PALE REIGN OVER GESHEM - CHAPTER 8 by Abyss DISCLAIMER; All ideas contained in the following work of fiction that are the property of Marvel Comics are used without permission and for no payment of financial nature. This story can be distributed freely, but not changed in any way. Copyright for all original ideas remains with the author. NOTE; this chapter contains some disturbing images. Comments, criticism, suggestions are very very VERY welcome. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pale Reign Over Geshem - Part 8 "Scott Summers, I presume?" Prelate Summers watched the woman carefully. That she knew who he was only meant she was that much more of a threat, until he had decided otherwise. That his appearance had caused the blond girl to faint only confused matters. "Care to explain how you know who I am?" His voice carried only the slightest threat, but the Hunter's hand hovered near another knife at her belt. Though she could not see his eyes through the strange visor covering his face... much like the OTHER Scott Summers, only the piece of red glass was half the size, the rest of the visor a yellow metal not unlike gold... she looked directly at his face. She could see the scars, however much he tried to hide them with his long hair. This one was different. The other was definitely to be reckoned with, but THIS one... this one was dangerous. "You are Scott Summers. You are from another world. You arrived in Geshem almost two days ago, at night. You have magic in your eyes..." His mouth tightened at that. The Hunter guessed the lens was halved because his sight was. She continued. "...because you are a...moo-tant." "You're not telling me anything I don't know." The threat in his voice was more evident. "You were summoned here by the Mage of the Land, whom I serve as his Hunter. He called upon you because the land is threatened, and we need your help most desperately." "Why should I care?" "Because helping us is your only way home." The play of emotions across his face was so complex, she doubted she could have understood him even without the visor. "Not good enough." Now the Hunter was at a loss. Salvation failed, so she tried more familiar things. Honour, and riches. "You were brought here to rescue the Queen Rain from the Pale Man's grasp. She would surely reward you with a knighthood, and gold, if you wish." Another change in his face. "The who?" "The Queen, she..." "No. The other one you mentioned, pale..." "The Pale Man? He is a villain of the highest degree. The corpse-skinned bastard has much blood on his hands. He has much to pay for." The Prelate's mind was racing. *Pale Man... could be anything... but... Can it be? Sinister... here? Is that why I'm here? Did he send for me, but something went wrong? And if it IS him, am I even on his side anymore?* There was only one way to find out. "What's your part in this, Hunter?" "We were with the Mage when he summoned you. When the Pale Man attacked, we were forced to flee." "Who was the man on the bridge?" "You were watching us? Why did you not help?" "I didn't know who the players were. Who was he?" The Hunter hesitated. "I'm not inclined to help people who keep secrets from me." *Stab his eyes, this one WAS different.* Though she hadn't planned to reveal the existence of his other, she had no choice. Tabitha would probably let it slip in any case. "He was you." * * * The city truly was amazing. Like a page out of a history book... *Or maybe just a storybook.* Scott Summers, ex-airforce pilot, Desert Storm veteran, pilot and owner of his own charter company, husband and father, was absurdedly relieved the hood on his heavy cloak covered his face. He had no doubt his gawking at everything would mark him as a newcomer, and by all indications, that was not a good thing to be in the city right now. The buildings were all stone and plaster and thatch. The signs were in english, but medieval. Ye Olde Tavern, High Lord's Rest, Cobbler and similar plaques hung from rope or chain along the street. And the stores they promoted were all mostly empty. Like the shantytown he had passed through on his way in, the were almost no people in the streets, and those who were moved quickly from place to place, heads down, eyes likewise. Scott had figured out why soon after entering. The city was occupied by an invading force. Every so often, they would walk by, in pairs or larger groups. They were all men, dressed in an assortment of leather and metal armor, they were all armed, and to a man they all wore hooded cloaks over their faces, glowing red eyes peeking out like brakelights on a distant car. They sounded human, they acted human, he had even seen one of them spit, and two others were clearly drunk. It was only the eyes that made them unusual. The fact that the people of the city feared them didn't really surprise Scott. Every few blocks, a building showed the scorch marks of a recent fire, or a door was torn off its hinges and left lying in front of a now empty house. Briefly he wondered why the people remained, but the lessons of Iraq and Kuwait came back to him. People were hesitant to leave their homes, when there was nowhere else to go. When faced with an occupying enemy that seemed to be everywhere, the average family would stay put as long as it seemed they would be left alone. Apparently, after the first few examples, they were being left alone, and so they stayed, in the