Not today! Merrin bent, the beast striking past, crashing into the earth. No time. The Ashman is in the air, surging the power for the brief flight. Into the air, he shot for a slanted pillar. These constructs reminded him of the truth of the undermines. This was a castle—a city, wrought with walls, grabables, mountains. The Ashman within sought to frolic through its maze.
But not now.
Now required a different kind of desire: To live. To survive. Merrin glided over a hill, turned, and steered the flowing winds, trampling the pursuer. A moment, and the Bastard was battered down into the earth, caving in the solidity. Yet it lived. The awareness of that was undeniable. A creature did not survive a legion of burns to die against a rock.
The pride of it made it impossible.
But time—this had provided the much-needed instant. Use them! He dived down a slope, kicking off against the earth.
I need to lead it into more explosions! But it knows where they are, I doubt it would fall for them again.
There was always the way of direct confrontation—one on one—bastard against El'shadie. A possible failure. Merrin sensed that potentiality, saw it with the heightening of the mental awareness. Not a matter of unseen power but a thing of physical might. As a vested cater, El'shadie, he enjoyed a certain measure of spectacular prowess.
The beast was better. Faster, stronger, more durable.
A single stroke from those claws and Merrin sails the sea of souls.
Better to avoid them then!
If only.
Stones crumbled in the distance behind—he heard it. The thudding noises, the rhythm of padding feet, not his, something else. Heavier. Ashman senses provided a mental-visual representation of the happenings. The Bastard running, piercing through stones, pouncing from wall to wall, pillar to pillar, hill to hill. Coming. Searching.
It's Faster than Me! The constant churning pool spewed out that conclusion. Absolute in their authenticity. No Point running! Merrin turned and observed the spread of walls before him. Narrow paths cutting through the vale-like formation. Which route would it take?
He produced a stone, tucked safely on his person. Oddly, Enavro was the one who was convinced of their usage. "Use it in case it finds you." Strange how she was, but another female who proved Caster's logic was not omnipotent.
He paused for a moment: Was she truly a woman? How would I know? This, of course, he noted as the mental anodyne it was. No matter, gripping the stoneknife in the right hand, he sensed the startings of self-dance. Perhaps it knew of the need for it. Today, two possibilities can be the only outcome: Either the world will need itself a new El'shadie or the Bastard will be no more.
Which would it be?
Merrin opened his legs, bending. I must see it through….For them!
The Beast broke through the face of the wall—no need for a road, the action said. It would think itself victorious, powerful in the suddenness of its emergence. Except...Merrin hurled the stone, an explosion rocking the beast into the earth.
I have seen it! Caster mentation was surging to maddening heights. Merrin tightened the grip over the stoneknife. It's now or never. He dashed, cutting the wind, tasting its kiss over his cheeks. Into the fray. Jumping down, he swiped at the cloud of rising smoke. Hopeful. Maybe, just maybe. The Beast's head will be caught by the attack.
Again, reality made that mocking gesture.
Nothing. His blade hacked through the dark air, a clawed hand tearing through the smoke, aiming for his head. Death. A single stroke from that, and he—Merrin flowed to the side. Wind movement. In the Grayworld, he conducted the transient weaves across his form. Over the moving legs, the striking arms. Shoulders, knees. Everything. Like a cloth, he wore the gust.
The Beast showed its rage at that, roaring, trembling the world. "COME HERE, WORM!"
Merrin offered no response, knowing the risk it contained. One did not stoke the flames of a beast—even this one. Yet, the outcome was the opposite. The creature howled in that blood-shuddering intensity. It burns with anger. A thing fueled by self-pride. It would think: That worm dares keep silence to my words. It must die.
Indeed, something must die!
Merrin heaved a warm breath, fell into that absolute trance of the dance. Felt the surging serenity, repeated the familiar breathing style. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Over and over. The beast is upon him, maw wide open, ready to cull whatever stands before it.
Not today!
Merrin turned, tossed the knife into his left hand, and drilled it into the beast's neck. A bare moment, and he kicked off against the earth, leaving the weapon lodged in the beast. Let it enjoy the gift. Let it enjoy the pain it now endures. Yet, this was not the end. The creature rolled across the earth, tumbling down pillars. Alive still. Not for long; this was the desired outcome.
He dashed, the mind computing data at that exceptional speed. Somehow, he knew the totality of the internal force had achieved some level of higher status. Experience had hinted at such possibilities. The more he used the force, drained it, the stronger it returned.
A pattern visible in muscle training.
Perhaps?
He broke out of the thought, descended on the writhing creature. Atop its fur skin, searing hot, Merrin grasped the poking knife, digging into the beast's throat. Recursive. There was a certain fervour in that action—not that it mattered. There was only now, the action, and the wanted outcome. The beast grabbed Merrin by the leg, flinging him as the rag he likely was. Into a wall—the rising of blood in the throat acted as a tell of the inner damage.
But there was the need—it moved him, powered, drowning out the obvious pain lording over his body. By the wind, he sped into the creature, bent, dodging a swipe of the clawed hands. To the side of the beast, he punched in stone. Not much damage was done from that. Again, he repeated on a bruised, burnt patch on the beast's torso.
That elicited a mighty cry, nearly losing his head to a blow from the Bastard. It was beyond the rage now; this, he sensed, was a presentation of the survival desire. At all costs, regardless of what, survive. This ruled the action of the beast. It knew it now. Something was different. Something, not a worm or stone, stood before it. No longer was it the predator, decider of the living, but merely a beast. A creature to be hunted by the higher one.
Him!
"YOU ARE MINE!' Merrin screamed, gripped the beast by the throat, barely covering the length of it. But enough for the needed. The knife. He had reached it, plunging the entirety into the bastard. Blood spewed out from the exit wound, drenching him in that dark crimson color. Good. But the creature existed, yet with a level of anger. Both arms came curling around Merrin—to crush him in their embrace, no doubt.
Powered by the dance, he took to the air, arched, and flung up the wind weaves. The beast was launched into the air, puncturing the earth, dust, smoke, and quakes, rumbling all things.
Merrin breathed and fell out of the trance.
"It's done?" The question admitted itself with a smile across his face. Did I actually kill it? Something greater than myself, and not with the power of that greyworld. No Ardent. Nothing. The beast did not die to the El'shadie but to the Caster and Ashman.
How?
An Orgasmic sensation surged through him, eyes flickering in that rapid succession. He knew this event—the lessening of thrill—the power that kicked the charged self in battle. He accepted it, exhaled, and treaded towards the rummage of the beast's descent. There, in the heart of the chaos, was the dark corpse of the bastard. Blood, steaming off the earth like tendrils of white rising to the sky.
How carefully he moved now, slow and steady. Ready for any suddenness. Potentialities. What he needed now was a piece to prove the hunt. An Arm, A leg, a nail. Anything to confirm with Auwale.
Let me be quick about this…He reached the Bastard, awareness divided between thoughts: Beware of the Bastard, Yoid had said that. Why? The Beast was surely strong, yes, but nothing compared to the things here. Auwale could end it in a second; the whiteMother, Orvane, he suspected, could do the same. Even the Aelmiren could achieve such sameness with surety. Why then was it a thing to be aware of?
Perhaps he could attribute this warning to the deduction of Yoid. At the time of the utterance, he was far weaker than now. This could have prompted the words—a desire to keep me safe? Memory refitted the moment of Yoid's betrayal. To keep me safe so he could get into the Greyworld!