09-Sep-2004

Title: The War of Smoke and Mirrors
Rating: PG 13 (May progress to R)
Pairings: Defined- 2x5, 3x4. Rest remain pending. ^^
Warnings: AU, OCs, War, Death, Destruction, Flagrant use of concepts snagged from Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Tamora Pierce, and David Weber, all carefully modified to fit my (very) warped view of the world. Good possibility of religion bashing. (Ie gods and blind faith, NOT a specific religion.)
The usual disclaimers aply.
Feedback is appreciated!

The War Of Smoke And Mirrors by Elemental

Prologue

In the end, it was decided. HE must be stopped, the gods agreed. It had not taken long.

Koriani was hesitant, and Belgar downright refused at first. But Odin was a powerful speaker, and he knew the one fear that would sway all present to support his plan. Only Morpheus refused to choose a side, but the lord of dreams was weak in the waking world, and held no place within their ranks.

HE had to be taken care of. But first that annoying clan he protected would have to be exterminated, or he'd simply draw power from them. And Odin had just the man for the job.

And with a little help from the other gods, he would make sure not a man, woman or child escaped to later give him power.

And then they could deal with HIM.

canta per me ne addio

(Canta Per Me, Noir.)

The Castle around him burned, the smoke already reaching far into the keep to where he stood, burning his eyes and making them tear. The entire outer wall was gone, the wooden palisade burned to the ground, the stone supports smashed by catapults and battle magic. The smoke was everywhere. Considering how fast it had spread, Trowa suspected the fire had begun within the main stores.

An inside job.

He had been betrayed. Either that or someone else's army had discovered that the king would die today, the perfect opportunity to attack.

Servants ran past, paying him no heed. He expected no less, but pressed himself flat against the stone wall anyway. He shifted to take on the colours of the grey walls as a pair of soldiers ran passed, followed shortly by a group of mercenaries. He knew their colours, and held his breath as they rushed by, oblivious to his presence.

They were Treize's. He had been betrayed. Now, knowing that, he could act.

Betrayal wasn't anything new. But he would have to move quickly. No doubt the standing orders were to kill or capture anything that moved – and he doubted the orders included leaving the hired assassin alone.

Trowa stepped out of the shadows and ducked into a servant's stairwell, keeping his short blade drawn and ready. The stair spiraled down towards the kitchen where the fire was fiercest. He met no one, possibly because everyone with sense had already fled.

The kitchen was ablaze with light, anti-fire charms shining brightly as they battled with the flames for supremacy. The fire would eventually win – Trowa knew – but for the moment he had a clear path through the flames and out the side door to the stables, and he took it. The door was swollen shut from the heat, but a little weight from his shoulder had it in pieces and he stepped through a haze of smoke out into the morning sun. He only had a moment to realize a dark shape was moving towards him, but by then it was far too late.

His world went dark.

His people burned.

Even now, bound and drugged and bouncing in the back of a merchant wagon, Wufei could see the red halo of flames that lit the sky. He could no longer see his city through the trees, but the smoke and fire was a beacon to be seen for miles around in the pre-dawn light.

He was alone.

Well, not quite alone, after all- someone had to be guiding the wagon.

It took immense effort to force his body to turn, but he recognized the back of the driver immediately, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards in self derision. Only one person in the world would wear such an outrageous cape, even while fleeing a burning city.

Howard glanced back at his cargo and grinned without humor. "You're awake, good. I was worried they'd used too much."

Wufei knew, instinctively, what had happened. He could feel the void where his clan had once been within his mind. But he still had to ask.

"My people... "

"Treize never touched them." Howard replied, eyes moving back to the road. His voice rasped in his throat, thick from disuse and a love of tobacco and strong drink. "Zechs had the whole city surrounded when it went up. Your people are... . Honorable. As they always have been."

"They were," Wufei spat, too angry to accept the compliment, however oblique. "They were also too weak to fight back!"

Howard's voice was calm and almost convincing, as solid as a rock in a storm. "They chose to end their lives knowingly, rather than be slaughtered or enslaved by Treize's army. They made a hard decision."

Wufei wanted nothing to do with sensible thought. His anger was raw, burning his skin as he stared at the flames. "They spared me their fate."