city, or in the hovels just outside its walls. Scott made his way unerringly towards the centre of the city. Towards the castle. He couldn't explain why, he just felt a need to see it up close. Even from a distance, it was awesome. A huge construct of stone that towered over everything around it. Scott had been to Ireland, and Austria, and other places where he had seen castles from ages past. They were relics. This was the real thing. Some part of his mind dryly noted he had stopped thinking of all this as a delusion. Scott ignored it. Real or not, he was here. A patrol was coming up the road ahead. Four of the hooded men, laughing amongst themselves, passing a bottle back and forth. Scott moved towards a storefront, then altered his path into an alley. He followed it towards the parallel street. When he was halfway through, the creak of wood drew his eyes upwards, just in time to catch a slight motion on the roof of the building to his left. It was only two stories, and near as he could tell the roof was tilted at an angle to make walking on it near impossible. Scott shrugged under the cloak and kept walking. The castle wasn't far now. * * * He was either a fool or an amateur. She couldn't decide which. Either way, there was something about this fool she had to check out. His face was impossible, which meant either magic, or magic. There was no other option, because there was no other way a dead man could be walking through town, making his way towards the castle he had died to defend. * * * The castle itself was on a hill, rising in the centre of the city. There was clear grass for about a hundred yards in every direction. Scott figured it was so that no one could approach without being seen. He had just moved to the edge of the town proper. Caution and curiosity pulled him in different directions. The compulsion to see the castle was strong, but if people were afraid of the men who held it, there had to be a reason. He debated waiting until dark, but the need to see the castle was almost undeniable. It pulled at him. Finally, he decided to at least go as far as the moat, then pretend he was on his way to the other side of town and keep on going. The logic of it made no sense at all, but for some reason, he didn't care. He HAD to see the castle up close. He tucked the rolled windbreaker under the strap of his pouch, drew the cloak closer around him, and walked forward. * * * The Pale Man walked the ramparts. He had spent all of the night and much of the morning studying the Heart. When he had emerged, the news of the missing Marauder parties had bothered him much. The Dog-man was a simpleton, but he rarely failed, and Marik was an effective warrior, if a fool. If the resistance was moving against him, it might be necessary to exterminate those few groups he had allowed to survive against the day he might need to spread falsehoods to his foes. He had ordered additional groups of Marauders to sweep the areas known to harbor resistance and moved on to other matters. He stopped at the eastern wall and looked down at the city. Not for the first time, he considered just releasing the preyers to purge the inhabitants, and not for the first time, he reminded himself to be patient. The townspeople were a waste of resources, but they might come in handy, as hostages if nothing else. The Pale Man looked down at the four bodies still hanging from chains on the wall below, and his thoughts ran through his many schemes. * * * As he came closer from the south, Scott made out what looked to be cannons spaced at intervals along the castle walls. At least, that was what they looked like. Long tubes with round holes at the mouth. Intricate gargoyles played along the edges of the walls, and a spiring tower topped each corner. The moat was fairly wide, and the stone of the walls looked as if it had been recently replaced in some places, and well worn by weather in others. He saw there were guards walking the top of the wall, so he kept his scrutiny to a minimum. For some reason, he felt the strangest desire to find a way into the castle, but he wasn't going to give in to it. It was time to pass over the edge of the hill and into the other side of the city. His path took him around the corner of the castle and around the east side of the hill... and then he saw the bodies... There were four of them, chained to the walls by their wrists like sick medieval crucifixions. The first was a dark-skinned man, who must have been huge when he was alive. His intestines hung like sausages from a long cut in his stomach. Next was a woman, her white hair in striking contrast to her skin as dark as the man before. The red-brown stains on her dress originated from a harsh cut to her throat. Scott's stomach lurched as he saw the next one, also a woman, but so badly slashed and cut as to make her unrecognizable. Her hair might have been red, or it might have been stained that way from all the blood. The last body had been mutilated as well. The right hand was gone, and where the eye should have been was only a dark pit, and a much larger one over the chest... but the desecrations of these bodies wasn't what bothered him most... what plunged an icy knife of fear into his gut was the face of the last body... the man's face, one eye open in horror, the other missing, was his own. Scott's mind reeled. He couldn't form a clear thought. That was HIM up there, his body, his