Castoff: Enemies (ch. 23) (Patreon)

It almost felt like coming home, Guts thought as he carved through enemy lines, the camp caught completely off guard by their sudden arrival. He had killed plenty in the past couple of years, but there was something different about killing on a battlefield. The Nilfgaardian troops were an organized lot. Disciplined. The chaos of a battle, especially a surprise attack, couldn't be understated. Guts had been on both ends more times than he could count.

On the receiving end, you knew nothing. You didn't know where the enemy was hitting you, how many there were, where they were coming from. You didn't know how well your side was holding up, where to look for instructions, or if you were winning or losing. That lack of knowledge on the battlefield was the reason armies cut and run or folded in the face of an ambush. It made sense. It was perfectly reasonable. The Nilfgaardians, however, were already starting to recover.

They had good commanders. Ones that were willing to throw meat in the grinder to buy time to organize a defense and counterattack. It was brutal bloody fighting, but it was the correct decision under normal circumstances.

These were not normal circumstances.

Guts had almost forgotten how easy it was killing men. Vengeful spirits and Apostles kept on coming at you until they were dead. Pure aggression, inhuman strength and speed. Men… Men were cowardly, when it came right down to it. Most were willing to pick up a sword and wave it around, but when it came to danger, they would hesitate. They didn't work together as they should have. And, because of it, Guts was in the belly of the army and they couldn't do anything to stop him. Whatever response they attempted to muster was shattered as he carved a line through it.

Fire burned as tents were set ablaze, filling the air with smoke. The Nilfgaardians assaulting the walls were trying to wheel themselves around. The success of the surprise attack had rippling effects because when you were in the middle of a camp, you felt safe. That safety was broken in a bad way when you suddenly found dozens of men slaughtering your countrymen with more on the way. It allowed smaller forces to defeat larger ones, but as Guts spotted the fine armor of a man trying to rally a defense…

It was too effective, Guts thought, cutting the man in half along with the head of his horse. The fine gilded armor didn't do anything to stop Dragonslayer. They were fighting an army of ten thousand. That ten thousand was spread out, but it was still ten to one. Even with the success of the attack, it should be getting stalled out by now by sheer force of numbers. Even if only two in ten stood to fight, that should be more than enough.

As the commander's corpse hit the ground, Guts heard it.

"GUTS!" The challenge rang out and his heart clenched. There was no mistaking that voice. It was impossible. It was seared into his memory. All the same, Guts first instinct was to deny it as he looked to the source just in time to see a sword flashing up with an arc of crimson and the top halves of three Nilfgaardians and one of Ciri's soldiers. There had been only one other warrior that had that raw strength.

His chest felt tight as he found himself marching towards the challenge. How could he be here? Why would he be here? He was done with Griffith. He sold his vengeance. So why was he here? Did Gaunter have something to do with this? Was this a damn test?!

With another swing, the path was clear. Guts saw him. One of the last faces that he ever wanted to see. He clenched his jaw until it felt like his teeth were going to shatter, a familiar rage rising up in his chest. "ZODD!" Guts roared, taking a step forward and swinging with all of his strength. Zodd was every bit as monstrous as he remembered as their blades clashed against one another, the sound echoing out with such force that the fighting around them quelled.

He stood a good two feet taller than him, wielding his blade that was little more than a massive cleaver the size of Dragonslayer with a single hand. His face was twisted into an inhuman snarl, his blood red eyes meeting his gaze. Guts felt the impact rattling his bones, but as soon as the blades met, Guts was attacking again. Again their blades clashed in a shower of sparks, and a furious roar ripped itself from Guts' throat.

Why was he here? How was he here? Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw those Skull Knight knock offs slaughtering everyone in sight -- did they do this? Did they bring him here? They were too afraid to attack him themselves, so they sent Zodd after him? That didn't make sense. It couldn't. Griffith was worlds away -- Why the fuck would he agree to send Zodd with them?

Fear pooled in Guts stomach as it shot down his spine, taking a step forward and driving Zodd back. His arms burned with effort already, but he barely felt it. Would it just be Zodd? What about the other Apostles? Were they here? Would they be here? Or would they be somewhere else?

Would they go to Novigrad?

Would they target Casca and Judeau?

"Get. Out. Of. My. Way!" Guts roared, punctuating each word with a swing. Dragonslayer was little more than a blur as he drove Zodd back, forcing him on the defensive, and based on his expression, that wasn't something he was used to. A member of the Wild Hunt flashed forward, attacking him from the side, only for Zodd to take a full step back and cut the rider in half.

"I will not allow interference!" Zodd boomed, making the Wild Hunt around them scatter. He looked at Guts, "Struggler. Fate is not yet through with you, even if you have escaped its noose."

