Those Beyond Forgiveness

Military: Skirmish

Knight-Gendarme Waxim watched as the great black ship grew closer on the horizon. It was indeed just where they'd been told. If their information was the be further believed, this was a ship of slavers; scum who kidnapped innocent people, inflicted horrors upon them, and sold them for profit. Waxim's stomach churned at the thought. Nobody deserved that.   He felt a soft presence appear next to his shoulder. Artiya'il. "Everyone deserves an opportunity to redeem themselves, Waxim," she whispered in his ear. "Find it in your heart to give them that chance." Yet as the Quartet Royale gained on their looming target, Waxim found he could not speak to answer.

Waxim opened his eyes. People were shouting around him now. The silvery sound of unsheathed weapons and the thud of boarding hooks sounded as the Quartet Royale drew alongside the Black Galleon. He opened his eyes again, the eyes within, and beheld. These Black Galleon Slavers crowded on the opposite deck were not men. Not as he understood it. There was something within them, but it could hardly be called a soul. It was withered, twisted, and cruel.   "Waxim..." Artiya'il's plea in his ear.   "Non." With one white-plated gauntlet, Waxim reached up and pulled his visor down. "Some things are beyond forgiveness."   The Royale's deck creaked beneath him as Waxim crouched. Radiant power suffused the legs of his armor, then released with a mighty crack as he leapt. The ships were easily fifty feet away from each other still, but he cleared it easily, slamming into the massed slavers like a cannon shot. His blade, Redeemer, was heavy in his hand as it cut through the first line of his foes. The slavers screamed and fell back, but two more took the place of every one he had slain. They crowded around his sides, pikes and barbed nets slamming against his light-infused armor. Given time, they might overwhelm him, but these were no foes for a true Knight-Gendarme.   By the time the Royale's boarding party clambered over the ropes and joined the fray, Waxim had cut open a sizeable space for them. Black blood stained the deck and leaked down the knight's armor without leaving a mark, but there always seemed to be more slavers. They threw themselves at him relentlessly, as though driven mad by some unseen will. And, indeed, there was something in the air here. Something malevolent, which picked at the edges of Waxim's mind for a way in. As the slaver before him fell with Redeemer buried in its shoulder, he found his answer.   There, on top of the upper deck, stood a figure wreathed in black robes and a golden mask. This was a slaver as well, no doubt, but of an order higher than the fodder around him. "Orat," Waxim spoke in his mind as he pulled his blade loose and pointed it at the figure. "Grant my wish."   A sound like tearing fabric ripped through the air, then Vizier Orat was suddenly behind the robed figure. Space warped and broke as, before the robed one could so much as react, Orat pierced his back with a rot-flecked hand. Waxim winced. No matter how many times he'd seen it, it always made him nauseous to watch Orat "un-incarnate" someone. When it was over, only a few scraps of black fabric and the golden mask itself clattered to the ground amidst a rain of perfect void crystals.   Yet the alien presence in the air had not dissipated. Waxim drove his plated gauntlet into a slaver's face and kicked another one off the deck while his eyes scanned beneath his visor. What was driving these not-men to attack with such abandon? Nay, with the numbers still pouring up from the lower decks, could something be creating or summoning them? He searched through the nearby door and into the staircase beyond, turning once before it presumably led deeper into the ship's hold. An idea occurred to Waxim. He'd have to be very lucky; but then again, luck was always on his side.   "Tambouriner!" he called. From the shadows of the deck, the reflections in the dark pools of blood, something expressed its annoyance at being woken. The faint smell of juniper filled the air. Waxim's outstretched gauntlet filled with an eerie blue-green light, which then solidified into a wooden spear. For all its lack of a metal point, vines and flowers studded along its length, the weapon was wickedly sharp and thrummed with presence. "Let's hope we get lucky." Something unseen rolled its eyes at him.   Jumping above the deck, blasting the slavers around him aside, Waxim threw the spear downward with all his force. If he were fortunate, this would strike whatever mastermind was behind all this. If not, it might strike a captive, or pierce the boat's hull and sink them all. With his eyes closed as the weapon left his grip, Waxim prayed.   