face, but HE was... He dropped to his knees, oblivious to everything but the sick feeling he was about to die. He couldn't breath, he couldn't think, his hands tore at the hood of the cloak and pulled it down. Scott breathed deeply, trying to clear his thoughts with air, and purge the crawling in his skin with sunlight. He focused on the grass in front of him, glad he hadn't eaten much in days. Slowly, he forced himself to look up again. He had to be sure, he HAD to be. His gaze locked on the body, and then a shout from the wall above drew his attention away. * * * "Guards, GUARDS!!!" Two bandits, their faces hidden in shadows, ran to the Pale Man where he stood on the wall. He didn't so much as turn to them.. His eyes were rooted to the figure kneeling on the grass before the moat. "I want that man. I want him alive, and if you fail, the preyers are going to have you for their next meal." His tone was low, his voice almost calm, and the two men ran like panicked rabbits, shouting for others to join them. The man down below must have realized something was happening, because he stumbled to his feet. He scanned the wall for a moment, and the eyes met the Pale Man's own, even with the height of the wall between them. The Pale Man refused to react, but what he saw was impossible... Lord Summerisle, alive. The doppelganger below turned to run. If he reached the city, his men might not find him. The Pale Man wouldn't have that. He raised his arms and a dark shimmer of energy played between them. Two words to summon the spell energy passed his lips, a third to bind it to his will and then he stretched his hand out, and focused on the running figure below. * * * One of the first things they taught you to do in air force escape and evasion training was when running under fire, never to run in a straight line. That made it easy for the enemy to track and shoot you. You zig- zagged, you always zig-zagged. Though his mind was a chaotic mess, Scott Summers zig-zagged. When the Pale Man's energy spell tore a huge hole in the earth, raining dirt and grass all around him, he kept zig-zagging. He heard it coming a moment before it struck, like a bolt of lighting, but far closer than he had ever been to lightning in his life. Another bolt, and another. The buildings were fifty yards away, now forty, now thirty... another bolt, closer. Scott lost his balance as the earth exploded under his feet. The blast propelled him forward. He came down hard on his chest, winded, eyes tearing, ears ringing. He looked up at the town, twenty yards away... and forced himself to get up. A panicked glance back at the castle showed men running towards him, soldiers with red-glowing eyes. Another shout, this one from in front of him. Between two houses, a figure was waving him on, and its eyes didn't glow. Pain racked his body as he forced himself up and towards the town. No more explosions assaulted him. The soldiers were right on his heels as he cleared the first row of buildings. The figure he had seen was nowhere in sight. No one was in the streets... *Wrong.* He saw more soldiers coming towards him from the city itself. Shouts behind him confirmed the others were still giving chase. Scott looked frantically from side to side. Doors were closed, windows shuttered. He ran for the nearest alley, nearly falling over a pile of trash. More shouts, closer. He ran, all sense of direction gone, just a burning need to get away to somewhere safe. He ran headlong into something hard and unyielding. Falling back, dazed, he looked up. A wooden fence was blocking the alley. Scott got to his feet and looked back. Shouts and running feet were approaching quickly. He ran towards the fence, leaping at the last second, planting one foot against the wood as he reached for the top. Splinters tore at his hands, but he scrambled up and over. "There. Stop in the Pale Man's name!" The shout was right behind him and he rolled over the fence and down the other side. His cloak caught on a nail and nearly throttled him as he came down. The sudden jerk backwards slammed him against the fence. Dazed, Scott pulled his head free of the cloak and ran. Falling over yet another pile of trash, he sprawled headlong onto the street. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The sounds of someone climbing the fence behind him barely registered... then something pulled at his leg. He rolled over and tried to crawl backwards, but the grip kept pulling. He looked down and stared stupidly at what appeared to be his leg sinking into the ground, and then he felt the rest of his body follow it. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced. His whole body tingled, and darkness past before his eyes. He drew a panicked breath to scream, and found he couldn't breath... Terror set in... and then suddenly the remaining breath was knocked out of him as he came crashing down onto a hard surface. Coughing, gasping, pulling in air that smelled musty, he looked around. A torch was shoved in his face, blinding him in the otherwise complete darkness. He gave a startled yell and pulled back, too worn out to try and run. The torch receded and he heard a male voice speak. "Well, now... would ya look what de cat dragged in..." Scott had enough time to realize there were several figures around him, then a hard blow to the back of his head sent him falling into a welcome darkness of oblivion. * * * END CHAPTER 8