Rage burned within him, fiery and hot, and he embraced it, rather than acknowledge the screaming sorrow he felt threatening at the back of his mind, an abyss that terrified him.

"Perhaps sparing you was not weakness. Perhaps they wanted one to carry their name. To ensure that the Dragon Clan would not be forgotten, or become a source of scorn."

A laugh that threatened to become a cry leapt from Wufei's throat. "Then why choose me?"

"Because they believed in you. Because you were the strongest. Because you, out of all of them, truly wished to fight back." Howard paused, " Or perhaps they drew lots and you won. I don't know. I'm just a merchant. But if I had a choice... ?" His voice grew distant, "If I had a choice, I think I would have chosen you as well."

Wufei snorted and turned away, unwilling to accept the kind words, fighting the drugs in his system as he began to flex his bonds. His people were dead, and he sent a brief prayer to Death to look after their spirits as they passed. But so long as he drew breath he would avenge them. No one would forget the Dragon Clan.

His eyes burned from the smoke and incense that hung heavy in the room, but he ignored it, focusing on the still figure lying on the bed.

Stepping quietly up to the body, Quatre kneeled down, laying a light hand on cool flesh.

His father was dead.

Quatre knew he had been murdered. Knew that a poison had destroyed the man from the inside out. But he held no proof. So it would be blamed on sickness. A weak heart. Poor King Winner struck down so suddenly by the gods.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

He would have to act quickly. His kingdom was not safe: in dreams there was fire and death and war. He could not, would not speak of his nightmares.

Figures in the room bowed deeply as he left. Exiting onto the balcony he could see the people of his city, and of his country, waiting in hushed silence. They watched as one as he placed the simple gold circlet upon his head, and in unison salaamed, hands crossed across their hearts.

They watched as their golden prince, now king, bowed back: right hand over his heart, left hand at his side, a god-like figure clothed in white and blue.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

His world burned. But the flames were welcome and comforting, and did not burn him as it would most creatures. It took little to call to the flame, shaping it into a window of the human world.

The capital city of Xi'an was ablaze. It was surely a strange sight, for none of the countryside had caught, nor the enemy tents that surrounded it. The fire seemed... controlled, if that was possible. But to control a fire of that size would take an incredible amount of power...

He'd return to that scene later. Changing the view, he was surprised to find another fire, also surrounded by troops. This time it was the capital of Cyce, the castle Civl. Considering the king had been fire-born, for his home to then be alight meant he was most certainly dead. Or crazy. But he doubted that.

He moved his hand across the flame again, but instead of showing him the human world, a face appeared.

"Hello Treize."

"Hello Heero. I am glad you remember me."

The demon showed no expression, simply waited for the purpose of the interruption.

"You know you are still in my debt." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"Good. Now, I have one more job for you and you'll be free. Failure, of course, is not an option."

"What?"

"The Isadora kingdom has a new king," Treize smiled. "Kill him."

The city was burning around him, the flames eagerly licking at whatever fuel they could find. It arched around him and he urged it higher, giving it the strength to climb and burn fiercer, exploding outwards and setting more alight.

The entire city, ablaze. Fire kept within the city's walls. Fifty thousand people dead. More, truly.

Timber groaned and exploded behind him and he grinned savagely. Treize would find this city in ashes, nothing more.

The flames parted before him, sparks separating and twirling, casting after-image patterns into the sky before twisting their way behind him, clinging to his cloak and clothing, surrounding the hair that trailed down his back in a braid.

He continued toward the city centre, moving faster than humanly possible, but still taking the care to examine every inch of the city he passed. The centre of the city was a courtyard in front of the once proud palace that now stood as a ruin. His train of lights grew, and he spared a though to comfort them before returning to his anger.

How dare they?

He was hurt, and could admit it, but he was not broken. He would not be defeated. And he had the upper hand: They thought he was dead.

Fools.

He stepped in the very centre of the stone circle, allowing a grim smile to cross his face. They would pay. They would pay in blood and screams and nightmares. These were his people. And he would not forget this.

He called his lights to him, sending his mind to scour the city, calling every soul within it to him. They came, some timidly, some bravely, all radiating a sense of grim accomplishment and smug satisfaction. They had bested Treize. And one of theirs had escaped.

The news sent Duo's mind leaping- if one was alive?- but he pulled himself back for an instant. He still had a duty to perform.