For a moment nothing happened. Then, every slaver around him clutched their heads and screamed in unison. The crew of the Royale didn't miss the opportunity. Blades and boarding lances found their marks and struck down a dozen incapacitated slavers before they could recover. Yet Waxim's attention was on the deck below, and the horrible presence which was chewing its way upward toward him. He leaped back just in time as something monstrous, pallid, and turgid white burst forth from below. Its forward bulk opened, revealing two rows of massive, uncomfortably human teeth to snap shut where he'd been standing just a moment before. Waxim tightened his grip around Redeemer as the Moonbeast pulled itself wetly through the hole and seemed to ready its powerful back legs for a leap.   Yet when the attack came, it was no charge or wild swing. Waxim saw the briefest shimmer in the air before something struck the side of his head through the helmet. The right side of his skull screamed in agony as he staggered from the force of it. No, that hadn't hit his skull at all. Something whipping and coiling in the air had passed through all his defenses and directly impacted his brain. Shaking off the static which filled his head, Waxim managed to throw himself to the ground as another barely-glimpsed whip passed over him.   As he clambered to his feet, he realized immediately something was very wrong. The left side of Waxim's face was numb, and the image before him seemed to wobble in and out of depth. He could barely stand on his left leg. The monster in front of him smiled, reached out, and plucked him from the ground. His arms were weak, his vision still swimming, and that mouth was growing ever closer. Artiya'il's healing caress warmed the side of his head, healing the wound within, yet it would be too slow.   The Moonbeast's maw opened wide.   Then, it was Waxim who smiled, because he'd just seen the darkness of Vizier Orat's hood rise up from the deck behind the beast. "I knew you'd come for me, mon ami," he slurred.   The shriek that burst from the Moonbeast came not from its mouth, but seemed to originate in the minds of everyone present simultaneously. No doubt this beast would be too monstrous to un-incarnate all at once, but Orat had other tricks within his cloak. This one, a rusted dagger with its hilt flecked in blood, was now driven into the creature's back up to the guard. Waxim had been on the wrong side of that weapon once before, and knew well that there was no protection against the pain spell it channeled once the blade was in one's flesh. What's more, his angel's ministrations had finished. The Knight-Gendarme's brain was functioning properly once again.   Rays of light streamed from the joints of Waxim's armor as he suffused it with power, then forced the Moonbeast's hand open with a mighty flex. "Now, let us finish this!" With a backflip, he flew through the air and landed a few feet away from the monster, sabatons thudding against moist earth. Indeed, the ship had vanished entirely around them and the sky was dark. Through the canopy of trees above, the full moon hung low in the sky. All was silent, save for the distant thudding of hooves and braying of hounds. The floral spear shimmered into Maxim's hand. "If there is a heaven for creatures like you, I hope you find peace there." The Moonbeast screamed in fury and terror.   --   They took the slaves aboard the Quartet Royale and scuttled the Galleon when it was all over. There were too many evil deeds soaked into the vessel, and the fight had destroyed its deck beyond what could be repaired at sea regardless. As the crew tended to those rescued, Waxim wearily trudged his way below deck. As he went, he passed the woman they'd taken aboard in the south. What did they call her, Shibai? She smiled at him, but he merely nodded in response. She'd no doubt watched the battle, but had Waxim seen her among the boarding party? It didn't matter, in the end.   Reaching his own quarters, Waxim removed his helmet and collapsed into a chair. The furniture creaked dangerously under his armor until he remembered to cancel out his own weight. Calling upon Tambouriner's power so many times, not to mention the exchange demanded by Orat, had taken a toll upon him. He would need rest, but they should be safe now.   "You didn't even give them a chance to speak..." Artiya'il's accused him as she manifested, seated primly in the other chair.   "I did not," Waxim admitted, "But you saw them. You saw their souls, what they are."   She nodded slowly, "I did, but I am of Chesed. You know that, Waxim. What it means."   "Oui. I do. And I'm sorry." He bowed his head to her.   Silence filled the cabin for a long moment.   "Waxim?" Artiya'il asked.   "Yes?"   "I forgive you."