The Mak Toras Chronicles

Chapter 21 - Contact

    Deja Kaan turned to the roar of an injured warrior feeling the heat of plasma being seared into their back. His shoulder cannon made haste assembling while his visors made quick scans of the environment that was once behind him. Cjathar pulled the writhing hunter to safety as J'untor took up arms with his scimitar, a sword-like blade as if a single wrist blade from a pair was mounted on a hilt for use as a swinging blade freely rather than connected at the arm. There seemed to be no trace of the shooter but no doubt an evil, sinister presence lurking about. Shifting through the many fields of vision, the Kaan could not pinpoint a shooter. Even in the most enticing of conditions, the mask was no use to a blind wall of foliage. A long pause was soon cut off by another plasma bolt aimed directly at him. He rolled out of the way as it obliterated the ground behind him. There was a shimmer of electricity in the brush as the shooter revealed himself. As predicted, the concealed killer was no longer standing in ambiguity. The surrounding air around this hunter was of no ordinary stature, for a darkness loomed where they walked. It unfolded like a blanket across the ground, encompassing everything in shadow. It was the presence no other hunter in the Legion can mirror—much less comprehend: the shadow of a Blood Hunter.
Soon the hunter walked forward with confidence as if no force in the jungle of Ner'aka could stop him. An unbreaking of the shadow followed in his wake. Among the only metal that shimmered against the threshold of light was the grueling mask of the Blood Hunter, bearing a jaw split in two around either side, the dark metal reflecting its menacing glare and angry depiction of the mask. The many spikes entrailing the forehead added to the effect of flair and personality of the hunter, both of which foretold ill against the light. Deja Kaan, however, did not back down to such an impression. Never in his life did he fear the soulless ones attempting to beguile his will, his very blood dedicated to defending the life and will of the people from such horrors that seek to conspire against them. The masked killer treaded closer in greater resolve, unveiling his single wristblade to the right and a knife rivaling the ceremonial scars committed tonthe young blood that lay dead. Still, it was coated in a dry layer of the once luminous blood that ran green. It testified the final moments of the young blood to the hands of the killer, speaking from the ageless metal forever damned to the evil that wielded the blade. As Deja Kaan took ready to his stance, J'untor brushed past him faster than he could react.
"Come no closer!" He shouted, charging forth at the enemy with the clashing of blades sounding the rage in essence to cold, furious steel. The killer pushed back J'untor to even the distance between before countering with a gut slash. Yet the honor guard's vigil was ever so aware of the incoming attack and parried the knife in its tracks. Wrist blade drawn, the killer swung a right hook mear J'untor's face, only to be dodged narrowly. The Kaan could only watch as every swing of each fighter and the clashing of metal only ended in a stalement. Every physical blow was followed by recovery with haste of either contender, before another deadlock was met. Despite the urge to rush in and relieve his comrade, he couldn't interfere a duel that appeared in front of him. It was up to the fighter themselves whether or not they deserved the combat they desire.
"Your fate is sealed, murderer," growled J'untor as his mandibles flared beneath his mask. The killer responded with cold resentment.
"Much like your pathetic Legion and yet you have no qualms fighting it out amongst your superiors just as I do."
The lock suddenly split with J'untor guiding the joined blades into the ground, twirling around to deliver a slash to the killer's thigh. First blood had been drawn in tandem with a howl. He followed through with a kick as the cut debilitated his enemy for a mere second, knocking his opponent back several lengths toward the ground.
"I will kill you where you stand!" He shouted, rushing at the killer again with his scmitar pointed forth, the sword-like blade whistling through the air in fine precision. The killer rolled upright quickly, catching J'untor off guard as his blade came down to meet the jagged edges of the ceremonial knife, followed by a sweep and knocking J'untor to the ground. His recovery was off, and his position left him too vulnerable for Deja Kaan not to take action. As the single wrist blade threatened to rain down into his gut, the Kaan forced him away with a flying kick to the chest. He helped J'untor back to his feet, though the expressionless mask told him otherwise.
    "I had him, mighty one," he said disdainfully.