The lights around him danced, and he grinned again, reveling in the pure feeling they offered him. Raising his hands, he called the flame, shaping it and giving it form that none could deny. When it was done, he sent it racing into the sky with the souls of the city, knowing it would be seen for miles around. None would forget the Dragon Clan. He would see to it personally.

He left the city to burn itself out.

Zechs looked up and cursed as his men backed away in horror, some falling prostrate, others making the sign against evil across their chests. Ranks broke up as the fiery demon roared, covered in tiny lights, and arched protectively over the city.

The dragon's tail lashed out once, and then the creature uncurled, turning into the sky and flying into the night.

Treize would need to be told. A dragon had come to claim its clan. There would be nothing left to take.

End Prologue

The War Of Smoke And Mirrors by Elemental

Chapter One: Daybreak

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall

(We live to fight another day, we just need to survive this one.)

Trowa awoke with a headache pulsing in the back of his head. It only took him a second to realize why.

He was moving, the jagged up and down vibrations alerting him he was on a wagon even before his eyes had fully opened. His hands were shackled. Others in the wagon were similarly bound.

Captured.

A snorted laugh sounded behind him seconds before a hand cuffed the side of his head, sending him sprawling into the floorboards covered with hay.

"Don be getting too comfortable lad" the voice laughed again and hauled Trowa up by the back of his shirt. "an don be trying to be callin for help neither. It wont do ye a lick o'good.You whole lot are going ta be sold as mutes," he winked, "A special lil' charm a' mine."

Trowa ignored the man and tried to reply, gasping as his throat tightened. His sight began to dim and he realized he couldn't breathe. Choking, he fell limp; air entering his lungs only after he'd completely relaxed and stopped any attempts at speech.

His captor laughed and shook him like a rag doll as the other captives watched silently, already aware of the ‘charm'. The man finally set him down, hitching his manacles to the side boards. Pulling the chains tight, he forced Trowa against the wooden wall, muttering quietly in his ear. "An don be trying to shift neither, ya demon. I got a special charm for the likes of you. Seems Wizards are willing t' pay a pretty price for your kind. Haven' nabbed me a shifter in a while, but you are goin't'make me very rich.

He laughed again, switching from his badly accented common to his native tongue Trowa recognized from the wastelands, pulling back and slapping the shoulders of the wagon driver and guard, both carrying whips at their hips and short swords strapped to their backs.

Trowa examined the rest of the captives. No one visibly important- a cook, a scullery maid, two stable hands and a frightened lady in waiting. All were soot stained and frightened, several sported bruises or black eyes.

These slave runners probably weren't running on Treize's orders, rather following his armies and grabbing whatever spoils they could.

Vermin.

Testing his captor's words, he tried to shift, making his wrists and hands thin enough to slip out of the heavy iron manacles. The moment he began to change, however, pain exploded from behind his eyes. The world swam and bile rose in his throat. Pushing his discomfort away, he bit his cheek and focused on the change, fighting the urge to heave until he passed out, unaware of the arrows flying above his head, and the clash of weapons around him...

Quatre was asleep and dreaming, but his dreams were not kind.

He was flying, high above the land. It was dark, pre-dawn light slowly creeping in from the east, yet he could see clearly.

Fires lit the sky.

One to the west, great and fierce, roaring far into the sky with fury. As he watched, it grew into a dragon, trailing pinpricks of light. It hunched protectively over the fire – Quatre realized it had once been a huge, walled city- and almost seemed to stare straight at his dream self before flying up into the night sky.

Turning his dreaming self towards the second fire, he recognized the castle immediately. There was a flash- a face or a figure- but gone too quickly for Quatre to recognize it.

He watched as the fires slowly burned themselves out, watching as the land moved with thousands of tiny, ant-like creatures, ranks and rows of them, marching ever forward. He watched their patterns for what seemed like hours, until he knew for certain what was to occur.

He awoke and rose immediately. He had no idea what time it was. It didn't matter. He had time, but only if he was to act now.

Half dressed, he left his chambers, summoning a servant and sending requests. When his master in arms appeared, he found his new king staring troubled out of a window in the main hall.

There were no words of greetings. The small boy simply turned to him and met his eyes fiercely. "How long would it take to mount a full defense for our borders?"

