Merrin felt the sure pooling of tears. He looked down at the silent Moeash. No, not in front of him. Not now, I need to save them.
That was the only objective.
Just then, he sensed the gradual warming of his hand. The sound came. A familiar click. A rolling of metal chimes, similar to the pounding of iron against stone. Merrin looked straight, and a figure, tall, looming, face ensconced in a glass helm. He wore black, arms, shoulders, and knees padded with a hard fabric. A sword rested on his right, a chain dragging from his left. By some unknown means of visual confirmation, the resolute awareness that before him stood a familiar excubitor pressed in. It was undeniable, like a strange beckoning. Before him was the same guardsman who dragged him with chains. He came again—a reenactment of the past.
Merrin lowered Moeash gently. "I surrender. Don't kill anyone. I surrender," he said, "But get help for them—a cleanseWitch. The mines must have one."
The helm caught the light of some far-off lamp. It gleamed like a head alit with pure radiance. The excubitor dragged the sword forward, pressing it into the earth before him. A swift motion that betrayed the land's natural solidity.
He said, voice like howling wind. "No. They would serve better as fuel for the lamps!"
Merrin scowled. "But, I brought light. Nightfell has more radiance than it ever has. Please, you don't need them. No, take me, I can do it again. I can give light. Just save him—them."
Again. "No," he said—a powerful vocal assertion that announced finality. "The mines maintain their decorum with the right punishment. But you, you mock it. A caster, sure, but still a darkCrown. You disobey the rules. No casting, you were told, casting you did." He pulled the chains forward. It rattled and coiled disharmoniously over the floor. "That cannot be allowed. First—"
"Wait!" Ashmen instincts triggered, and Merrin, in a fit of swift motions, grabbed Moeash and rolled. A blade struck the ground, a crack formed, and a sigh sounded. Merrin panted. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" The words were wrenched from him.
The excubitor, standing there, rested his hands on the queer blade and said, "As I said, you need punishment. It can't be administered directly to you, but this would do." He vanished.
His coming! The sureness screamed within—but the hesitation locked strong. What could he do? This was an Excubior. Strength incarnate. I can't stop them. The man flash formed before him, sword coming down in a life-reaping swing.
Instincts!
Merrin rolled again and heard the sword slash into the earth. The sound came, and a figmental image of slashed land blurred into his mind. This was a distraction, one the mind blurred out with trained precipitancy. He knew then, in the contest of speed, the excubitor enskied above him. But what about others?
What am I doing? This is an Excubitor. I can't do anything. The man vanished again—the wind whistled an emergence. And it did. In the same suddenness as before, the Excubitor's blade came down, and Merrin repeated—or so he thought. The sword changed path, swinging to the side, not from above. Oh, the wrongness in that. Merrin was now rolling towards it, instead of away.
The blade thinned through the air, coming. Absolute. Unstoppable. Coming. Protect Moeash! Singular, the thought burned, and Merrin, in some hidden strength, raised his shoulders, shielding Moeash's face. The blade connected. Blood spewed.
Merrin ached with the pain, looked up, and saw the startlement in the Excubitor's motions. He said he was not to harm directly. This was a breach of that. A useful breach. He jumped, rolled, cradled Moeash, and ran. Down the stone ladder. Down into the deeper mines, that was where he was to go. Protect Moeash. Protect moeash. The recursive thought sang.
He could not fight an Excubitor. A mere foolish attempt that would only bring further harm. No, I need to escape. Moeash needs aid. Maybe I can even heal him, but not here. I need to protect him. Protect them all.
He heard a rattling. What? Something coiled around his leg. He looked down. Hard. A chain. No! The world swirled. He flung into the air, strength waning just enough for Moeash to slip out of grip, rolling over the floor.
No!
He flew down, banging against the earth. That brought terrible pain—an arching of the head like hammer against bone. He struggled against it, panting, hand pushed on land. He looked up and saw then, Moeash sprawled over the ground, blood spilling. Cloth dirtied. And above him stood the Excubitor—a silent figure. Death incarnate. He raised his sword.
