Chapter 22 (Mark Question)
"You are just the people I was looking for!"
The witches' first mistake was ambushing them. If only for the simple reason that she knew not their identities, their intent, nor under whose flag they traveled. Human Knights traveling companion to what was obviously an Elf. Lady Lois attired in the robes of a noblewoman. With the deed done her second mistake was freeing them just as swiftly as she'd bound them. Thusly, no sooner had the words left the witches' mouth then did a blur of motion.
Just as the lasso released them at the witches' command, so did its rightful owner retake possession of it. The elf moved swiftly, even as Kal-El and the Knights Walter and John were moving for their swords. Something was hurled at the witches face. The stranger responded with commendable reflexes, a defensive spell as she threw her hands palm forward and called, "EERF!" With a 'puff' the incoming projectile – a rock – disappeared, but the moment was lost, as the attack was simply a diversion.
With even greater surprise the newcomer found her arms encircled by the same enchanted length of rope. A backwards jerk by the elf, and the woman was tumbling forward. Before the witch was able to speak another incantation, she was caught and at their feet in a sprawling mess, sword-point at her neck.
"Hush!" the elf commanded.
Knights John and Walter were helping the now fugitive Queen Lois to her feet. Kal-El was closer to the Elf, sword in hand.
"Elves do not take kindly to having our own enchantments and magic used against us." she whispered for his ears alone.
"I can see that." Kal said simply, slightly teasing.
Time was of the essence. Every minute they wasted with bandits or ambushes meant Luthor and the Warlord's army that was much closer to marching on Gothamworth, Keystone, or even the ethereal isles of Themyscira. They had not the time, but... he was curious as to the intent behind the stranger's attack. He addressed the captured woman with the same question she'd just posed to them. "Who are you?"
As he did, Diana eased the sword-point so the woman could speak, but held it poised should she speak anything other than explanations. "No spells." she warned, waiting for the woman to answer Kal-El's query.
"Zatara, at your service. Zatanna Zatara."
A crown of long, mostly tamed black tresses covered the woman's face, giving her the appearance of a true dark mage, she managed to tilt her head back despite her predicament, exposing darkly stunning features set against blue eyes and full lips. For all her beauty and obvious ability in magic she could've been an elf, but for the fact she lacked pointed ears and where many of the woodland fairies had longish, almost aristocratically radiant features, hers were rounded.
"And I didn't attack. Not exactly." she mumbled. She wiggled her fingers in as much as she could. "Illusio." she mimed, making her point. "About the lasso, you have my apologies. I did not then know who you were."
In the background the two knights could be seen to be uncomfortable. Sir John, if aware of the strangers beauty, seemed nonplussed. Meanwhile, the younger and less "disciplined" Knight of Keystone had no such reservations. Kal-El certainly seemed to have a knack for dragging the comely ones out, maybe it was the attraction of the broken, exiled man, Walter couldn't help but wonder.
Lady Lois looked on, dismissing the two with a quiet snort of feminine disgust. Exactly how many woodland women was she to come across. It was ridiculous.
Diana observed, "You're a witch."
"Close, but wrong; I'm a sorceress."
"Why were you looking for us?"
The sorceress gave a bitter half-smile. "Revenge."
Briefly and with little overindulgence to the dramatic, the young mage told the story of her father and how he'd been captured while making sure she escaped. Not only was magic outlawed in many realms, but practitioners were literally rounded up and imprisoned -- an act which itself was simply a prelude to execution. Listening, Kal-El couldn't help but feel a pang of regret for his forced denial of all things magic, even to the point of fearing some of his own abilities. If he'd been told years ago of his origins, how he had been sent to the future, he would have, without doubt, decried it as heathen witchcraft -- magic.
Almost as though she could sense his thoughts, Diana had looked at him. And he'd bent an almost imperceptible bow, a rising of the corners of his mouth as thanks.
"And so I found you." Zatanna Zatara had finished. "Verily, I know of Themyscira. Just as I know you–" she nodded to the Kryptonian, "–you're The Last Son of Krypton."
Behind the others, Lois had frowned. Reminded of the fact everyone had discerned and she'd required to be told, and even then, she had not taken Kal-El at his word.
"My magic whispers the truth of things just as your gods bequeathed you the truth of this enchanted lasso. Just as I know," and here she indicated the fallen Kandorian Knight with a slightly droll look, "that pendant means more than just a snake. I read it through my magic just as you read parchment."
There was some debate and eventually, when the sorceress stated she wanted to help, that that was why she'd hoped to find them, it was decided that they would take her with them. She seemed genuinely repentant for her actions and an experienced magic user would help their chances greatly.
