes, Dimitrious might have assumed that he was dead. It was funny, Dimitrious though, without any true humor in his mind, how he always thought that seeing his old foe like this would make him happy, but instead he only felt hollow and angry. It was as if he still regretted not defeating him with his own strength rather than political subterfuge.

  Finally, it was the other who stirred, turned his decrepit head, and spoke to Dimitrious. His voice was inconsistent and reedy, and it wavered back and forth as if it were ready to break at any moment. "So, what brings you to my humble throne room, Dimitrious?"

  So he was going for sarcasm. Either that or he was finally completely mad. "You know very well. I want your memories on what Lucifer said about the next champion."

  "Lucifer…Lucifer?" The old one brought a shaking hand to scratch his balding head in bewilderment. "I do not think I can remember anyone named Lucifer. Pretty name though."

  Definitely sarcasm. He was becoming childish in his old years. "I know that you remember, Preatias. You've never forgotten a single thing since you were created. Why do you think I still keep you alive even after I defeated you?"

  Preatias smiled, straightened in his chair, and spoke again. Now his voice was firm, and of a much deeper tone than before. Despite his elderly appearance, he still sounded like a young man when he spoke. That was another aspect of him that Dimitrious had always despised. "Oh? Has something happened to the prospective you had in mind only a little while ago? You seemed to think that he fit the ideal perfectly."

  Dimitrious was loosing patience. "That is of little importance. Now tell me."

  "You seem to dislike playful banter more and more as the years pass, Dimitrious. I think you may be getting older." Seeing Dimitrious' expression, however, Preatias wisely decided to forgo any further jabs, and settled back into his chair while closing his eyes. For a moment he was silent, but then, as if from another's mouth, words came from him in a slow, chanting cadence.

  "The next champion will be a powerful warrior, but that is not all that will be required. The next champion must also be fighting purely for reasons not of his own. Finally, the champion must be fighting for revenge for the loss of one very close to him."

  When he was done, he opened his eyes and stared at Dimitrious, who was mulling over the information, as he had many times in the past. Although this time he reacted differently than the pensive, wondering, anticipatory mood before. Now he seemed disappointed; a mood that, when expressed by Dimitrious, was not passive, but destructive.

  "Can it be that you have finally found your elusive champion Dimitrious?"

  Dimitrious for once did not mind the conversation, as it allowed him to vent. "I thought I had, I truly did. He fit the mold so perfectly, especially the revenge, but he rejected Lucifer's gifts completely when we offered them to him. Lucifer even personally met with him, which he hasn't done in ages, but he still rejected him and all of us. Are you sure that was all of the prophecy from the first champion?"

  "Would I still be alive if my memory were not perfect?" Preatias chuckled slightly.

  "No, no you would not." Wearying of the banter, Dimitrious rose to leave, but before he made it to the door Preatias called out to him. He turned about, for a reason he knew not. "Yes?"

  "Who was your choice for champion?"

  "That information is hardly necessary for one of your position." Dimitrious went to leave again, but was stopped in his tracks by Preatias' next words.

  "It was Demenn, was it not?"

  This time he whirled around, and fire was in his eyes. His words were cold as ice, and stuck together like tar. Very slowly, he said, "How do you know that name?"

  "Oh?" Undaunted by Dimitrious' terrifying visage, Preatias had a look of one secretly enjoying himself. "And here I thought you knew everything that happened in our fair city."

  "Tell me!" Dimitrious' voice sparked in anger as he yelled, and a darker undertone ran through it. "Tell me or I swear I'll kill you where you sit and feast on the last of your blood."

  "Calm yourself, Dimitrious." Preatias was absolutely enjoying himself. "Demenn was my pupil, long ago. I found him in some city and brought him back here to train a
s my student. None of you ever knew because I never allowed myself to be seen with him and he was smart enough to not incite much curiosity towards himself by not standing out above the crowd. He always harbored thoughts of revenge, though, even though I did all that was within my power to stop him, and even tried to escape so that he could kill his enemies. I stopped him many times, but one night I allowed him to go. He undoubtedly thinks that he caused my death by not being near me those nights, but I purposefully let him go so that he would not be here when you were."

  "So he's your student." Dimitrious had fought down his rage from earlier, and was back to his superior demeanor. "I suppose that would be why he rejected us. You always were a glorious bastard. Always bent on doing what was right, even though you were as damned as the rest of us. I suppose you struck your dogma into him then." He paused when Preatias chuckled with humor.