The Man With A Thousand Faces: Twenty Four
by redmoon
Twenty Four

9 July, 2001, Los Angeles

Loki walked cautiously down the light and dark patched street. He had left Angel at the hotel and continued now on foot to his apartment, enjoying the cool night breeze.

As confident as he was in his own ability to defend himself, Loki knew only a true idiot would be careless enough to walk unarmed through Los Angeles at one o’clock in the morning. Loki’s hand mindlessly grasped the stake in his pocket. He wore no jacket in the summer, and only when an unusually cool breeze took the ruffles in his shirt did he regret it.

His steps ceased to echo as the wind picked up, and the solitary conjurer slid both hands into his pockets. Again he reminded himself of his supreme self sufficiency, and as it happened, he was still reminding himself of it when two columns of steam shot out at him from an alley he passed.

Loki jumped back with a strangled yelp of surprise, and only as his own breathing quickened did he realize that it was the steam of breath that he had seen entering the cone of light from a street lamp.

The man in the silk shirt backed up steadily as the hollow clop, clop of hooves on pavement resounded from the alley. His eyes growing wide, Loki watched as the warhorse emerged, its breath stabbing out into the night as two great jets of steam from its flaring nostrils.

In the sudden silence that came when the wind died down, Loki could hear the flexing of the creature’s muscles, the creak of its joins, the gnawing of its bit as it stepped deliberately towards him.

Soon the beast brought into the light the rider, his mailed fists loosely holding the reins, his iron clad feet steadily pressing into the stirrups. His head was covered by a chain mail hood, leaving only his lightly stubbled face exposed to the night air.

Loki made several more steps back before finally finding himself off the curb and on the street. With the quiet, yet distinctive clink of gently flexing chain mail, the horseman released the reins from one hand.

As his horse made its way fully into the pale orange light of the street lamp, Loki marveled at the authenticity of the garb. He looked to have stepped straight from the pages of history, right out of the Crusades. The white tunic he wore over his mail shirt bore a great red cross, as did the shield which swung from its strap at his side. The helmet, which clunked continually against his knee, bore a metal cross on its brow, the lower stalk of which extended to form a nose guard.

The sword was the next thing Loki noticed, watching as it tipped horizontal with the motion of the rider’s hips as he slowed his horse. Last of all was the standard, merely a tall pike from which hung a white flag, bearing a red cruciform as did the shirt and shield. The flag was motionless now as the breath of wind was silenced.

Loki drew his brow together in a contemplative frown as the soldier’s hand came to rest on the shaft of his standard. There was the telltale chink of metal chain links grinding together as he shifted position in his saddle. The steed’s tale tossed once, then all was silent.

Loki could think of nothing to say. He had never encountered anything like this before, in all his dealings with other-worldly affairs. Vampires were one thing... Was this some sort of demon? A military scout from some other plane? Loki’s expression softened instantly at his next thought; a knight of the Byzantine Empire, displaced by the General/Key during that battle so long ago?

The crusader was the first to speak. “By your vestment, I would know you as a nobleman.” It was really a question, an introductory statement at the very least, to which he expected a response.

Loki looked down at his ruffled white shirt and straight, formal-looking pants. “You...” he began uncertainly, “may know me as such if you wish.”

The knight shifted uneasily, as if thrown off guard by the answer. He tightened his grip on his standard and began again. “Are you the wizard that comes here from the East?” When Loki paused, searching his mind carefully for an answer that would reveal nothing, the knight was sent again into unrest. His hand dropped from his standard and found his sword hilt, drawing the blade quickly with the sound of metal on metal. “I would have your answer,” he said threateningly, though not without some trace of fear.

Loki, determining the original question to be harmless enough by tone, raised his hands peacefully. “I am a wizard,” he acknowledged, “and I have spent time in the far East.” He made no mention that Tibet was actually closer to the West.

The knight lowered his sword, then raised it again to lay the blade harmlessly against his mailed shoulder. “I am Alexius,” he said, raising his chin with a small amount of pride.

Loki’s eyebrows slowly crept up in disbelief. “Alexius?” he asked in unrestrained confusion. “Alexius the second of Byzantium?” The tale told by Haargan of the battle, back at the lamasery slowly dredged itself up in his memory.

Alexius took on an odd look himself, raising one eyebrow. “How would that be possible?” He asked in turn. “I am Alexius the fifth, of course.”

Loki eased noticeably. Of course, he thought, Alexius’ descendant. Naturally, he now chided himself, there was no reason to believe the Dagon Sphere which the monks had created to prolong their lives would have been put to use on normal soldiers, or even princes, of Tarnis’ time. Though as he stood before the great muscular warhorse and its well armed and mail-clad rider on the streets of Los Angeles, normality was not something that seemed immediately logical in Loki’s mind.

After that brief pause, Alexius V turned in his saddle and drew something long and pointed fro his saddlebag. He held it as he would a sword and Loki instinctively withdrew several more steps and raised his arms defensively. Knight or no knight, magic was Loki’s ally.

But when Alexius turned back around and saw Loki’s stance, he was unable to keep a grin from crossing his metal-framed face. “Peace,” he called out with a hint of a laugh. He drew the pointed thing from behind him and tossed it to the ground just beyond the curb. “Our enemies were one, I suspect,” he slid his sword from his shoulder with the ring of steel, then drove it easily back into its scabbard. “We pursued the same foe, me thinks.”