"There is already a defense in place sire."

"I need you to strengthen it."

"Of course, sire. May I ask why?"

There was a pause; as though the blonde boy was wary to speak the words least they come true. Finally, he spoke. "Treize will attack in a month. We must be ready by then."

Wufei awoke with a start, unaware that he'd even fallen asleep again. It was aggravating, fighting the drugs still in his body and failing. It was weak.

He was wrapped in a blanket by a small, banked fire. Leaning against a tree and snoring softly across from him was Howard, his garish cloak wrapped tightly around him against the night's chill.

Wufei examined himself. He was no longer bound, and the sleep had helped remove the sluggishness from his system. He had escaped from the city virtually unharmed, though he could still smell the smoke on his clothes. He could not see the fire of his city in the night sky. That either meant that the fire had died out, or that they had moved beyond the reach of the smoke and the light.

There was a pot above the fire, and a rough bowl and ladle beside it. The contents were a stew, with good sized chunks of rabbit and potatoes. It probably tasted wonderful.

It was sawdust in his mouth and stones in his stomach. But he still ate, knowing he would need the energy.

He could attack Treize directly and challenge him, but he doubted he would achieve anything. If the soldiers Treize surrounded himself with didn't kill him, it was still doubtful that Treize would fight him honorably. And that still left his lieutenant, Zechs. He would need to be dealt with as well.

What Wufei needed was an army, but that was impossible. And his life would likely be in danger if he remained out in the open. If Treize discovered that someone had escaped from the city, let alone that it was Wufei... Treize was a dangerous, power-hungry man. It was rumored that he was attempting to rule the land from Rijinway to Biet Shien and everything in between. Even the gods were said to support him.

Wufei snorted, his train of through interrupted at the very idea of gods meddling on earth, and jumped slightly when Howard's voice reached him. "You think too much."

Wufei sat back on his heels. "I thought you were asleep."

"Bah, I just dozed off. I've been waiting for you to wake up. I got something for you." From behind his cloak where he'd been leaning against it, Howard revealed a long, cloth-wrapped object and pulled out a second, smaller box after it. Unceremoniously, he handed them to Wufei.

The first object was a sword. The sword, truly. The Dragon's Fang: the symbol of his clan. It was beautiful. Flawless. Completely perfect- this was a weapon that made death an art.

It was rumored to have been fashioned from an actual Dragon's Fang. Wufei doubted it, knowing how tales grew in the telling. But the sword was one of a kind, and the knowledge of its making passed with its maker. It glowed in the firelight, the metal a wavering blue.

He'd always wanted to test it, to feel its power. Now, considering the circumstances, it was all he could do to hold it reverently. He took one, experimental swing and the sword sung through the air.

The sheath was emerald green, scaled with an unknown hide. The myths said it was as strong as the sword and could be used to block any offensive attack. No one knew for certain because the sword was almost purely ceremonial. Even Wufei, the crown Prince of the Dragon Clan, had never held it until now.

He would experiment later.

He sheathed the blade and placed it beside him, then picked up the box. It was beautiful, as ornate as the sword was plain. Inside was a leather pouch filled with coins, and a single jade figure carved in the shape of a rising dragon, part of his body obscured by the obsidian cloud he rested on. The piece was flawless, as priceless and ancient as the sword itself. Wedged into the box's velvet was a note.

It was his father's writing, a simple, flowing script. Abrupt and to the point, as his father always was.

We accepted this with open arms. Remember our names, but don't wallow in loss. Keep yourself alive, Wufei. Do what you must to that end.

You are our memory. You are our legacy.

Keep your honor as sharp and as true as your blade.

Let no one forget the Dragon Clan.

Howard was silent, and Wufei was grateful. He stared at the fire, watching the embers climb into the night sky and disappear.

His stew was long gong cold before he touched it again.

They were ready.

He reined his mount to a stop, his entourage stopping around him moments later. The city was bustling; the epitome of activity, but there was a sort of tense anticipation in the air. They knew what was coming and were prepared. Supplies were stocked. Defenses raised. It had taken the better part of two weeks to have everything in place. Treize's army would come, but they would not find this city, nor the country, unsuspecting and ripe for attack.