"That was reckless of me, wasn't it?" Diana commented quietly to Kal-El when the others had moved a distance away. Some of the horse had been spooked, and it took some time for them to round them up again. "My mother would scold me for having rushed in headlong as I did."
"Your mother isn't here. She would understand that we all make mistakes."
Kal was right, Diana thought, her mother wasn't there. "And what's your opinion?" the elf bid.
He commented, the barest note of teasing present in his voice. "I would conjecture that tying an elf up is folly."
Diana blushed, for some reason she couldn't quite fathom. She remembered the irresistible temptation the stalwart knight had engaged in days before at the lake. The thought sprang to her mind that they had entered into a relationship. They had kissed, and even without a title, she had known she wanted him. They had not consummated anything yet. For proprieties sake, his standing as the Last Son of Krypton assured his right to court her, but her heart needed none of that. Beloved. He could be nothing else, Diana had decided. Diana reluctantly brought her thoughts back to the task at hand.
Reaching Bludhaven was their top priority. They could only hope Bruce had been successful in reaching and convincing King Gordon. Everything else could come later. Assuming they were successful and there even was a 'later'.
It was a chilling thought.
Hippolyta and her elite guard waited, entrenched so deeply around the forests surrounding Doma that the humans had no idea of their presence. Scouts, in compliment to the regiments waiting for the command to move out, did their part, their best warriors silently scaling the impenetrable walls to see, silent footfalls keeping them unheard and unseen by the comparatively noisy humans.
A scout entered the clearing that contained the queen and the elite guard, instantly they knelt. The queen bid the young elf rise. "Report."
"It appears to be working."
The queen raised one unimpressed brow. "And you've ascertained this, how?"
"They... have not killed her yet. That, and the fortification around the northern entrance seems to be lessening."
Hippolyta, attired in her own armor not dissimilar to what her daughter wore, was stoic. Man was fickle, and prophecies could be revised and ruled obsolete. The odds of the gambit working had not been very high, in her opinion.
She dismissed the scout and admitted, "That is heartening."
If she were truthful, her heart was not entirely in the same place as her body, In the sense that she worried for her daughter. Her concern was not born of doubt in her daughter's abilities, but prudence at the sheer scope of danger she, Kal-El, and their companions faced. It hadn't been long ago that her daughter had been safe and protected within their home, now, she was battling orks and taking part in campaigns that would help shape the very future of First-Earth. A wise elf had once wrote that the only constant was change, and silently, the queen acknowledged the fact.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the Captain of the Scouts and Skirmishers, Artemis, volunteered what was perhaps not entirely an unpopular opinion. "I do not trust her."
Hippolyta withheld the urge to sigh, knowing what would come next.
"Nor I, my Queen." Magala chimed in. "How did she find us?"
Artemis continued, "And if she betrayed her people, who is to know what else she may be here to do? We are not her people. At best she's a traitor and at worst a snake in the grass."
It was late too be second-guessing the Level-headed High Priestess, Penelope, pointed out. "The question is what shall we do next."
"We can watch her for any signs of deception." Phillipus, the Captain of the guard proffered. "Minimize her involvement and knowledge in all but imminent skirmishes. But I agree, many details appear suspicious.
"My liege," Epione, the Head of the Healers, spoke for the first time, voice softer and gentler than the others, belying her craft: "A more pressing issue may be at hand: namely what precipitated this? Prince Peenflank is betrothed to the Princess, it makes no sense that they would betray us." It was a good question, and while Artemis and Phillipus already knew of the dissolved betrothal, it was, understandably, not yet common knowledge. The Healer was ignorant to the details.
Hippolyta pursed her lips. Assailed by the inevitable. "The betrothal was dissolved."
From those unaware, there was surprise, which could quickly be seen turning into approval, though they did a good job of concealing it.
"Tresstom was unsuitable. I erred in my earlier selection of him. That has since been rectified."
The implications of what that meant were clear. The surprise slowly wore off. As important as their Princess' betrothal was, there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely the five-thousand plus strong army of Doman soldiers that had gone from friend to potential foe, sitting on the inside of the castle walls. Unfortunately, the two were closely related.
"Is it possible he discovered?" Epione mused. "It would explain Doma's sudden hostility."