Loki stepped forward and knelt, his hand running along the slightly curved and deadly looking object. There was a continued moment when he could not identify it, then it came back to him like a punch in the gut and he nearly fell over backwards on the asphalt. The base of the long black horn met a jagged fragment of skull, and near the base where they connected was a small notch, cut from the bone, Loki slowly realized, by this knight’s ancestor’s blade.

Logan swallowed, two pieces of his life connecting in the foreground of his thoughts. Two pieces he had never had and inkling were related. His mind’s eye now pictured the Byzantine battle quite differently; the army of demons led by Logan’s friend from Central Park. The General Werlech demon.

Destiny was laughing at him now, he guessed, the joke that was his life was taking form. The punch-line was set. Had Whistler known? Many more questions plagued him. Before he could even hypothesize suitable answers, he remembered his companion. He blinked for a moment to clear his mind of the chaos he felt. “You...” he managed, “you killed a great evil. I am in your debt.”

Alexius raised his head and at first made a small nod of appreciation, but then closed his eyes and crossed himself with his gloved hand. “Say not that you are indebted to the one who killed this foe, for it was not I, nor any I commanded who separated this creature from its head.” To Loki’s questioning eyes he replied, “That which cannot be named is responsible. The one you call the Beast. I merely happened upon its corpse.”

Loki was being hit with too much information all at once. That Beast had killed the Werlech demon? The Werlech demon was the General? This knight was Alexius’ heir? It was all a jumble. Finally, Loki stood from the street and took a deep breath. “What do you want of me?” he asked in a tone he hoped would not betray his helplessness.

Alexius stared at the conjurer for some minutes, as if trying to ascertain his trustworthiness. Finally he glanced at the deserted street. “This world has become chaotic,” he decided, “infidels are everywhere and the voice of God is not heard. You yourself are not a man of God,” Alexius stated, blinking indifferently, “as you practice the dark arts and are therefore in league with the devil in one fashion or another.” There was no malice in Alexius’ voice, just certainty. “However,” he continued, “you sought the General and you were plagued by the Beast as the monks were. Our enemies, though fewer now, were one. That makes us allies, does it not?”

Loki shrugged. “The Beast was an enemy of your General demon, but that does not make it your ally.”

Alexius nodded in acknowledgment. “You have wit,” he agreed. “And not once, even when I drew my sword, did you call magic against me, so you are brave. I sense no evil in your heart, though that is not my specialty.” The knight lifted his left leg and brought it over his mount’s shoulders, hopping down from the saddle. “I would still know your name, wizard.”

Loki was at first resigned to hesitation, in no way comforted by the clink of the iron shod boots on the cement of the sidewalk. Finally, however, looking into the dull grey eyes of the enemy of his enemies, he relented. “Logan,” he answered, using his real name for the first time in years with a stranger.

“Logan,” Alexius repeated, as if weighing the strength of the name. “Well, my lord wizard,” he said at last, obviously preferring title to informality, “it seems that while my General demon and the Beast are absent, we have again before us a common foe.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Alexius nodded gravely. “While never having spoken to you directly, nor having heard your right proper name, I have been following the works, until recently of a wizard from the East called Loki.” Loki tensed. “And I see now that it is you who are this man of magic.” The knight made a small bow. “I am honored to be among the few to know your true name.”

Loki relaxed slightly, realizing that had been unconsciously fingering his stake in his picket. He now removed his hand from his pocket, feeling silly for having thought, even unconsciously, that a pointed wooden stick would be of use against steel chain mail. “What of this foe we now share?” the conjurer asked, crossing his arms before him. “I have found the last few months to be restful and free of demons.”

“As I have, for the most of it,” Alexius assented with a tip of his head. “Even my holy quest has relented in its ferocity somewhat, since news of the departure of the Beast has reached me. With no impending need now to destroy the link, and no Abomination remaining upon which to exact my vengeance for the slaughter of my kinsmen...”

Loki let all of this slip by him. He wasn’t sure what this link was, or what it had to do with a holy quest, but it was over now that the Beast was gone, he guessed. On the other hand, Loki could understand vengeance. If Alexius’s ‘kinsmen’ had been anything like the Order of Dagon, then the Beast had probably done a number on them.

The knight continued. “And once I heard of your, albeit questionable involvement with the monks of Tarnis,” Alexius raised a clearly disapproving eyebrow, “I thought it prudent to become knowledgeable about you. Now I see,” he said proudly, “that you are a decent fellow, even if you commune with darkness.

“Our new foe,” he continued, “is a demon the likes of which I have never before seen, nor even heard of. It is crafty and clever at disguises, a master of deceit, it conceals itself with ease. It employs vampires to do its bidding in matters of conflict. I have encountered it only once before, in one of its many guises, and would not relish meeting it again.” Alexius began to pace back and forth, describing to the best of his ability the unholy nature of the demon. “It deals with souls,” he went on unaware of the cold reaction this provoked from the conjurer. “With the buying and selling and trading of souls, a most vile market, it would seem, with those things of hell which require them for sustenance.”

Loki had gone perfectly still, a terrible thought crossing his mind. Destiny... you piece of– “Was your General,” he said carefully, “a merchant of this market, perhaps?”

Alexius ceased pacing at once, an impressed look on his face. “Truly, he was,” the knight nodded. “Skilled in stealing souls of import which he would trade for the elements he needed to continue on his quest.”

Loki shuddered at the thought of his immortal soul being the appetizer in some grizzly demon feast. I hope you cleaned your plates, he thought grimly. Finally the question found him. “And how is this foe a shared one?”

Alexius nodded, an honest question. “I noted your connection when I discovered the ledger of souls bought by the demon in the past few years.”

Loki’s eyes slowly widened, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white.

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