Hate. It was a familiar comfort. It welled in his chest, flowing through his veins. It tasted bitter on his tongue and every thought darkened to blackness. Griffith. Griffith. Griffith!

"That armor-" Zodd began and Guts wasn't listening. A roar of hate ripped itself from his throat as he shot forward with speed he had never known before. The armor. He could feel it around him, rising from his shadow. His vision was unaffected as the helmet rose up to envelop his head, the dog shaped helm twisting into a snarl. Strength infused his body but Guts knew it was a poisoned chalice.

At that moment, he didn't care. He drank from it all the same and he was rewarded by sending Zodd back a dozen feet when his blade connected. Zodd managed to block the blow, his feet carving two trenches from the strength behind it. Zodd chose to dodge the next attack instead of trying to take it head on. That's how Guts knew he could fight Zodd blow for blow. Something he never thought possible when he first encountered Zodd.

Even amongst Apostles, there was something fundamentally inhuman about him. And now Gut's had reached those same heights. Humanity. He clung to it. He embraced it. But he'd throw it away in a heartbeat now. So long as it meant he could take Zodd's head. Griffiths. The Godhand.

"Why?!" Guts roared, their blades crashing together. Zodd gripped his sword with both hands, and the air trembled from the force behind the blows. Guts poured every ounce of strength he could behind them, determined to overwhelm Zodd. Zodd met him blow for blow, unwilling to back down even if his expression was one of excitement and elation. He was enjoying this. Guts hated him that much more and the more he hated, the more strength the armor gave him.

"The child is necessary for my Lord's plans. The woman shall be his Queen," Zodd answered. "You will find no peace, Struggler. Such is your nature. Not even in this world that rejects us." There was no sympathy in his voice, but he uttered the words with a grim apology. The words echoed around in his skull, as ominous as the prophecy that Zodd had once given him. They spoke of a dark future -- Griffith would never leave them be. He would never stop coming for them. There would be no peace. Even after he had sold his vengeance, there would be no peace.

Guts felt himself going insane. He could feel his grip on his sanity slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The hope that he once held was dashed upon the cold truth of reality. The price Gaunter extracted wouldn't just be the end of him. It would be the end of Casca and Judeau, because who could protect them once he was gone? As his sanity seemed to fracture, his armor filled the cracks. The black and poisonous hate that he wore seemed to fill him. Almost as if he was the armor and his body was merely the container.

"No. No," Guts snarled the word, driven into a blind rage. He fought like a wild animal. He could see it in his movements, but he didn't care. Dragonslayer screamed in agony with every single blow that Zodd met, his blade becoming chipped and dented. His surroundings faded away, almost as if the armor was putting blinders on him, forcing him to focus on nothing but the enemy before him. As he lashed out, swinging his blade with such speed, he heard the wind whistling as it was cut upon Dragonslayer's edge, he was rewarded with first blood.

Zodd blocked a blow but his arms buckled at the force, letting Dragonslayer carve a line across his chest as Zodd backed up a half step to avoid being bisected. Guts pressed the attack, flipping forward and using the momentum to deliver an overhead swing that Zodd was forced to block. Dragonslayer nearly destroyed the cleaver, if only Zodd hadn't tilted the blade so Dragonslayer skirted off the flat of the blade and into the ground. Zodd pivoted with shocking speed, changing his grip to deliver a sideways slash that Guts knew would cut him in half.

Letting go of Dragonslayer, Guts twisted in the air before his prosthetic hand dropped. Zodd's eyes widened a fraction before the cannonball erupted from the prosthetic, catching Zodd in the chest.

He tried, Guts wanted to scream the words at the top of his lungs, but the only thing that escaped him was a maddened howl that couldn't have come from a human. He tried. He tried! He tried to give it up! He tried to live in peace! He was willing to set his sword down and let Griffith get away with it. His betrayal. The Eclipse.

Why?! Why?! Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?! Why were they here? Why couldn't they be left alone?!

Zodd erupted from the dust and smoke, his dark skin scorched, but he wasn't the strongest Apostle for nothing. His blade flashed out and Guts managed to get Dragonslayer up in time to block the blow. Even still, he felt his body shatter from it as he was flung to the side with the same speed as the cannonball he had just shot. Bones shattered into pieces, but as soon as they did, his armor put him back together. Black spikes pierced his body, pushing the shattered pieces of bone together and reinforcing them.

With a spray of blood erupting from his armor, Guts twisted and drove Dragonslayer into the ground and braced his feet against it. The blade acted as a plow, carving through the dirt in a long trench, but it slowed him down. Blood dripped from every gap in his armor, glowing freely, but Guts didn't care. He couldn't care. He simply grabbed the hilt of Dragonslayer, staining the rags around the hilt crimson, and brought the blade up to take another attack from Zodd.

