With a violent twist of his shoulders, Rafe bent over backwards and deflected with his double blades as the Hand’s axe swept sideways to cut him in half. Making an impossible twist of his body from the waist up, Rafe slipped within arms length of the man with the tip of one sword pointed up to slide under the edge of the armored man’s helmet to stab him through the chin for a swift kill.

With a simple jerk of his head, the Hand caused Rafe’s sword to slide off the side of his helmet. The axe came sweeping around again, aimed lower at Rafe’s waist, and the slippery warrior spun away while pushing with his other sword to redirect the axehead just far enough from his body to keep from being sliced in two. This time he wasn’t quite fast enough to avoid it entirely, and the axe gouged his leather armor before slipping downwards and cutting Rafe’s thigh. The wound was small, but blood began to flow.

Rafe flipped backwards in an attempt to put more distance between him and the anonymous soldier, but the Hand rushed forward swiftly, his huge axe swinging back and forth as quickly as if he was swinging a willow branch.

The man’s strength was immense, and both warriors began moving too fast for my eyes to follow.

Timeshift.

I shifted just enough so their actions would be distinct instead of blurry. My stamina began draining, but it was slow enough that I was willing to keep the ability going for at least a little while.

With my time sense adjusted, I could see that Rafe was faster than the bigger man. His lithe form jerked this way and that as he dodged and parried and counterattacked. The other man simply bulled forward, using the shaft of his axe to block the more powerful blows while depending on his armor to protect him from the weaker ones. All Rafe’s activity caused the blood on his leg to flow more quickly, the red blood mixing with the black orc blood that was coating him.

Clara raised her hands, a blue ball of flame flaring to life between them, and she lifted her hands to shoot it at the armored man’s back. Just as the ball left her hands it bounced off a red wall that burst into existence right in front of her, deflecting the flame back at her face.

“Ahhh!” she cried. Her skin blistered under the heat of the flames as she blocked the fire with her forearms.

Cyril held up his index finger and waved it back and forth.

“I’m afraid that would be cheating, my dear. Not that your puny fire would have made it through my man’s armor, but any distraction in a battle balanced on such a knife edge can affect the results of the fight. No interfering.”

That last bit was spoken in a hard, unyielding tone, blue eyes burning even more brightly as the sky grew dim with dark clouds. Thunder boomed in the distance, and fifteen heartbeats later lightning seared the sky.

Suddenly, the momentum of the battle shifted as Rafe took an offensive posture and began flicking his swords in blindingly fast motions. One sword would block while the other would attack. Every defense was just barely enough to deflect the axe, and his other sword chopped and poked at the man’s armor, looking for a weak point to pierce. Now it was the armored man on defense, struggling to keep his axe interposed between himself and the leather covered man who was blitzing him in a fury of flashing metal.

Clang thud clang swish clang! Rafe’s constant barrage forced the Hand to backpedal. Cyril frowned, raised a hand in a curious motion, and then dropped it back down. Something about that motion...tugged at me. It looked familiar. My stomach tensed around a strange hollow feeling.

“Do you recognize him?” I asked with my hand pressed to the hilt of my sword.

You mean Cyril? He looks familiar.

“He looks familiar to me, too,” I admitted haltingly.

What? You recognize him?

“I’m not sure. Something about him...his mannerisms...the way he speaks. It’s just...I don’t know.”

Do you think you knew him? Before you lost your memory?

“Could it be possible? You said I’m not one of the Two Hundred.”

I don’t know, Paol. Everything about you is confusing. You have the powers of a player but no player would Analyze you and mistake you for one. I don’t understand it. And none of the Players we’ve met have recognized you.

My eyes played over the blond man’s features. He was handsome, with a fine aquiline nose and a strong, cleft chin. His arms were tightly corded in muscle, and something about his pose indicated complete confidence in himself. A faint smile graced his lips as he watched the sparks fly from the clash of the two men’s weapons while they strove to defeat the other. His eyes were so piercingly blue, as if two glowing sapphires had been inserted into his sockets.

Did I know him?

My gaze flicked back to the battle before me. Rafe had blooded one of his blades. The tip was dripping in red, and I saw a crimson stain spreading from under the axeman’s armpit. Rafe must have found a weak spot in the armor there, but he hadn’t gone unscathed. A slash across his chest had parted the leather, though it didn’t appear to have broken the skin. However, his cheek was reddened where a blunt object--perhaps the axe handle--had smashed him in the face. The force of the blow had torn the skin, and blood dripped down his cheek.

Even as I watched two more hits careened off the armored man’s helmet. The Hand’s elbow flew backwards, slamming into Rafe’s chest. A quick exhalation as he lost his breath, and then Rafe was stumbling backwards as the man in black armor swiftly moved to capitalize on his advantage.

I wanted to watch the fight, but something kept drawing my eyes back to the blond man. Maybe he sensed my attention because for the first time he looked at me directly. I saw his gaze run up and down my body and face, but no look of recognition crossed his features.

The more I examined him, the more familiar he looked. The way he stood with his legs akimbo and arms crossed. The slight tilt to his head as he watched the blades and the axe smashing against each other.

Did I know him? Was he my enemy? Had he ever killed me? Did he know who I was...who I really was?

He turned his attention back to the engagement before him. I saw the blunt side of the axehead slam into Rafe, throwing him eight feet to the left. Somehow he rolled and ended up on his feet even as the Hand fell upon him with renewed fury. Cyril smirked, his right eyebrow lifting in appreciation as the momentum of the confrontation shifted back in his favor.

That eyebrow movement. I had seen that before. I was positive.

I stroked Veritas’s hilt.

“You say he looks familiar. Do you know if he has any weaknesses?” I asked.

I don’t know, but he reeks of power. If he has weaknesses, they’ll be hard to find.

