Moss Moon and the Lunar Spring, Part 21

>You are Anon, and you are losing your mind
>It is as if the sequence of events now unfolding are happening to someone else, and you are merely watching
>And yet you can feel your body, feel the stones beneath your feet, feel the crunch of bone and sinew as your blade takes another life
>Silence
>You stand, breathing heavily, in the darkness of the chamber, ducking your head to fit in the squat structure built for bat ponies, not for humans
>The corpse of another mercenary lies bisected against the wall, his sword still gripped in his dead hand
"How long - will you make me do this?" you ask, forcing the words out through gritted teeth
>Even as you protest, your feet are carrying you out the door, out to the next target
>"Do you equivocate?" the Goddess asks, her voice coldly bereft of emotion.  "Do not forget who it was who allowed you to once again draw breath."
>You feel a twinge, a dull sense of irony
>You know who is truly responsible for keeping you alive
>For saving you again and again
"I want to help - her - "
>"My servants all must play their parts," comes the reply.  "Your life is mine to do with as I see fit.  That was our bargain."
>You know that there are no words that can change her mind, no words that can free you
>You are trapped in your bond to the Goddess
>Again and again you kill, guided from red form to red form, seeking the human stragglers who now hide in the homes of those they once terrorized
>It becomes a blur to you, another dream
>You remember being Boy, remember watching the villages as they burned, the shadows of Father and of Cutter and all their warriors slaying and torturing
>Is this vengeance?  Is this your penitence?
>Not yet.  Not yet.
>Not until they are all gone.
>Your hand tightens consciously around the hilt of your sword.
>The Goddess' rage is your rage, her bloodlust your bloodlust
>Through a haze of red you cut down man after man
>It is only after some indeterminate time - it could have been minutes, or an hour, though it felt like a year, and like no time at all - that you find yourself wandering down a long, wide street
>You become vaguely aware of shadows ahead, creatures whose dreams you cannot see
>Bat ponies
>On the ground lie two dead humans, their blood seeping into the gutter
>Near them lie the bodies of two ponies, attended by a large, white mare
>She's nuzzling one, and does not turn to look at you
>Vaguely you are aware of a wounded stallion, still standing, the only one paying you any attention, brandishing a spear
>"Murphy!  Murphy, shoot him!"  he cries.  When nothing happens, he curses under his breath.  "Bastard, he's abandoned us."
>For a long moment you regard the scene in detachment, as if in a drunken stupor, struggling to speak
>"Back off!" the stallion shouts.  "I"ll kill you where you stand, human!"
"I've been killing humans all night," you finally say.  "I have no quarrel with you."
>The white mare turns her head to look at you, coldly appraising you with her ice blue eyes.
>"Leave him," the mare says.  "This one no threat.  He is friend of witch.  The bound."
>After she says this, a loud groan comes up from the stallion by her hooves
>"Oh, for Goddess' sake," you hear.  "What justice is there that those two are still alive?  I swear, this night just keeps getting worse."
>Past the white mare, you see him:  Hunter Killer, slumped against a wall, a forelimb folded across his belly
>He coughs.  Blood.  He squints angrily in your direction
>"Well?  What is it?" he demands.  "Can't you see we're busy?"
"What happened?"
>"Cutter happened.  We fought.  Killed his men, sent him running with his tail between his legs."
>He laughs, darkly, a wretched sound that ends with him gasping for breath.  Anja rests a hoof on his shoulder.
>"'But Captain,'" Hunter Killer crows, in an affected, dopey voice, "'humans don't have tails!'"
>His gaze drops to the form of the fallen pony beside him
>"That's what Niebler would say, if he wasn't dead."  He sighs.  "Oh poor, dead Niebler.  I'll be joining him soon."
>The white mare hisses.  "Don't be of saying this.  You are strong.  You will live."
>"I appreciate your optimism Anja.  But I'm already dead.  My body's just too dumb to realize it yet."
>Hunter Killer winces, shifting the bloodied hoof on his abdomen.  The coils of his shredded intestines are visible in the gathered shadows.
>"Bastard gutted me but good.  But he died for it," he says.  He kicks the head of one of the dead humans.  "Oh, did he die.  His screams almost distracted me from the blinding pain.  Almost."
"Where did Cutter go?" you ask.
>"Back to the fire I reckon.   That's where I saw him heading.  Coward ran soon as the cavalry arrived."
>A flicker of pride briefly softens Anja's grim expression.