Here and there, blessings were called out towards the new king. Quatre accepted each of them warmly, and spoke to whoever approached. He knew his people saw him as young and inexperienced, and he did his best to soothe their worries.

All were shaken at the news of King Daelon and Malvern's fall to the Principalities. But no one at the castle was surprised, and soon word was spread that the boy king had foreseen the disaster and was already in action. The gods must be favoring their new king if they would give him true-dreams.

Quatre doubted the gods had anything to do with his empathy and occasional foresight, especially since he had, on occasion, witnessed a godly quarrel and had long ago decided that the gods were too wrapped up in their own lives to really bother with anything mortal.

He disliked the idea that his people only seemed to support him because they believed in the gods on principal, but Abdul just laughed and told him that the people needed all the reassurances they could get. And it was much better than having him believe he was crazy, for instance.

They rode through the market streets, Quatre keenly keeping an eye on the people around him and their reactions as he passed. It was important to be human to his people. It was even more important to be strong.

A sudden, agonizing burst of pain made him jerk in the saddle. A second burst of pain made him turn his mount, ignoring the cries of his companions as he darted down a side street, turning up one alley and down another, blindly following the almost empathic cry for help.

He rode for minutes, his horse rearing as he pulled it to a stop inside an alley beside a small butcher's hut. The noise startled the two men standing there, forcing them to jump back and reveal the figure they had been beating.

Quatre shook with rage. It was a youth, likely his own age, clad in stained buckskin trousers and curled in on himself, hands still raised to protect his head. Rotted holes in his leggings showed other, older injuries.

The blonde looked back to the men, forcing himself to remain calm as he addressed the larger one who he realized carried a broken chunk of wood. "Servants are not to be beaten, under the charter. I should have you arrested."

The smaller, thinner man sank back onto his knees with a moan, but the butcher smiled thinly, cramming his hands into pockets under his blood stained apron. He knew the youth before him was a noble, but he was young, and it was always easy to sway such matters with gold. Nobles never cared for much more than their own amusement anyway. He bowed and gestured to the figure who, Quatre noted with some surprise, had uncurled and was standing awkwardly, clutching one arm to his chest. He was off balance and swaying, but Quatre had the distinct impression he was ready to run if necessary.

The butcher spoke, voice oily and self-depreciating. "Unfortunately, m'lord, I was after catching the likes of him stealing meat from my storehouse. I can't have those I take in turn against me, or learn to take from others, now can I?"

Quatre sensed a wave of indignation and disgust from the youth, though the boy did not speak. He wondered idly why how he could have such a strong empathic connection with someone he had never seen before, but put it aside for the moment. He knew the butcher was lying. And that the man did not recognize him as king. He mildly regretted not wearing any form of office out for the day, but the circlet was too loose and annoying, and the crown was even more so. It might have meant he could have shortened the meeting, but it mattered little now that is was done.

"Where are his papers?" He asked pointedly.

"M'lord?"

Quatre held out his hand impatiently. "His papers. You cannot have an indentured servant without papers to make it legal. I will see your contract, and buy him from you."

The man pales slightly. "I'm afraid he ain't for sale, m'lord."

Quatre's eyes narrowed. "His papers. Now. You will accept my coin, or I will take him from you."

Blustering, the butcher took a step back from the glare, accent thickening. "Nows wait just a damn moment- I have my rights I do, and—"

The thinner man threw himself before Quatre's horse, making is shy a few steps back as he quivered, prostrate on the ground. His high, nasal voice was a whine that grated on the blonde's ears like sheetrock.

"Forgive me sire! My master does not know you! The boy was bought as a slave, from a trader outside the city. My master tried to—"

"Enough!" The butcher kicked the smaller man in the head to silence him, sending him sprawling across the sandstone of the alley. Sweating profusely, he turned back to Quatre, meeting his eyes squarely but slurring the ends of his words. "Nows, I knows my nobles. Just names your price, and likes as not we'll both forgets this ever happened s'and you cans jus' forget's a' boy."

Very, very quietly, addressing the butcher but looking at the youth, Quatre asked "Do you know who I am?"

The butcher scuffed his feet. "Truly m'lord, s'it doesn't matter, does it? S'long as you gets your silver leastwise. But tells me your title and I'll use it."

