The House of Grey- Volume 5 (21 page)

***

“Holy hell!” Cyann’s voice proclaimed her disbelief.

She and Monson stood in the middle of his once-pristine sitting room.

It was completely and utterly destroyed.

The whole of the space was unrecognizable. Most of the furniture, now splintered, was violently scattered across the room. Every piece of electronic equipment—the TV, stereo, speakers, everything–was fried and piled in the far corner of the room near the door of the apartment. The door itself, his large oak door, was missing entirely apparently torn off its hinges along with half the wall. Pooling at the edges of the torn wall was a pulpous substance that sort of looked like blood. Monson moved closer to the substance but a strong breeze bombarded the left side of his body and instinctively caused him to shift towards his massive window. Except the window was gone
;
a jagged hole of broken glass and twisted wood was left in its place.

His apartment was destroyed. His friends were gone. There was an army-sized contingent of what appeared to be Roman soldiers outside his dorm. Monson tried not to let his disbelief and fear consume him. He had to stay in control. He could not let it show.

“What happened?” asked Cyann, her voice calm as ever. “Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know.” Monson started to search through the rubble. “I think the better question right now is what do we do now?”

Cyann bit at the nail on her pinky finger. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Monson weighed their options. “We should probably get out of the apartment—actually, out of this building. I don’t know what caused all this, but seeing as you just got attacked last night, we shouldn’t take any chances. Then we figure out what happened to everyone else.”

Cyann removed her pinky from her mouth. “And how do you propose we do that?”

“Call them of course. Casey is never without his phone.”

He showed the phone to Cyann, who just rolled her eyes.

Monson smirked, then tried to turn it on—with no success. He tried several more times, holding down the On button as hard as he could. When this yielded no results, he removed and replaced the battery. Finally, he came to the conclusion that—

“It’s dead,” he said, throwing the phone down on the floor. “Probably fried, if the TV and stuff are any indication.”

Monson mentally kicked himself for not thinking of that before.

“I guess we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way and actually look for them.”

Monson glanced down at Cyann’s feet. “We need to find you some shoes first. You can’t walk around barefoot.”

Cyann pointed downward. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea for us to return to my room. I have a pair of shoes in the lockers down by the laundry room. We should try to get down there and then take to the woods.”

Monson rubbed at his face. “It’s as good a plan as any. I would say let’s make our way to town but we don’t know what we’re dealing with. Who knows who did this or why.”

Cyann motioned to the door. She moved through it. “I think it’s about time we find out.”

Monson hurried after her.

***

Cyann in the lead, they stepped to the Horum Vir’s private elevator, both moving cautiously and instinctively glancing around for any signs of life. They made it to the elevator without incident and rode down in silence.

The ding that marked their arrival on the bottom floor seemed to echo like the gong of a church bell. The sound made Monson’s fight-or-flight response kick into overdrive. He breathed a little easier when they exited and saw no one around. Cyann again took the lead, advancing swiftly and silently through the Atrium among pieces of the broken fountain and vegetation strewn about the floor.

A cracking noise brought them to an abrupt stop.

“Do you hear that?” whispered Cyann.

“Yeah,” answered Monson, inspecting the room for the slightest movement. He heard the cracking again, only this time louder. Monson and Cyann turned slowly and watched as the enormous statue of Jupiter standing atop what was left of the crushed fountain stepped down from his perch.

“Oh my g—”

Monson grabbed Cyann’s arm and tugged. “Now is so not the time to take God’s name in vain. He’s probably already pissed at me enough as it is. We need to go, now!” 

The ground shook as the apparently living statue’s massive stone feet met the ground, creating a shockwave that threw them both off balance. The statue of the King of the Roman gods looked around the room, or at least Monson thought he was looking around the room; it was difficult to
tell
as his eyes did not seem to be moving. He was sure, however, of the massive hand that launched straight for them. Monson and Cyann ran, taking off at a speed that neither of them thought possible, hurdling over small shrubs and grow boxes in their haste to retreat. The statue’s hand took a mammoth swipe at them right as they jumped into an adjoining room. The living rock bellowed an angry war cry as its hand met only metal and glass. Monson and Cyann landed in a crumpled heap on the ground, the former peering over his shoulder just in time to see the giant furiously pound his foot. Additional cracks and crashes sounded as it became apparent that the Atrium floor was not prepared to handle the beating that the giant statue was delivering. The floor buckled underneath the giant’s weight and caved in around him.

Monson hung his head in relief, but instantly sat back up. Cyann was pulling at his sleeve.

“What, Cyann?” he said absentmindedly. Monson blanched as he adjusted to face her and realized why she was pulling at him.

Black-clad commandos scurried frantically around the common room, collecting misplaced weapons. Apparently, they had heard the statue’s attack. Monson upbraided himself. He had led Cyann right out of the caldron and into the fire.

He did a quick scan of the room. It appeared as if they had stumbled into some sort of base of operations. There were maps scattered everywhere, not to mention all sorts of sophisticated equipment. The pounding of the massive statue coupled with their sudden appearance had thrown the commandos off balance and they had yet to truly comprehend what was happening. A fact, it seemed, they were getting over fairly quickly. The men armed themselves with the guns and the large, wicked-looking hand-and-a-half swords from the night before, all of which were now pointed at Monson and Cyann.

They were coming from the left, the right,
the
front and from behind. Great. They were surrounded even before the fight started.