"It is possible, I had hoped to keep the dissolution quiet until after the war, for obvious reasons. But other explanations must not be discounted, it is possible–"
A shrill birdcall sounded above, and the participants stopped, dismissing it at first until it grew closer and the outline of a peregrine became visible in the maze of long-legged tree limbs and overgrowth they'd made camp in. The sleek, predatory bird landed high above them, flying from tree to tree, bringing it closer and closer. The sheer density of forest-growth making it necessary. The bird made to land at the feet of the queen. Hippolyta, already suspecting, put out a hand that commanded stillness as the animal began to shift into the familiar, if not welcome, form of one Patrick O'Brien.
Diana had told her about the shapeshifter, that he was a thief. The queen had never seen this one transform before, and she, along with all the others, watched with some interest.
"Ah..." he began, hunched over, "Me breath..." the shapeshifter took great gulps of air through his mouth, "Ah canna'..." huff, "Ah canna'..." huff, he wheezed and groaned until he could regain his breath enough to stand somewhat straight, and look the assembled elves in the eyes.
"Is something amiss with my daughter?"
"Eh? No. No, no, no, ah came ta warn ya. It's a..." he took another breath, "–it's a trap. Tha spineless coward Tresstom -- he betray'd ye ta Luthor!"
It only confirmed what they had already suspected. The thief had a look of incredulity as he noticed the tepid response. Either they had already known, he mused, making his life-span shortening trip entirely for naught, or they had so little an estimation of the Doman Prince that it hardly phased them. It could be either, O'Brien concluded.
"Thas tha last time I fly that far for anyone, ungrateful bastards!" he muttered under his breath, forgetting the sensitivity of the ears around him. At the looks, he straightened, plastering his best smile across his face. "Oh, not fa you lassies. Never! Ah meant... Ah mean- the others... ah, bloody hell, never mind!"
O'Brien went on to tell them about the Kal-El, Princess Diana, and both Knights John and Walter and their successful retrieval of the bottle containing the Kandorian Knights. At about the same time, Shayera Hol returned, mask back in place, wings flapping as she landed. Just as hoped, the villagers of Doma had reacted to Shayera well, believing the celestial elf to actually have been the prophesied Harbringer. It was deception that seized upon the people's faith, but it averted needless battle and saved lives, not to mention made Doma an ally. It was the lesser evil. In addition, it seemed the monarchy wasn't exactly united in fulfilling Tresstom's will and dissolving alliances with Themyscira. Apparently there was a challenge to the throne in his sister -- Princess Hortense, whom had expressed a particular interest in hearing out the Amazonian Elves.
Through all of this, Patrick "Eel" O'Brien stood to the side, his attentions elsewhere. He had been brought up right, with good training and an active sense of chivalry. Well, not actually. His father had left when he was just a wee lad. His mother – the greatest mother a boy could have – had made ends meet as a lady of the night. But nonetheless, he liked to think he'd learned the essentials -- knowhow in pickpocketing and picking up the attention of mighty fine lassies. So, it went without saying that the redheaded elf drew his attention. Nay, it was more than that. The womanly curves, the pointed ears, and the wings – the mask would be a little difficult. For the second time that day Patrick put on his most winning smile, spit-shined his hair, and pulled up his britches, prepared for a right good challenge.
Two minutes later found Patrick O'Brien unconscious, victim to a mace shaped lump formed atop his head and suggesting the culprit. For the second time that day the shapeshifter would find himself both swearing and swearing to never do another good deed again. Aye, it was true: No good one went unpunished!
Pulling himself to his feet, he scrambled after the elves. They had already begun to move out.
The land was starved and decaying. No plant life and thusly, no animal life. It stretched out as far as the eye could see. Where the emaciated land ceased a stiflingly hot grip of intemperate air began. Rough, pitted skin the color of arsenic housed the two glowing eyes that observed the dead landscape with even an colder gaze. The being known as Darkseid smiled, a predatory stretching of the mercilessly harsh features that were the god's face.
It was satisfying, to be free. The towering figure needed to look no farther than the pits and pit-masters with their slaves and slave handlers to appreciate the fact. In Apokolypse the foolish and weak suffered, the strong survived to enslave said weak, and all, without exception, were slaves to him. Yet his newfound freedom brought the memory of his centuries long imprisonment in that cursed Phantom Zone. The smile lessened, but did not disappear altogether. Be it a century or two, his defeat was fresh in his mind. A bitter pill sourer than even the sentence that he had endured. If he could destroy the Kingdom of Krypton again, just for that, he would. But it was dust. Not a trace of it left. He would have to settle for all of First-Earth in its place. Burned, enslaved, and remade in his image.
It was Hell, but more importantly -- it was Apokolypse.
