Chapter 157 - One

I.

There exists a world set apart from man, and his struggles. A bountiful pleasure-garden, where all of one's needs are cared for without strife nor hardship, nor fear of death. A place where even man and beast could coexist in harmony. 

This world was called Paradise.

Israphiel strode through the garden in the cool of the day, his long, blonde beard and pure white robes trailing as he went.

"El!" The old man beckoned. "Come out, come out!"

Normally she would have popped out of the bushes by now, hopping and skipping full of glee, to embrace him and talk excitedly about her day.

In many ways, she was the light of his life. With that smile. Her laughter. A childlike innocence that never faded. Israphiel had seen so many of his other brothers and sisters fall to darkness, but she would surely never. Hers was the one light that would never fade, even long after his own inevitable turn. Even toward the end of time, he found solace in believing that she would never change.

Cheeky girl, where are you hiding now?

He checked all of her usual haunts -- groves of fruit-bearing trees with shiny plums always ripe for the picking, among the roving herds and families of God's creations, and flowing fields of flowers. Neither was she swimming in the crystal blue basin fed by a roaring waterfall.

It was then, it dawned on him there was still one place he hadn't yet searched.

There was one fruit tree in the garden he'd warned her to never eat from. A tree he'd tried to dispose of before, only for another fruit tree in the garden to wither and take its place. Its function, even, to always be that one imperfection to be found in all of the wide expanse of the garden. As if by design.

When he approached it, he saw a half-bitten core on the ground by its roots. He saw the alien flies that had gathered around its rotted innards, buzzing noisily.

Israphiel could not deny the truth any longer, after that.

El was gone from the garden. 

II.

An impressive fighting force of two dozen or so men on horses sallied forth across a barren desert, armed with scimitars, pikes, and sheer grit. Mercenaries, they were called. Soldiers of fortune, who made their livings off fighting, blood and nail, in brutal conquests that no one else was up to the task for.

They halted at a tall dune, their destination just on the other side of it. In this case a fort, marked by royal purple standards emblazoned with the symbol of the golden ankh, fluttering in the light breeze. 

For a while there was only the sound of horses rustling, and snorting. Armor pieces clinking.

Typhon glanced around at the other mercenaries expectantly. Then, up at his father, as he remained completely still in his saddle, his gaze fixed forward. At the ripe age of fourteen years, Typhon was by far the youngest member of the company, although still considered a man by the one-size-fits-all standards of the Ishtari. He wore a robber's mask that covered the upper parts of his face, with curly dark locks for hair – by all means, lacking the rugged appearance of his contemporaries.

Waiting with the rest of the crew, he felt a great unease like he always did at he start of a new job. Like maybe this time he'd slip up, and it'd be his last.

But he pushed these fears to the back of his mind.

Everyone's counting on me.

For some while they all continued to wait, the sun rising to their backs. Until, a loud horn sounded in the distance. Typhon knew it had come from the fort to signal that the front gates were about to be opened. 

Baraba held his scimitar up high, rousing his men to arms. 

Here was their window.

Following this cue, Typhon dismounted to advance quietly by himself, on foot. As unlike the others, he had no business sticking along for the main assault. 

Rather, his work called for a bit more subtlety. 

In a chorus of battle cries, it was like an explosion going off after a long fuse as the full force of Baraba's men descended through the fort's wide open gates, sweeping up the first wave of unsuspecting soldiers in the courtyard. While Typhon, taking advantage of their distraction, went about the fort, room by room, packing away any loose valuables he could get his hands on. 

Moving slowly, he would duck into the shadows to hide from the soldiers that would run through the corridors, to join in on the fighting outside. 

III.

Elias du Chevalier knelt down beside his bunk in the cramped guard barracks, his hands clasped and eyes closed in solemn meditation His delicately groomed light blonde hair and colorful clothes made him immediately stand out when put against his mostly gray surroundings.

"All the pieces are in position," he heard a voice – the voice – whisper.

Elias could sense the presence of his master, looming just over his shoulder, but having learned well from the first time they'd communicated like this, he did not dare turn to meet it.

"Proceed as planned," the voice commanded. "Do not lose sight of the girl, when the time comes."

Just then, Elias turned his head at the sound of footsteps. Someone was running along the adjacent hall. Thereafter, one of the fort guardsmen abruptly poked his head into the room, noticing Elias there. Alone.