The sound of clattering hooves startled them both from the conversation. The skinny man moaned, clutching his head piteously and the youth pressed himself farther against the wall, no longer swaying, as the Maguanacs reigned in behind Quatre, eyes wary.

Abdul urged his horse next to Quatre's, but a raised hand cut him off before he could even form his question.

The butcher looked from the bodyguards in the blue and silver of the palace service to the two riders in the desert garb of the Magunacs and back to Quatre in a simple, deep blue tunic and black leggings, with a black band wrapped around one arm, and knew something was wrong. He still met Quatre's gaze, but now there was worry in his eyes.

"My title, my good man," Quatre's eyes burned with fury, "Is his Imperial highness, Lord Quatre Raberba Winner. Son of Matthew Winner, Lord of the Isadoran lands. Your sworn lord. As for as my ‘price', well, I doubt you could ever afford it. Abdul?"

The Maguanac drew closer and Quatre motioned to the two men. "Show them the hospitality of our watch house. Charge them with slavery and assault for now."

Abdul nodded. "What about the boy?"

Instead of answering, Quatre nudged his horse down the alley towards the youth.

He was foreign, with deeply tanned olive skin and wide set emerald eyes. He was hurt and hunched over, but already obviously taller than Quatre's short frame. Little food made his skin hang loose on his frame, but it was obvious he had once been in much better physical shape. His auburn hair was dirty and matted, hanging over his face limply.

Quatre was used to empathic connections. He shared one with the Maguanacs, as he had with his father and did with his sisters. Yet he had never had this kind of instant connection with someone he had never met, and it was powerful. The boy felt foreign and strange. But at the same time Quatre felt comfortable with him, as though he had known him for all his life. The boy was strong, and spirited. He met the noble's eyes squarely.

"You're hurt. I have healers who can tend to you, without payment. If you trust me, I'll help you. There are no slaves in my land and you are officially free to do whatever you wish. Can you ride?"

The youth nodded, looking at the horse stoically.

Telling the beast to hold still, Quatre offered the youth his arm. "Can you speak at all? You understand me well enough."

Looking resigned, the youth shook his head. Quatre lifted him easily, shocked at how light the boy was. He settled behind Quatre easily and gingerly snaked one bruised hand around his waist to keep him from falling.

Motioning to his retinue, and glancing in happy satisfaction to the two figures in irons being led away to the watch house, Quatre turned his mount. "Let's get you looked after."

It was hours later.

Trowa was suitably drowsy thanks to some sort of mead drink, but he was alive, and already his fresher wounds were beginning to heal. The palace healer had set his ribs and the fracture in his arm, and his attendant gave him the drugged mead with a knowing look.

Trowa was getting tired of knowing looks. He'd been cleaned and clothed, even though the loose tunic had hurt to wear. And now, still being passed from one palace worker to another, they all shared the same ‘knowing' look. Some openly leered, but at least he was used to that. He wished he could change, but the spell had held even after the first slaver's death. He tried to pay attention to where he was being led but his head was still too muddled and everything seemed to pass in a grey blur. People were asking questions, and he shook his head or nodded as necessary. And they were moving again.

They stopped in a room, small and sparsely furnished, and his guide led him to a mattress. Body exhausted from the trials of the last month, drugged and spent from the healing, he was asleep before he'd finished lying down.

Wufei heaved his shoulder against the wagon until it levered itself out of the muddy ditch with a thick squelch. Howard immediately urged the horses forward.

He watched the wagon roll by impassively, then climbed in beside Howard once it stopped, back on the small trail and away from the ditch that had trapped them for the better part of an hour. Howard tapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward, the stoic image of calm movement.

Wufei had changed into clothing Howard had provided; a pair of leggings, oversized pocketed vest and a loose shirt, all dyed a deep green. A trader cloak, in brilliant shades of scarlet, gold and blue supposedly marked him as one of Howard's kin. He'd argued it, but Howard had assured him that traders adopted foreigners often enough that the pretense should hold. Besides, he'd argued, Wufei needed to disappear for a while, while Treize's army was still a danger. The best way to do that was to hide in plain sight. Few would be foolish to bother a pair of Traders on the road. While Wufei might have been more comfortable in the traditional pants and jacket of his home, they were neither inconspicuous, nor really reasonable for forest travel.