Darkseid turned his attention from the pit-view, leaving the echoing screams behind. Business was at hand. The business of the final step in bringing a world to its knees. The chamber the Dark Lord occupied held a throne made of stone and desecrated humans bones. The walls were painted with the hieroglyphics of blood and torment. An unholy worship of subjugation written as an evolving mural depicting a living hell. It was a history, told as it actually was. As it actually happened. Not by the victor or even the defeated, but by the first. Not by the blasphemous word of the bastard fragments now pathetically calling themselves kingdoms, but by him -- Darkseid.
In a corner of the chamber a shadow that on closer inspection revealed a frail, stick-figured of a man, draped in dirty, grey-black robes moved. Dessad. His boney, too-thin hands folded endlessly over too-long sleeves. Seething and envy oozed from him. Merciless and sadistic, the mad torturer's face presented a rictus of sneers and grimaces. Not to be underestimated, he was a cunning servant. And it was true that often his anger and ill-temperment were used to mask even greater schemes. Not quite Darkseid's strategist, he was at least his schemer.
"You have something to say."
If such were possible, the torture-master seemed to fold even further into himself. "Nay, my lord–" Dessad began, but immediately realized his mistake. Openly defying the reborn god, even if it was only to disagree, brought with it danger. The spindly looking man backtracked, not wishing for his master to suspect too great an autonomy after the long years of his banishment. "Well, yes, my master." he reversed quickly. The room was lit by a hungry, mercurial light that never seemed to fade, like a lantern warming a desiccated cavity, and the rotted yellow of Dessad's teeth darkened to a mustardy orange. The only thing worse than defiance was openly questioning, and Dessad risked both, but he waded forward. His dislike for the man his master expressed favor for was too great not to voice the caution.
"If I may, my lord. You give the human Luthor much power." Dessad's eyes cast down then back up, a fickle pulling of his parchment-thin lips holding back a sneer. "I do no mean to question–"
"Silence. Luthor is a pawn, just as all of you are pawns to my game." Darkseid's expression was cold, but in fact, he was amused. The Duke Alexander Luthor had a great deal in common with his servant Dessad. Dogs made to serve. But dogs sometimes deserved rewards. "Useful pawns are rewarded." The rest was left hanging. "Tell me of our spies."
At the foot of the throne, another man stepped forward, this one tall and not at all resembling the first. Steppenwolf was a Battlemaster. He spoke with a permanent growl, dark hair anchored by even darker eyes that were set deep back in a harshly handsome face.
"My spies tell me what the Duke has already informed you, my lord." he began, on bended knee. "He has deposed King Mordred and assumed control of Metria. Luthor is now King. Ran and Tamaran have already been defeated and possessed. Rossvale is soon defeated and joined to his keep. Doma has shifted to his side as well. But..."
The tombs that were the god's eye's glowed, ever so slightly.
"But–" Steppenwolf continued, "Luthor has not told you everything. He plots. My spies tell me he has lost possession of the enchanted bottle that held prisoner the Knights of Kandor."
"Go on." was all Darkseid said.
"Luthor had initially managed to capture two prisoners, one of them being the princess of the elves. It was a ruse to gain entry into Metria to retrieve the object. They escaped and are believed to now be in possession of the bottle, and thus, the key to Kandor's release.." the battlemaster summarized.
The dark god was chuckling, "The elves... So the whores of Zeus show themselves at last." he mocked. It seemed to be a joke for the Dark Lord alone, some knowledge that not even Dessad knew. Themyscira's origin's were not widely known. What was known was that Darkseid could not die, not permanently. And he was old. Ancient beyond perhaps any other being on First-Earth. He casually dismissed it, and once again tension – his servants; not his – filled the room. A distracted Darkseid was good, an amused one even better. None welcomed his attention, save to perhaps backstab and encourage their advancement.
To that point untouchable by his masters intimidation, Steppenwolf hesitated for the first time. "There is... more." he started again, fathomless eyes fixed on a spot at his master's feet.
"Though Doma has shifted, my spies tell me Tresstom has been slain. Without him, they may sway in their allegiance, if they haven't already. Additionally, there are signs Luthor doubts your existence. That he believes a face to face meeting is in order. He is a fool."
Darkseid appeared unconcerned. Alexander Luthor was a man. Man was a race of fools, just as every being's fate was to be subjugation at his hand. They just didn't know it yet.
"Who was the other Luthor let escape?"
The battlemaster responded without pause. The strange sounding name difficult to forget. "A fallen Kandorian Knight by the name of Kal-El..."