"No!" Merrin screamed, grabbed the chain tied around his leg, freed it, and tossed it. As the reflective blade came down, the iron chain coiled around the excubitor's hand, halting the descent. He froze a moment, indecision stemming from surprise. That was enough.
Merrin felt the screaming warnings. Disengage. Disengage. Do not fight an Excubitor. That is death. But he forced silence upon them, gritted and rebounded the chains. The Excubitor staggered—a mere few steps. Then nothing. Merrin still pulled, groaning, but the man, the giant of a guardsman, seemed solid. Unmovable.
"What do you think would happen here?" The Excubitor said.
Merrin said through clenched teeth. "You can't have him! Take me, leave him. Leave them."
There was silence—horrible, nerve-breaking silence. "I DON'T WANT THEM!" The Excubitor with one hurl, lunched Merrin forward. He saw a fist—it got bigger, he slammed back, head banging on the floor. Oh, the headache. He gasped, saw again the gradual motioning of the Excubitor. He was bringing the sword down. On moeash—certain death.
This dulled the pain, and Merrin ran, took up the chain, and swung it. I can't fight him, but I must hold him. Tie him up somehow. He's too strong, but…this this. The procession broke. Action ruled.
The chain curved around the Excubitor's hand, tying it. He growled now. A powerful form of sound, like the scream of a storm. I must tie down the storm! I must hold down the storm!
Merrin found the awareness pushed away, instincts remained. Protect. Protect. The Excubitor grunted, and Merrin roared, rooted his feet, hunched his back, and drew forward. The chain flung, dragging the Excubitor. He flew overhead, smashing into the floor, stone shattered, ground quaking..
Did I?
He moved, and the awareness blurred. Merrin ran forward, took the chains, jumped, his knee pushing into the Excubitor's chest. A sound came—a wordless noise. It didn't matter. Merrin looked to that queer helm, saw the reflection. Rage looked back. Wide eyes, teeth clenched. Kill him!
A moment. Merrin rounded the chains around the Excubitor's neck. An instant faster than the blade that swung forward—his cloth, however, a line appeared on the front. Inches from flesh. A risk…But a worthy one. He pulled back, strained the chains, noted the Excubitor retaliating with his hands clenched over the metal. No time. The rage spoke now—How dare they try to kill his people? Merrin doubled the rackle around his hand, took ideation from the dance of self.
This brought a collection of possible actions. He chose and swung. The Excubitor staggered up, fury burning in the loud roar he released. It mattered not. Not to Merrin. Not to anyone. He ran forward, a strange thing he recognized—same too, for the Excubitor staggered back to the sudden approach.
A mistake.
Merrin stopped, jumped, drawing the chain with him. Oh, the excubitor was dumbfounded by this display. This was the way of the ash. To fall—but where, when? The chain fell, wrapping around the sole free hand of the Guardsman. He was bound now, both hands tied strongly with chains. Rusted, yes, but strong in the age-worn manner.
Again, the roar. "You misting fool!" The excubitor called, "You dare attack an Excubitor?"
"I must save them!" Merrin barely said through the delectation of what had been done. Heavens, he had confined an Excubitor. This is—He heard the force clanking of the chains. They tightened, pulling forward. What? Now, the Excubitor rooted on his knees, head bent, arms staining. That brought startling prescience. He was to break the chains.
No, no, no!
"This is legal grounds for the death of those followers of yours!" The excubitor sneered, and Merrin saw the envisioned scene of blood spewed, bodies marred. Death. Lifeless. The sun witnesses, dead without a witness.
I can't! Merrin ran, jumped over the Excubitor, rolling the chains around his neck. His face met the glass helm, the chains tight around the strong guardsman's neck. "Don't do that, please. Don't do that!"
A laugh. "It's gonna happen." The chains contracted—it seemed a scream. An inevitability of freedom for the Excubitor.
Merrin, again. "You can stop! By the almighty, you can stop!"
"My oath would not allow." A sneering remark. "I will carve his head and make you eat from it. We have days for that."
"Please."
"No!"
Merrin wept within. Turned, grabbed the queer blade on the floor, and slashed up. There was silence. A defeating starkness that boomed with no words. He trembled there and knew himself a sinner again. Another life. He refused to look front. Oh, what has he done