They had been traveling for several weeks, towards the Trader island T'nassa. Wufei wasn't sure if it was the best direction for him to be heading, but he certainly didn't have any better suggestions. Howard let him travel in silence. He wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not. It gave him time to think.

The quiet was getting to Wufei, making the hair on the back of his neck rise and tingle. The woods seemed to absorb any ambient sound, and even the animals were unnaturally quiet. As the wagon was pulled around a turn, he had only a moment to draw his sword before they attacked.

It was chaos. Men erupted from behind the trees, screaming and frightening the horses. A quick estimate said there were at least fifteen men, with rough clothing and rougher faces. None looked like Treize's goons- they were simply bandits, hoping to take on a lone Trader cart by force of numbers.

A well-aimed arrow skimmed Wufei's head and a trickle of blood dragged him from his train of thought. No, not Treize's men. But they still wanted him dead nonetheless.

The wagon was of little advantage. It offered some protection from arrows, but it wouldn't hold back those attacking. Howard had drawn his own sword and the two now fought back to back. The horses had been cut from their harnesses and had fled. The only way down was through the brigands. On the plus side, Wufei noted, the wagon meant they could only attack a few at a time, and they were doing more damage to one another than to himself and Howard. On the other hand, being raised up made them even bigger targets from the one archer of the group, who thankfully seemed to be a very poor shot. A shout rang out and they pulled back, those who hadn't fallen to Wufei or Howard's swords. More men appeared, and Wufei saw more bows being raised towards him.

The quickening was an aspect of all members of the royal blood, indeed the whole of the Chang Line. Historians (and cultists) linked it back to the very first Chang, who was said to have joined with a dragon to found the clan. It wasn't magic, truly. It was just...

Howard had been trading with the Chang dynasty for the last twenty years. He was considered an honorary member of the Emperor's inner circle, almost a member of the family to the Changs. But he had only heard of the quickening.

Wufei just disappeared. One moment the boy was a solid weight on his back, the next he was gone, leaving a frigid blast of air in his place. Then the group of bowmen a dozen feet from the wagon fell, bleeding from multiple wounds. Wufei appeared next to their bodies, then flickered out of sight.

More of their attackers fell, screaming and running from the unseen threat, Wufei flickering in and out of sight among them. Howard watched as the bandit in front of him stared in horror at the blade protruding from his chest was twisted, then yanked out.

Almost as quickly as it began, it ended, one lone thief taking off into the woods. Wufei, breathing heavily, climbed clumsily back into the wagon and sat, leaning heavily against the back of the seat for support. He was blood stained and caked in frost, which was flaking and steaming off him in the heat as he sat. He wasn't shivering, but his skin was a sickly white, his lips blue. He was gasping for breath.

Howard said nothing. He retrieved the horses and calmed them, hitching them back to the wagon with care. A search of the bodies revealed little more than lice, so he ripped a cloak from one man's neck and cleaned his sword. Tossing the rag to Wufei, he watched the boy, already looking much more alive, do the same. Neither had time to sheath their weapons however, before another figure emerged from the woods.

He was cloaked in black, and both Howard and Wufei found it difficult to focus on him. It was as though the lines that defined him kept changing, merging into the background, and then redefining his shape again. His voice washed over the pair like a wave of power, making Wufei grit his teeth at the pressure.

"Chang Wufei?"

There was no defying the voice. You couldn't even think of defying it. It was pure power and instinct that reached into your head before you even realized what was going on. Wufei straightened, debating on raising his sword even as he bit his tongue to fight the answer that bubbled on his lips. He somehow doubted that even the Fang would do much good.

The voice inside his head twisted. "Chang Wufei?" it repeated, impatient.

With little other choice, Wufei nodded. "Yes."

"How did you manage to escape?"

Howard spoke up, voice sounding stronger than Wufei felt. The older man bowed to the figure and answered in strangely respectful tones. "I was paid to remove him from the city, m'lord."

"Remove him?" The voice sounded clearer, more heard than felt now, and curious.

"He was drugged at the time. I believe the Chang clan had the feeling he wouldn't leave willingly."

"Really?" There was a wave of bemusement from the figure as he stepped forward, pulling back his hood as he went.

The waves of power melted away as the figure snapped into solidity, no longer fading in and out. Now he was almost normal. Definitely solid.