    "Not from what I saw," Deja Kaan scoffed back. He was at an intersection whether or not J'untor really secured the fight. Still, the Kaan took no chances. There were still young bloods out in this jungle, and possibly more Bad Bloods; having a warrior die right here on the spot was inconducive to the progress of the next generation. The longer they deviated from the task at hand, the more danger the young bloods were in. Deja Kaan turn to face the killer, who recovered after brief hesitation. He was not going down in short manner.
    "Ah, wonderful. The mighty warriors of the Legion, together in combat. Now they may share this grave together," said the killer. By the lisp in his voice, Deja Kaan got an eerie feeling inside. That familiar gnawing at the gut when the truth is all too real and yet inevitable; impossible to avoid knowing the painful insight at hand—of an old warrior of his past now turned to the darkness. Thoughts he once relished now churned sour in a cauldron fire.
"It's been a while, Zer'ar. Last I recall you tried to murder the high Council for your own gain rather than serve the 'purity' of the Yautja as you cretin believe in," he remarked, receiving nothing more than a vicious snarl in return. The Kaan, however, could not be more transparent with the truth in his enemy. Blood Hunters were the prime culprit for many assassination attempts against the high king for ages, including king Talar. The network of killings that drove the ruthless acts by the Blood Hunters was the foundation of chaos and corruption that consumed the empire before the Legion was even born. Even the Kaan himself felt as if he was constantly a target even on safe grounds of their kingdom.
"You dare lecture me on purity?" Zer'ar said snarling through his teeth. It was not before long he lunged again at J'untor, dual-wielding a set of knives that gave the ceremonial knife a higher place on the pedestal of formality. Before another strike could be landed, J'untor, with the flick of his left arm, summoned a shield with the transforming plates of the wrist bracer, curling like a spiral into form just as the knives came down, hitting the shield with a loud bang.
Deja Kaan stepped back from the skirmish, not wanting to interefere again. Now with J'untor on guard, he anticipated the warrior to conqueor his opponent without delay or mistake. The ambush proved to be useful for raising his fellow warrior's awareness. Though not looked upon fairly by his surperiors to not only omit a fight and letting another warrior take a stand, Deja Kaan believed in the sense of honor in combat. By letting J'untor take a stab at the enemy first, his comrade officially locked himself in a fight that he alone must finish. Even the most ruthless of fighters have a sense of the Honor Code even in the midst of bloodshed—to win in a fair fight and present their worthiness in combat against such adversaries like the Blood Hunters. Unfortunately, the latter abandoned the code long ago and old their methods of fighting that once mirrored the Legion. Without any dignity or conscience in the code, they will go to any means to winning a fight and slaughtering who they deem as prey—for their own ends. They would even slay the innocent, the sick, the old—the weak; anyone seen as unsatisfactory. Sometimes, not even on the grounds for sport, it was but out of pure evil and spite for other species not living up to their standards. It was this arrogance that drove Deja Kaan and many warriors like him to take up arms against this tyranny and evil unleashed upon their world.
    He watched the battle between the two warriors unfold as the clash and yells echoed throughout the jungle. As an observer, he felt even he was falling behind in keeping up with the pace of attack and defense from the latter. Every strike—every parry, was countered by one another as they probed for an open shot; a fury of slashes from J'untor's blade, followed by his raised shield, to the spinning and jabs by Zer'ar. Yet amidst of the fighting, Deja Kaan felt another presence stalking him, aside from Zer'ar and his incursion at first glance. He figured a hunter Zer'ar would not come alone—for all the flaws that made him who he was, the enemy was not to be trifled with, even in the wicked. His gut feeling was more than just a gesture of nervous anticipation. He whipped around to face a brush of air coming up behind him. Before he could even think his next move, his bracer came into contact with an axe that struck down with immense force. It too beared markings reflecting the knife Zer'ar held close. One armed, he held off the axe's assault before swiping the attacker away. The attacker charged at him again, this time with the axe swinging to his left. Deja Kaan skidded back before the edge came across his lower abdomen, barely missing him. There, ahead of him, another fighter stood before the Kaan against the foliage. Mask markings and armor alone, this attacker stood out much differently from Zer'ar. Aside from the sinister appearance itself, it took to the form of more bone-like decals and protrudings on every plate head to toe. Horns and spikes that would normally trail a mask's edges some would possess were amplified with extra spikes added on. Blood Hunters took to intimidation on a level difficult for Deja Kaan to appreciate as its own art and form. Still, Zer'ar and his company justified his vigilance all too real once more. The axe itself was no more different than the armor markings, being made mostly out of bone from the cutting edge to the spiney protrusions to the other end. Appearance alone was enough to take Deja Kaan's attention off the fight behind him entirely.