"Up on your feet, mercenary!" The soldiers barked. "There's a battle going on!"

Elias rose, his downcast eyes facing the wall. "I was just finishing with my prayers," He calmly answered, every word sounding postured like the spiel of a self-obsessed orator, punctuated by a curious accent not often heard in this part of the world. "Not that it matters to me, whether your people win or lose today."

He turned to the man, bearing a cold stare in his crystal blue eyes.

"Mertrurian lout!" Elias spat. "This fort belongs to your emperor -- so shouldn't you be out there? Staking your life to hold down this fort?"

The guardsman's nostrils flared in anger. 

"Damn foreigners," he scoffed. 

Then, was off again in a sprint, to rejoin the fray.

Elias rolled his eyes. 

A pithy insult, he mused. 'Foreigner' was a distinction worn like a badge of honor, by a proud Fralian such as he.

This whole desert could turn to rot for all he cared -- he was only here on a mission.

At that time, Elias heard light fabric grazing against stone -- movement -- prompting him to survey his tight surroundings once more. His gaze quickly honed in on the short, cloaked figure that was huddled closed to the ground with its back to him, in the narrow walk space that cut between the two rows of bunk beds.

In this figure's clutches was a gaudy, wide-brimmed gentleman's hat, adorned by a colorful sash of fine silk and stuck with a peacock's feather.

"What have we here?" Elias sneered. "A thieving little rat!"

Typhon turned at the sound of his voice, just in time to narrowly dodge a rapier point that came dangerously close to his neck.

"It really is a nice hat," Typhon said, smiling sheepishly.

"Nice is what a farmer and his fat wife wear to church on Sunday!" Elias snapped back, flourishing his rapier of finest silver. "That is a precious Chevalier heirloom!"

"Now give it here, you Ishtar brat!"

Typhon ran. He bolted down the same hallway he'd come, still quick on his feet despite the added weight of his bag of pilfered goods. 

Elias gave chase, keeping pace with his rapier at the ready. 

They made it as far as the double wooden doors that would have taken Typhon back outside, but for a hulking, massive enemy soldier that burst through them suddenly, their massive steel plate armor and the head of their equipped mace glistening with freshly drawn blood.

Elias caught up from behind, meaning he was now effectively cornered. 

"Hah!" Elias laughed. "Fortune never favors a foolhardy thief!"

Typhon held up his knife to the hat. "Don't come any closer, or I'm filling this ugly hat with holes!" He stood with his back to the wall, so he could keep an eye on both the soldier at the door and Elias at once. 

Elias winced, and instantly froze. 

"Damn you." He seethed. "Stall if you insist, but that's all you'll be doing."

Typhon swallowed nervously. He had no doubt he'd lose, if the two of them were to fight. Indeed, there were many reasons why he wasn't outside fighting with the rest of the mercenaries -- not the least of which was the fact he couldn't fight to save his life. In this case, literally. 

If he was to make it out of there alive, he would have to be crafty.

"You know, it isn't proper, the way you Ishtari scum conduct yourselves," Elias said. "Plundering and pillaging are the trade of brigands, and highway robbers."

Typhon squinted his eyes, ignoring the Fralian's ramblings to focus more on his movements.

Elias sighed, giving a shrug as the tip of his rapier glistened in a slim bolt of sunlight. "Although I suppose I shouldn't expect any sense of honor in a thieving urchin such as you..."

There it is! Typhon thought. The opening he needed.

Without a moment's hesitation he swung his bag of loot like a stone in a sling, catching Elias squarely in his unprotected groin. 

The so-called gentleman let out a high-pitched yelp, before crumpling to his knees. 

"Bastard...rat!" He grimaced.

But Typhon had already soared past him, easily outrunning the bulky soldier at the door.

Suppressing his laughter, he made a mad dash through the fort.

He didn't slow until he was passing by the civilian quarters, where the women and children of the fort could do little but cower together in fear until the battle was won, their fates hanging in the balance. Their clothes were loose and ragged and their heads all shaved, indicating their status as slaves.

Typhon halted in front of the doorway to peek in at them, feeling more than a tinge of pity.

"It'll be alright," he awkwardly said, unto a sea of cold, judging stares.