Wufei leapt down, the Dragon Fang in an easy grip in his hand. He examined the figure: a youth, almost an adult, an inch or two taller than himself. His cloak was black, as was the clothing underneath it. Nondescript, normal even- except for the fact that the black seemed to absorb the light around it, making it darker, deeper somehow in the light.

His hair was strange, a sort of reddish brown that reflected golden light. It was long, and tied in a warrior's braid that swung behind him like a tail. He seemed young for a sorcerer, as Wufei suspected he must be, close to Wufei's own age in appearance. He was, to a passing glance, normal.

His eyes weren't.

They glowed, a strange sort of light purple, like the lilacs that grew around the temple walls. The colour filled the entire eye, sending shivers down Wufei's spine and raising gooseflesh. His grip on the Dragon's Fang tightened.

Then the stranger was being lifted by a laughing Howard, and Wufei stood in confusion as the two began to hug and speak rapidly in the thick, sharp language of Tradertalk.

Somewhat regretfully, Wufei sheathed the sword, waiting impatiently for the two to finish their strange reunion. They did, eventually, gathering themselves together- even if Howard was still smiling, a strange sight on the normally stoic man.

The stranger nodded to Wufei, grinning impishly as the other boy's confusion. Howard threw an arm around his shoulder, pulling them both back towards the cart.

"Wufei, this is Duo. He's... and old friend of mine. Duo, this is Chang Wufei, Prince of the Dragon clan."

The lilac eyes were disturbing as they bored into Wufei's face without blinking. "I'm honored to meet you in person, finally."

Wufei glared, refusing to look away. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'd love to explain, but we have to keep moving." Duo motioned to the bodies littered around the clearing. "Treize's men are not far behind you."

Wufei stiffened, but wasn't given a chance to reply. Howard jumped into the wagon with practiced ease and gathered the reins, the newcomer taking a seat beside him. Wufei took one last look at the dead around him, then climbed in beside the stranger.

"The bandit who got away ran straight into a reserve troupe of Treize's men. Don't worry, he died before he could say much of anything. Treize doesn't know about the quickening yet. But those men are still heading this way, and they're hurrying because they want to see who took down a group of bandits on his own."

Wufei's eyes narrowed. "How do you know all this? The bandit had barely escaped before you appeared. And we've seen no trace of Treize's men for almost a month."

Duo ignored the question. Howard followed the track to a fork in the trail, and a gaze at Duo was answered with "left."

Duo felt Wufei's angry gaze on him and smiled. It was an empty look, and coupled with the glow of his eyes made the teen seem almost demonic. Turning his gaze outwards, Duo spoke.

"The history of the Dragon Clans is an interesting one. All clans live peacefully in one large, walled city, under one ruler. They trace their lineage back to a Quoin Chang, who merged with a dragon to create their clan. While several clan families have split off over the centuries, the Dragon Clans are always ruled by a Chang Emperor, and that ruler's word is law."

"Others say a lot about your race. Honorable. Determined. Fierce Fighters. Stubborn as mules and prideful as a city full of kings."

Wufei snorted.

"They whisper things too. How one can kill without touching you. How they can move so quickly they disappear from sight. It's said that Death himself is their patron deity, though they certainly aren't much for religion. Never cross one in a fight, they say. If you face one and have most of your limbs intact at the end of the fight it's a miracle and you'd better consider yourself lucky. They might be a city of soldiers obsessed with honor, but they'll cut you from neck to tripes if you look at them funny."

Wufei glowered. "Was there a point to all that?"

Duo didn't look away from the road. "Yes. You see, when Treize attacked your city, he was doing so under another's orders. And that person was, at the time, trying to kill me. I've always taken that as a bit of a personal insult, to be honest." The teen's gaze drifted from the road and trees to Wufei's face, eyes still that angry, empty, terrifying shade of purple. "I'm going to help you stop Treize's army, if you'll let me. And even if you don't, I'm going to take my own revenge. Because the stories are true, Chang Wufei of the Dragon Clan. Your people are the descendants of a dragon. And Death does indeed consider you his own. And I get very, very angry when someone tries to take what's mine.

End Part 1

Heero will be here soon, I promise. And chapter 2 is 1/4 typed up already. ^^ Let me know what you think?

(:./elemental/war1)