The Man With A Thousand Faces: Twelve
by redmoon
Twelve

29 March, 2000, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet

Haargan raised his head, his narrative drawing to a close. “We never found the demon’s body,” the monk explained. “And for reasons we didn’t comprehend at the time, the prince, nor any of his knights, remembered anything of the battle. We spent days at camp trying to explain their glorious victory. It was especially difficult since there was no evidence whatsoever of the battle; all the prince’s knights were alive and well, all the demon bodies were gone from the field, leaving not a trace.”

Haargan stood and walked around the table to address Logan from a more personal standpoint. “It was not until years later that we, Tarnis’ monks, discovered what had really happened that day.”

Logan was shaking his head with a wry smile. “You expect me to believe that you were there? Nine hundred years ago?” He let out a short laugh. “You look good.”

Haargan sat on the table’s edge, sharing the conjurer’s sardonic grin. “How old are you, my friend?” The question hung there in the air for a moment while the grin slowly melted from Logan’s face.

“Forty seven,” he answered, brushing his thick blonde hair from his temple.

“And you don’t look a day over thirty five,” Haargan responded. “Have you not found ways, in all of your magical exploits, to extend your vitality?”

Logan pondered this in seriousness. “The only beneficial thing magic has ever done for me,” he said at last, then added with a small laugh, “and even this is hollow,” he glanced down at his robes and imagined the youthful body beneath. “It was at thirty five that I watched my family butchered.”

The monk took in a breath. “Now we of the Order have reason at last for our extended existence. And we are thankful for yours as well,” he added. “The Beast that comes to us now will stop at nothing to find the Key and use it, destroying us all.”

“Where would you hide it?” Logan asked, open to any plan the monk would offer. The Key, he knew, was his only hope of salvation. He would not risk its safety because of petty spite. Or even in the name of revenge.

Haargan walked away from the table, approaching a small recess in the wall. “This was the subject of our meeting this morning,” the old monk replied, brining an object from the wall and placing it before the conjurer. “This— and your considerable power.”

Logan looked at what lay on the table. It was clearly a forearm. The hand made a fist at one end and the other end showed where it had been surgically removed from the elbow. It was demon-like in appearance, but what was most puzzling was the fact that midway along the arm there was a change in the flesh texture; the flesh color. Indeed, the flesh itself changed from one kind of demon to another, the two kinds sutured together along the arm.

While this fact held Logan’s attention, Haargan lifted the arm and indicated the knuckles of the fist. “You see this?”

Logan reached out and touched the substance on the dead flesh. “Dried blood,” he observed. “Not the demon’s I expect.”

“No,” Haargan let in a small smile. “Not at all.”

The monk’s expression made Logan frown. “What? Who’s then? What does this have to do with the Key?”

This story archived at: The Slayer\'s Fanfic Archive
The Slayer\\\\\\\\'s FanFic Archive - http://www.slayerfanfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=10337