Pepper / INK /

Protect the Seven

When the light had faded, there were two figures, regal in their finery. The brocades and silks embroidered with silver glimmered in the last rays of the sun, seeming to make them shimmer. All over them ink writhed and moved, obscuring them. They were not the young boys they had been, rather they looked older, and larger. Back-to-back they stood, for a moment without moving. And then, as if they had been doing this together all their lives, they both clapped their hands, and were holding bladed weapons. Far superior to the ones a moon alchemist could make, these were blessed weapons. These were Inkwalker blades. Called blades of justice, they were capable, in a single stroke of not only breaking an enchantment, but also of making sure it cannot be recast.

In perfect synch they raised their weapons, one bearing double curved blades, one in each hand, the other a pole-arm. To say that they ’fought’ would be a disservice to the type of mastery they had. They danced, weaving, bending and twisting among the living, the dead, and the living dead, and wherever the blades touched, the dead fell and did not rise again.

Hands and blades would stop short if one of the seven got in the way, unable or unwilling to kill a friend. It took only minutes for them to clear a path for the stranded ones to make their way to Max. And they stood with him, weapons drawn.

From out of the gathering night there came people, at first the Taskforce worried that these were more risen, or even Becomers, a Necromancers most powerful tool, but they were lunars. Some standing, some kneeling with their hands to the ground they were singing the song of night, drawing in the moonlight and pushing Max’s sigils out to form a barrier, and as the barrier reached each group standing outside, they began to sing, pushing it still farther. They were forming a circle across which the Necromancer could not cast, cutting off his reinforcements. If they could box him in, his magic should break, allowing the police to regain what was left of their minds, if the sickness and magic hadn’t taken it all already.

But the melody rang out still, high and clear, low and solid, it continued, voices in harmony, each unique variation of the song making more interesting, there were those who could pull healing magic, and those who could pull only protection, and there were those who could sing the master song like Max, who could do some of everything. And all of them sang, lending their power to the wall being built.

The dead, at last seemed to figure out what was going on, and lunged for the open side of the circle, trying to take as many of them down as they could and break through the lines. But for every person that fell, another two stepped up singing.

And then the others came. Solars, singing the harmony, the song of the day. It started with a single voice, Claire. And then with her were others and still others, filling in the gaps where the lunars had fallen they began to sing, adding their voices to the ones already singing, and their power to the spell. It was rare to see something like this happen, but then again, it was rare to have more than one Inkwalker in the city.

But these two, they were not local, The walkers themselves might be, but their Ink was not. That was obvious by the fighting, more dancing with blades than the rough, mele style of the local Inks. These were much older beings.

The spell had gone about as far as Max could force it, even with all of the extra help, some spells just didn’t have the range, and if something didn’t change soon, he was going to lose the spell all together and chance a rebound. When you tried magic above your class, there was always a chance that if you failed the spell would rebound on you. It could be hilarious, it could be ironic, it could be downright deadly.

Only about three quarters of the circle was protected, and the edges of the spell were beginning to flicker, the first sign that he was losing it.

Neither of the Inkwalkers spoke, they just continued to fight and dance with the blades. But in a moment, the protective spell was moot, as the clouds began to gather. The song fell silent. The air tingled with electricity and magic, and if this spell went wrong they were all dead, and knew it.

One Inkwalker stood, blades at the ready, while the other knelt, hands to the ground, and the circle began to trace itself around him. Inkwalkers used an older form of Alchemy. A much more powerful and dangerous form. The circle finished with a flash of blue-white light and crack of thunder. Lightening hit the open side of the circle, not a single lunar or solar was hurt, but every dead or undead in the area dropped, and the spell was in a complete circle now. But the spell had changed, had been changed by the Inkwalkers.

It had fused, pulling all the magic they had used into a rippling band of energy protected by runes. Max could feel that it was no longer drawing power from him, so he rose to see what was going on.

Thunder crashed again, and then the lightening struck again, the Becomers were struck down, unable to rise again. The second Inkwalker still danced around the one casting, clearing a space for him. Pushing them back, giving him room.

The rain had started, but it wasn’t hard like it usually was when Inkwalkers called. This was not a rain to wash away the dead, that would come later, this was a rain to wash the air, to pull the stench of death out of the air, and break the clouds of malaise that lingered in the streets. A rain to bring hope. This was moon magic raining down on them in liquid form.

This was a rain to purify, and the dead hated it, some running in circles looking for a way out of the barrier, some attempting to stop the Inkwalker, only to meet with a silver blade. Still the Inkwalkers didn’t speak. Now on his feet again, the second Inkwalker joined his friend. They moved as one through the agitated crowd of the dead. And the dead fell in droves. But as they moved closer to the Necromancer, there were suddenly four of them. Two held scythes. No one had seen the others arrive, just, with a blink they were there.

Robert sat huddled in the corner, fighting the urge to move. He could feel the spell wanting him to rise and kill, whatever magic had been used against him was not powerful enough to bend an Inkwalker to its will even if he had forsworn the Ink.

"Be at peace," The first words either of the Inkwalkers spoke. And even the nearly silent words seemed to echo across the crowd, and everyone drew silent, even the dead. There was a long moment of unnatural silence.

The spell faded, and for a few minutes, he was his old self, but there wasn’t much left of his psyche. If he survived the fight, he’d have to be put into a care facility. The plague had ravaged him, and he was thin, his hands shook, but when the Inkwalker called him by name and placed a blade in his hand, he felt strong again. "Go defend them Heir Sefil, Be the man you were never allowed to be." The Inkwalker called him by his given name. The name he had forsaken as a child when he knew that he would endanger himself and others with the Ink.

It was as if he was a different man. Still weak, still mostly skin and bone and sallow, but as soon as the Inkwalker blade touched his hand, he sprang to his feet. He smiled at the Inkwalker and bowed before turning to walk into the fight. A hand reached out and something passed from Robert to the Inkwalker who had spoken, and Robert’s mouth moved to form a word his voice couldn’t produce and he smiled. The thing that he had passed over was a locket, the last thing he had of his wife. His son should have it.

The Inkwalker was crying as Robert waded into the mele with a blessed blade. Still the two continued on, and finally they found their prey. Damien. Standing in the center of the mele, he was surprised and horrified that they had found him, that they had found their ink.

In the end, it wasn’t the Inkwalkers that ended the battle, not really, it was the Ink.

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Next Chapter: Judgement by the ink