The armor was extracting its price from him. Guts could feel it. He felt himself becoming… less. The armor dug its hooks into him, consuming him, blackening every thought with mad hatred. A scream left his lips as he clashed with Zodd, who met his defiant roar with one of his own. Everything else faded away. The sounds of combat from the two clashing armies, the scent of blood and smoke in the air, even the sensation of his bones rattling inside of him -- all of it faded away. It all faded away until there was just him, Zodd, and his hatred.

Gritting his teeth, Guts pressed forward, meeting Zodd blow for blow. As the armor granted him strength for drinking from its poisoned chalice, Guts found himself driving Zodd back. The counters, blocks, and dodges got narrower and narrower until Dragonslayer found purchase. A scrape that would barely get a drop of blood even if you squeezed it. The second scrape was deeper. The third was a gash across his bicep. And the fourth nearly took his head off.

Zodd snarled. A monsterous sound echoed out, his injuries steaming as hot blood seeped from them. His body grew a half foot, then another. It was a far slower transformation than Guts last saw. It was as if he were fighting to draw out his true form to match Guts. And, in response, Guts drank deeper from the chalice. Dragonslayer lashed out, batting away the cleaver before going for a feint. Zodd lunged and Guts pivoted, another cannonball clambering onto his prosthetic. With an explosion that rang in his ears, it shot out, giving Guts a burst of momentum to catch Zodd in the forearm before he could withdraw the attack.

Dragonslayer ripped through flesh and bone rather than cut through it. All the same, in a splash of blood, Zodd was short an arm, even if Guts did fail to take his head with the backswing. Zodd jumped back, letting his blood fall freely onto the trampled grass of the Nilfgaardian camp. "To think it would be you," Zodd remarked, sounding like he was talking to himself rather than to Guts. His body began to swell in size, jumping from eight feet tall to nine, then eleven. His leathery skin became covered in black fur, his face contorting as a single lone horn jutted out of his forehead and his face became a snout. It looked like his other horn had been cut off.

The form once inspired terror in Guts. Now it simply made him see red. A wordless howl left him as he charged while Zodd crouched low. "I had hoped our duel would be one of equal footing rather than you attacking like a rabid dog," Zodd remarked before throwing himself forward and Guts swung Dragonslayer with all of his might, determined to kill Zodd. Then he would kill whoever came with him. Then he'd go back to his Sphere and slaughter every living being on the planet if he had to.

But, as Dragonslayer struck Zodd's horn…

It shattered.

The sound of his most trusted blade shattering to pieces echoed in Guts' ears like a bell as time seemed to slow to a crawl. The words of the Oxenfurt blacksmith whispered in the back of his mind -- the blade had a fatal crack in it. The lightning from the Djinn would have made it that much worse. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the blade shattered. In hindsight. All the same, Guts stared at the stump of a hilt that he was left with in disbelief. It didn't seem possible despite the blatant evidence before him.

The shock snapped him out of the blind fury he was lost in, and he became keenly aware of the pain that radiated through his body. More importantly, he became aware of the tip of Zodd's horn that was racing towards his chest. Guts responded on instinct, diving to the side as he lashed out with the crumbling blade, forcing Zodd to divert his attack or lose an eye. The moment that Zodd passed him by, Guts collapsed to a knee, surrounded by shards of Dragonslayer.

Godot was going to be furious with him. Of all the thoughts that could have entered his head, that was the one that did. It pierced the veil of the hate that tainted every thought.

Zodd didn't press the attack, choosing to look at him with curiosity. "Come to your senses, have you?" He questioned, his voice low and heavy.

He had, for better or worse. "What did the Wild Hunt offer for you to help them?" Guts found himself asking, looking down at the shattered remains of his sword laying in the grass. Every single muscle in his body radiated with pure agony. It went beyond mere torn muscles. The armor…

As the hound helmet retreated, Guts reached up to find that parts of his flesh had been consumed. The more he drank from the chalice, the more the armor had devoured him.

"I will not betray my Lord's confidence," Zodd replied, and Guts let out a scoff.

"I used to fear and admire you," Guts admitted, centering himself. Pain was just pain. So long as he was alive, he could fight. "You were the only thing that ever put the fear of God into me. And now… you know what he is. What he did in the name of his ambition. And you still choose to serve him." Guts pushed himself up on two feet. He gripped what was left of Dragonslayer with white knuckles, just now becoming aware of their surroundings.

Corpses. A lot of Nilfgaardian corpses. No Wild Hunt to be seen, or Ciri's army. The only people nearby were the ones that hadn't managed to flee in terror yet.

Where was Ciri? Geralt? The others?

"Strength requires the will to take it. Sacrifices have always been made in the name of ambition," Zodd replied and Guts spat out a mouth full of blood.