He got into a fighting stance as the hunter approached with the axe raised high. Already he planned out his method of attack. With someone as slow as the axe-wielder, it was fairly simple to counter his target. Yet Deja Kaan still exercised caution in the face of such a menacing weapon. As it cut its way downward through the air, he stepped aside the blow and retorted back with a spinning kick, enough to ring the enemy's mask like a bell. Pressing the assault, he forced the hunter away from the weapon lodged in the dirt, opening through a barrage of punches high and low. With every swipe returned to him, the Kaan blocked with his bracers to follow through a gut shot. Eventually, he raised his right flank to kick the hunter straight in the side, only to have his leg caught by a suspecting pair of his. He could feel the the weight of himself thrown airborne before crashing against the trunk of a tree. Clearly, this Blood Hunter was no pushover; even disarmed, Deja Kaan knew his threat would not be so easily detained. Every hunter was trained since their youth days to fight using only themselves against an enemy whose stacking odds would have deterred most fighters in an instant. Luckily for himself, the Kaan took this philosophy to the extreme, training himself to better his own prowess as his old mentor taught before him. Ages in the making, Deja Kaan was a master of his trade—something he planned to exploit in his rivals through combat and, eventually, teach to his pupil. An art passed down from generation to generation was now bound to be in the hands of a human. The time would come soon enough. As Deja Kaan focused on his bearings, he readied himself at the sound of a roar directing at him. A punch flew threw the air with great force, crashing a hole into the tree where the Kaan once stood, merely escaping another injury, and following through to a roll past his persecutor as he gut shot him again—this time, his fist landed a much harder blow square into the abdomen. It was enough to debilitate the Blood Hunter as Deja Kaan recovered to press the attack, only to have his stance caught off guard as he heard a laugh escape the Blood Hunter. He immediately felt his blood churn.
"Is that all you have, mighty one?" The hunter said mockingly, "surely you can hit harder than that." Deja Kaan's skin began to crawl in rage. He knew the Blood Hunter was simply toying with him but could not help the quelling bitterness of such a foe, not even flattered at the coming of conflict—only death with cold, deliberate resolve from his enemy. Not letting his guard down, he shot back a reflection.
"And surely you can learn how to wield a blade, warrior," he said sharply, "All I need are my fists to bring down a ravager such as yourself." The Blood Hunter turned to face the gaze of the Kaan.
    "You will need much more than that to save you," said the hunter, running at Deja Kaan and pulling out a smaller version of his axe. From the first swipe, every one of them thereafter was much more maneuverable, forcing the Kaan to take many steps back attempting to parry each and every blow. Deja Kaan could not recall how much his attacker pushed him back from where they once stood. The passing of the jungle floor felt like a never ending journey backward into the unseen. In the midst of the axe strikes, he lost his footing for a mere second and payed the price for it. Exposed from the stumble, the hunter struck him in the left shoulder, lodging into the plated armor that shielded the bone. He grunted, narrowly feeling the wedge upon his skin. Were the axe to be comprised of the steel they forged for blades, the wound would have been fatal, although not as life threatening as other wounds he can remember—still enough to put him in danger, no less. His gazed darted right as the hunter made a left-hook to his mask with him caught in a deadlock. Deja Kaan stood his ground, catching the brunt of the fist with great force, but can feel the strength of his attacker bearing down on him. He could bo last forever in this hold. There was no other option but to break free—and fast. The Kaan delivered an overbearing head-butt to the hunter and, using him as propulsion, jump-kicked off his chest, sending his attacker to the ground, and sending the Kaan himself into a back flip unto the open ground many noks appart from eachother. The push was enough to render him free of the axe and plenty of time to recover. Landing low to the ground, he watched as the Blood Hunter got up near his larger axe counterpart and hoisting it out of dirt and grass. Although he desired to teach his attacker in the ways of close-quarter combat, he aimed not to waste any more time than he already had. The train of thought of the young bloods never left his mind but reigned to the back of his thoughts. He had to return to Mak Toras immediately, likewise with the other hunters to their pupils.