The tide of the battle turned again. Rafe the cuts of his blades had begun to have an affect. The black armor was dented and scarred, and parts of it began to crack and split. The Hand’s left bracer shattered. Then the greave on his right shin broke in two.

A minute later the breast plate cracked. Rafe’s skill was awesome to behold. Though he was battered from the blows he had taken, he had avoided taking the brunt of the axe’s sharp edge, and his wounds were bearable. With quick whip-like flicks, he cut deeper and deeper into the cracks of the breast plate, and then blood was streaming down the armored man’s chest.

I looked at Cyril, and he was frowning now, a dark look on his face.

The Hand staggered backwards. Thunder boomed in the distance and lightning flashed several heartbeats later. The sky had darkened as evening approached, but the sudden light revealed the crimson stain dripping down the Hand’s chest and down to his waist.

Rafe’s armor hung in shreds on his form, but he moved with power and grace, always on the attack as he sensed the end of the fight was near. The Hand staggered backwards, vainly trying to hold him at bay, using his axe only for defense as more bits of armor were chopped off.

Finally, the back of Rafe’s hand crashed into the Hand’s helmet, and the other man’s head was flung to the side. As the Hand reeled backwards, Rafe’s other sword cut into the his gauntleted fist. As the fist opened in pain, the axe fell to the ground. With a shout of triumph, Rafe dropped one sword, pushed the Hand’s chin backwards to reveal the man’s throat, and thrust with his other blade.

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed and for a moment I couldn’t see anything. Blinking away spots, I saw Rafe pinned to the ground, a flaming sword in his midriff. Cyril’s hand was on the hilt, and his face was still. Behind him, the Hand lay unmoving on the ground, but I could hear his gasps of pain.

Cyril glanced at him in irritation.

Rafe spat out, “What happened to your promise to let us go?”

He reached up angrily, but Cyril shifted slightly on the blade. Rafe groaned and let his hand drop.

At some point I had dropped Timeshift without realizing it.

Who was he? How did I know him? I could feel it. Like when a word is on the tip of your lips but you can’t quite bring it to mind...it was driving me crazy.

I was so caught up in my thoughts, straining to remember whatever it was that was nibbling at the edge of my mind that I didn’t notice when the three women rushed Cyril simultaneously.

Clara leaped forward with sword held high in both hands while Amelia whipped out an arrow, drew, and released with blinding speed. Double fireballs blossomed in her hands and sped towards Cyril’s head. A twinge of guilty stung me because I simply stood there frozen, watching as they jumped to the attack.

Cyril sniffed once and clenched his fist hard and jerked upwards. He mouthed something and a sparkle appeared in the air around him. Arrow and fireballs bounced off the air, and Clara smashed into something invisible and fell backwards.

A Greater Phantasmal Ward.

The Hand slowly pulled himself up to stand behind Cyril. The blond man glanced around himself, a disappointed look on his face.

“Yes, yes,” he drawled. “I’d let you go, Rafe, but I’ve got this invasion thing going on, you know. And you could be such a thorn in my side. I think it would be better if I just made you respawn. It’ll reset you and keep you from being a nuisance for a while.”

Rafe sneered, “You never were one to keep your word, were you? Got a real forked tongue, don’t you?”

Cyril looked amused as he twisted the sword in Rafe’s belly. The smell of searing flesh wafted through the air, and Rafe groaned in pain.

“Don’t be such a sore loser, Rafe. Besides, my army needs to eat.”

All around us, orcs crept a little closer, snorting and watching us with avaricious eyes. Barnabas looked at me, panic-stricken, and I gestured for him over. We stood back-to-back while the three women gathered together, swordswoman and archer on either side of the sorceress. The rest of the men pulled themselves together into a tight-knit group, intent on selling their lives as dearly as possible.

Cyril stared down at Rafe, and a slight smile stained his lips.

“Ahhh,” he sighed. “It’s been a while since I’ve killed another Player. I’ve missed this feeling--so delicious.”

He yanked his flaming sword out of Rafe’s body, and Rafe jerked in pain and curled into a half-ball. Orcs roared in fury and hunger and surged forward, bloodlust inflaming them to violence. I saw weapons all around me, and I knew my life would soon be forfeit. Suddenly, it occurred to me--I hadn’t reset my spawn point!

Cursing myself for a fool, I began to slide Veritas out of her hilt when a sudden weight came crashing down on me. I staggered and fell to the earth. Behind me I heard Barnabas collapse, wheezing in surprise. Impossible light stabbed my eyes, and I was blinded. A huge boom shook the air, and I felt a violent wind blow me away from the three Players. Cries of surprise and fear were all around me, and I heard the clatter of metal. I knew orcs must be falling to the ground, just as I had, probably bouncing off of each other.

Finally, I was able to blink away the afterimage of the light in my eyes. I turned my head towards the source of the thunder and lightning. Crouching with one knee on the ground and his opposite hand supporting him was a man in bright silver chain mail, edged in white and blue. A crater at least ten feet in diameter encircled him, and everyone--including Cyril and the Hand--had been bowled over and lay sprawled on the ground.

His eyes were a deep dark brown that seemed to soak in the light that shone off his body. His black hair was a stark contrast to the ivory white light that glowed all around him. Sheathed at his side rested a simple longsword in a worn scabbard. Leather straps were wound tightly about the hilt atop which his other hand rested.

An awesome, suffocating Presence filled the air, and it felt like every breath took ten times the effort as normal. The luminescence of his form lit the area as if it was early morning, and his stern hard gaze rested unflinchingly on the blond man who was slowly pulling himself up with blazing sword in hand.

Michael, the Eternal Warrior, the Lord Protector, undefeated in millenia and greatest among the Two Hundred had arrived.