Monson slowly rose to his feet and then helped up Cyann, who whispered as she took his hand. “If we survive this, remind me to tell you something important.”

Monson cocked the eyebrow. “You’re saying that now?”

Cyann raised an eyebrow in return. “Do you know a better time?”

Monson rolled his eyes. “You know we did just sleep in the same bed.”

Cyann blushed. “This is serious, Monson. Is everything a joke to you?”

Monson smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, sort of.”

“You’re hopeless.”

More shuffling indicated the intentions of the commandos. They were about to make their move. “I tell you what, Cyann. If you and I survive this then we can have a nice long talk. I’ll even rent an island or something. How about that?”

“I’d like that.” Cyann turned so that her back was to Monson. “Now all we have to do is survive.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Monson. “I’ve got it under control.”

Cyann’s voice carried a certain degree of skepticism. “Oh you do, do ya? And what is it you plan on doing?”

Monson raised his arm parallel to the floor as he faced his half of the enclosing commandos. “What am I going to do? I’m going to beat them. I’m going to beat every last one of them.”

The commandos rushed them, weapons drawn. Monson bellowed a quick phrase.

“Combat Spell One: Burst!”

He let out an excited breath. The spell worked—it worked! The spell appeared to be wind-based, simple in formation and effect. A swirling globe the size of a basketball shot out from Monson’s hand. It sped towards a small group of the unsuspecting commandos, slamming into the chest of one of the men. Instead of simply striking and dissipating, the globe expanded and separated into four smaller balls of wind, which then shot out again, striking the commando’s comrades. The action repeated itself again and again until the wind balls were too small to have any effect. Monson looked with awe at the glove on his hand.

Man, what I would have given to
have had
my hands on this thing a bit earlier in life, he thought.

In a split-second decision, having gained some time from the success of the spell, Monson spun on his heel and grasped Cyann by the waist, thrusting his glove-covered hand out in front of them. Her surprised objection fumbled and died in the wake of Monson’s echoing call.

“Combat Spell One: Burst!”

 
The globular ball of wind, even larger than before, slammed into the charging soldiers. With the commandos now in disarray, Cyann made her move. Ripping herself from Monson’s grasp, she ran over to a fallen commando, kicked him in the face, and retrieved his sword. With one fluid motion, she slid it towards
 
Monson, who shoved his foot under the base of the hilt and in a ridiculously flashy move, kicked it up into his hands in the nick of time. He parried two strikes from two different commandos then countered with the agility of a striking cobra, throwing a punch to a masked face. The commando dropped with a groan. Monson took the momentum of his punch and followed through with a wild, spinning back kick that smashed into the head of the second commando. Neither man moved.

It was then that something very curious registered in Monson’s mind.

The men—they were actually men. They were not those rock things. The knowledge caused him to hesitate, but he attempted to push it aside when two more commandos approached him from a door on the far side of the room.

These two men were different from the others in everything from aura to attire. They wore blood red masks and flowing fatigues and stalked towards him emitting death and an almost tangible ambiance
of natural
born killers.

Both men removed weapons that were altogether different from those of their black-clad counterparts. The one closest to Monson, a large man about six feet tall, held a serrated claymore that was so large that Monson probably could not have lifted it. The man attacked with a very savage and powerful style of swordplay. Large two-handed slashes whirled past Monson’s head and chest, tossing him back every time his blade blocked the claymore. The attack patterns were very reminiscent of Artorius’ fighting style, but far less graceful and far stronger. The style came across as a sadistic cut-and-paste version of the Ja-no. Having sparred Artorius many
times,
Monson was used to the style and was able to adjust his defense pattern. What he was not used to was the combination attack by the man’s companion.

The smaller opponent was predictably faster than his larger companion. That alone was of little concern to Monson. Casey was unnaturally fast and there were ways to deal with such people. The disconcerting fact about the smaller man was his unique fighting style. He held his unique, single-edged sword, which looked similar to a Persian scimitar, hilt down and followed his attacks with lightning-fast kicks.

Monson defended, miraculously, against both men. He dodged the massive blows from the claymore and kept the smaller fighter at bay with kicks and heavy strikes of his own. The flow of the battle was blow and counterblow with Monson in a constant state of defense. The fight began to take its toll on him. These men were good, far better than anyone he had sparred before. Monson knew he was in trouble.

After a particularly violent exchange, the scimitar connected, leaving a large gash on Monson’s
shoulder that
caused warm blood to stream down the length of his arm. Coupled with the jolt of the blade actually piercing his flesh was a dull, throbbing shock, as if the sword had an electric current running through it. Monson staggered back but pulled his sword up, holding it with his good arm.

The two red soldiers did not press their attack, but retreated a few steps, moving their weapons into a neutral position. Monson’s body coiled like a
spring,
waiting for the attack he knew would come.

“You fight very well, young one.”

Monson’s mouth slackened slightly. These men had him on the run; why were they stopping?

“Not as well as you.” Monson allowed his grip to loosen; he was trying to focus on the two men, but now that he had a free moment, he was struggling not to turn his attention to Cyann. She was still fighting. He had to find a way to go and help her.

“Ah yes,” answered the smaller fighter. “But that is what happens when you fight for the DaGoons; if you do not become one with the Tripartite, battle will hold neither honor nor victory.”

“You fight for…?” Monson’s voice trailed off as he heard the clink and clang of a struggling Cyann.

The other red-clad fighter spoke up. “Your mate is also very talented. This world is unique, to have such highly developed abilities in the old ways.”