    It was there Deja Kaan knew what to deploy next. He decided it was time to show what this hunter truly deserved unto the Black Hunter's grace. Extending both arms out from each side, a song of metal gracefully rang through the air as the jungle refrained in chorus, echoeing as his dual arrangement wrist blades arose from the bracers they call home. Now the tides had turned. Despite never really aiming to use his wrist blades often, only as a last resort, he proclaimed that enough was enough. Building on his reserves of energy for a final push, Deja Kaan was poised to strike. The axe wielder spun his weapon into guard as he prepared for the Kaan's upcoming assault. But nothing could prepare the Blood Hunter in the face of death itself, for what the Kaan excelled in hand-to-hand combat, he was far more distinguished as a blade master of the gauntlets. He wasted time no more and rushed forward to greet the Blood Hunter his blades of justice. The axe came down again, only to be blocked yet again, leaving the hunter vulnerable to the Kaan's assault. A fury of jabs and swipes criss-crossed and dotted the hunter as he grunt and shout with ever cut getting deeper into his skin. The Blood Hunter retaliated by swinging his axe one-handed to the left of the Kaan to counter, but to no avail. Deja Kaan, on the other hand, ducked the passing of the strike and continuing laying siege to the enemy's body. Lacerations covered the front torso of the hunter as minature waters ran green with blood down his body. One strike of Deja Kaan was finally brought to a halt as the twin set of blades on his right gauntlet got caught against the hilt of the axe. The hunter used this lock to kick the Kaan. As he tumbled back, having the wind nearly kick out of him, Deja Kaan rose back to his feet with haste and made no hesitation to enforce his wrath once more. Out of sheer anger, the Blood Hunter took his axe and threw it towards the Kaan to dismantle him, following through with a charge equipped with his smaller bone-forged axe raised high in one hand to end his rival. But the execution came all too late. Deja Kaan had already dodged the tomahawked axe, and lunged forth to pierce straight through flesh that was the Blood Hunter's own. The final blow consisted of his left set of blades plunging right through the chest cavity if his attacker. It was there that time seemingly grinded to a halt. The Blood Hunter's body frozen in shock with his stance reflecting greatly to that of statues poised in a warrior from the days of old with his raised weapon ready to strike down his exhausted opponent. That pose was not long-lived as Deja Kaan saw with his own eyes as the weapon dropped to the ground and feeling the hunters grip wrapping around his neck. Another hand curled into a fist and shot forth at Deja Kaan as a last ditch efford to wound him as a roar of anger and pain left the hunter's mask. He responded swiftly with his free right arm and sent forth the right set of blades, impaling the Blood Hunter's skull from the side. Blood spurted from both ends like the splashing of water; the roars of his enemy died away like sand brushing into the wind. All life thereon from the hunter ceased. The fist that once reigned through the air dropped, the grip that once caught the Kaan in a choked hold loosened, and the Blood Hunter's lifeless body brought to kneel. Deja Kaan released him from his blades, shoving him off with his foot like the skewered animal was, his body falling to the ground with a thud. Breath could not have escaped the Kaan's grasp any faster than his relief at yet another tiring victory. His mind quickly drew to a trance as he regained his conscience and memory, having J'untor crossed his mind—still in combat, he presumed as he could not quite identify if he was still there or if the battle moved elsewhere. He turned to greet his friend, hoping to see J'untor claiming his kill at last, only to find a different scene of what had unfolded behind him.
    Much to Deja Kaan's dismay.