>"You'll finish him off, won't you?" Hunter Killer continues.  "Consider that an order, from me to you.  I want this human scum eradicated.  You understand, don't you?"
>Another bright, hacking laugh.
>"Fate has such a ridiculous sense of humor.  Where is your friend, anyway?"
"She's looking after the others.  The bats who live here."
>Hunter Killer snorts.  "What?  Are you serious?  Ha!"  he shakes his head.  "What a poor fool.  A bound helping the ones who hate her.  She'd be better leaving this place and never looking back."
>Part of you agrees.  Part of you admires Moss Moon.  All of you wishes to see her again.  You stay silent.
>"Get going, then," Hunter Killer says.  "At least finished what we started.  It's the least we can do.  This revolution's over before it could even begin.  What a waste."
>His two companions stare at the ground, at their dead comrade, their wounded leader, but say nothing
>"Take me outside," Hunter Killer continues. "I want to see the sky before I kick off."
>Together his companions stoop to support him.  "Go on!"  he cries.  "I don't want to say it again!"
>But already you are moving on, leaving them behind.
>Heading back to the great bonfire, where Cutter surely awaits.
>As you pass through the shaded alleyways, heading for that distant red glow, you become aware of another presence in this place
>An immense pressure emanating from somewhere ahead, a wave of air that seems to cling to your very body
>You can sense a new emotion from the Goddess.  Anxiety.   Caution.  She is alert now, you can feel it.  But she says nothing yet.  Watching.  Waiting.
>The air is eerily heavy when you step into the Stronghold's center
>Smoke billows from the bonfire, sending up hundreds of glowing embers as the flames lick toward the high rock ceiling
"Why can't I see him?" you ask, in your mind
>"Be silent," the Goddess hisses.  "Concentrate."
>You do as you are bid, slowly circling the fire, looking for any sign of Cutter, any movement, any sound
>You know he is nearby, you can feel his dreaming, but you cannot see his shape
>In the instant you become aware, it is only by reflex that you survive
>Leaping to the side, you narrowly avoid the spinning knife as it sails through the air where you once stood
>"Boy…"
>There, in the mouth of an alleyway adjoining the courtyard, stands the lanky silhouette of Cutter
>He leans upon the black blade - Father's sword - its edge pressed down into the stones
>The feeling of pressure has magnified a hundredfold around him, and the air itself trembles like a mirage
>"That is no blade," the Goddess spits, reading your thoughts.  "That is the Horn of my Enemy, whose torn body lies in the depths of the Far North.  Even now he haunts me.  Every moment of his existence is an insult to my rule!"  She is shrieking now in your ear.  "You will destroy him, mortal!  Destroy him in my name!"
>Cutter regards you coldly from afar
>"I'm so glad we could see each other, one last time," he calls.  "I don't know how you escaped, nor how you still draw breath.  But I must admit, it pleases me to no end.  I so wanted to watch you die."
>Through him you can see his dreaming, an undulating, horrible mass, but something is shading it, obfuscating its true form
>Something vast, cyclopean beyond measure, emanating from the weapon he holds before him
>You have nothing to say to him.  You draw your sword.
>As if your mirror, Cutter kicks the Black Horn up onto his shoulder.  "I will enjoy killing you, Boy."  He cackles.  "As will your Father."
>Slowly you approach, your sword held away from your body, defensive against his long blade
>His range is far greater; you will have to cut past the arc of his swing to reach his body, a dangerous maneuver
>You find yourself wishing for a spear, anything to give you an advantage
>It is only with vague surprise that you realize that the Goddess has already responded, morphing the dream of your sword into a long-hafted halberd
>Cutter's black eyes widen in amazement.  "What sorcery is this?"
>You give him no time to ponder, charging immediately, fronting your weapon's razor sharp point
>Your opponent is no true warrior, a pale imitation of the man who once wielded the weapon he holds
>Letting out a strangled cry, Cutter turns and flees into the alleyway, escaping into the shadows
>Something ominous and angry pulses in the air, the omnipresent feeling of pressure reverberating with inutterable words spoken from some far distant place
>In response the Goddess' elation pounds in your ears, urging you on, commanding you to give chase
>Even as you rush after your quarry, the atmosphere gives you pause
>Something is not right
>"Go, go!" comes the Goddess' feverish cry.  "He is in rout!  Finish him now, now!"
>You struggle to resist her sudden derangement, her single-minded focus on destruction, but it drives you on, on
>You charge forward, after Cutter, after the Black Horn, toward you know not what.