"That doesn't answer shit. Why do you serve him?" Guts asked, his gaze going to the cut off horn. How did that happen?

"He defeated me," Zodd admitted. "I was summoned before the Godhand, and he defeated me without the aid of his power within his realm." He didn't seem ashamed by it. "I gave him my loyalty. His will shall be done, whatever it might be."

Guts couldn't help it.

He laughed.

He threw his head back and for the first time since he could remember, he laughed uproariously. It was a laugh that came deep from the gut, and before he knew it, he was about to collapse again from the forces of the laughter. It was too familiar of a tale. It was exactly how Griffith recruited him and now Zodd was spouting the same bullshit that Guts used to say.

He laughed because it was so damn sad.

Zodd was exactly who Guts was when he met Griffith.

"What a bad joke," Guts chuckled, shaking his head, making Zodd narrow his blood red eyes. "You're more pathetic than I thought. I can barely stand the sight of you now. You're just following him because of a promise, warming yourself around his ambition without any dreams or desires of your own," He accused, leveling the shattered Dragonslayer at Zodd. Couldn't say it was looking at a mirror, but Guts understood Zodd now.

Probably better than he understood himself.

"... What of you then, Struggler?" Zodd growled, and Guts could hear that his words struck a mark. "What is your ambition now that you have castoff your vengeance?

He… "I want to be there," Guts confessed. A hope and a dream that he never let himself have any faith in. "I want to be there to show Judeau what it means to be a man. I want to see him grow up and have kids of his own. I want Casca to be there every step of the way. I want us to fight and bicker like we used to. I want her to have my back and I have hers."

He didn't want to die. It was a rather startling revelation to have after years of not caring if he did or not. He didn't want to live for the sake of vengeance. He wanted to live for the sake of living -- so he could see what the future might hold.

The shards of Dragonslayer around his feet began to stir. His shadow grew, connecting the pieces before they began to raise into the air while they fitted themselves together. Dragonslayer slowly began to reform before his very eyes, even if its surface wasn’t unmarred. Where the blade shattered were clearly evident, yet they too were smoothed over when a gold-like substance began to fill them. The hilt was the very last piece of the sword that was needed when he let it go, and instead of falling to the ground, it floated to the reformed blade.

When the hilt was rejoined, the gold flashed, and with no other warning the blade fell back into his grip. Its weight was a reassurance and he never knew how frightening not having the blade could be until he found himself facing the prospect of going without it. He wasn’t sure what happened, but he did know who was responsible. Gaunter. This must be his doing.

A small breath of relief escaped him as he turned his attention back to Zodd, who watched him with a deep frown and furrowed brow. “Such a life is not your fate, Struggler,” Zodd said, his claws digging into the soft earth as Guts leveled Dragonslayer at the Apostle.

“Maybe not,” Guts admitted. The odds were still stacked against him. Even now, he knew he was on his last legs. The armor still tried to claim him, to bring the poisoned chalice to his lips so he would fall prey to that same insane state once again. And he knew, until his dying day, that would be true. But struggling was what he did best, it seemed. He would fight against the armor even as he demanded its strength. He would struggle for the future and the life that he wanted.

It wasn’t hope. It was a dream.

“I’m going to kill you, Zodd. It’s not for anything that you’ve done or who you serve. I’m going to kill you because you’re going to get in the way,” Guts told him and Zodd’s gaze searched him for a long moment, only the distant sounds of fighting and fear filling the silence.

“Even if you strike me down, there will be another,” Zodd warned, not sounding opposed to such a fate.

“Then I’ll kill them too,” Guts replied, finding his peace with it. He was done with vengeance. It lost its hold over him. He had greater reasons to live his life now and he would only fight for the sake of that dream -- of a life with Casca by his side and raising their child. A dream where he helped Ciri build that world she talked about because he wanted to spare Judeau the horrors of this one. He would wield Dragonslayer for the dream of being able to finally set the blade down once and for all.

Zodd’s nostrils flared, sensing the change in Guts. A change that had been brewing until it was finally realized when he was a single step from being too far gone. “If you do not fall to me this day, then I wish you luck in the battles to come, Struggler,” Zodd offered, tensing and Guts knew that the final clash was coming. He was on his last legs. He couldn’t afford a drawn out battle.

A single swing.

The battle would be decided with a single swing.

There was no signal, yet both of them found that they moved at the same time, leaping at each other with matching roars. The air stirred as they clashed in the middle, Dragonslayer meeting Zodd’s horn once again…

And this time, it was Zodd’s horn that broke. It gave way to Dragonslayer, and Guts pressed forward, his voice raw from the shout. Zodd was carried forward by his own momentum, their eyes meeting as his horn have way.

Zodd wore an expression of acceptance even as Dragonslayer bit into his neck and carved his head from his shoulders.