《La Loi du Mystère [French]》Chapitre 5.3 - Caetobria
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Dire que March avait le sommeil léger aurait été un euphémisme. Le moindre grincement l’aurait sorti de son sommeil, et le bois ancien qui soutenait la demeure ne manquait pas de rappeler sa présence.
Lorsqu’un bruit sourd retentit à l’étage inférieur, ce fut comme un coup de tonnerre pour March.
Il se leva, accompagné par la lumière bleuâtre de la nuit. En quittant la pièce, il aperçut les nombreuses perruques installées sur une table de toilette dont s’était servi Léon de Tassigny pour cacher sa calvitie. La vision des postiches lui rappela le lointain souvenir des démangeaisons qu’elles provoquaient.
Dans le salon, une grosse bûche alimentait les flammes. Le bras de Julius était visible sur l’accoudoir du grand fauteuil faisant face à la cheminée. Le valet devait s’être levé pour nourrir le feu puis s’être assoupi. March se racla la gorge pour ne pas le surprendre.
— Julius, merci de vous être levé pour nourrir le feu. J’ai entendu du bruit, mais il devait s’agir de vous, n’est-ce pas ?
Le brasier caressa ses joues d’une chaleur douce lorsqu’il s’approcha du foyer. Julius ne répondit pas.
— Julius ?
March ne fut pas choqué par le teint livide de Julius lorsqu’il lui fit face, car le valet avait la peau naturellement pâle. Ce qui le choqua, c’était la quantité de sang sur le torse de son servant. Sa chemise blanche était devenue écarlate. March fixa la longue incision sur son coup et reconnut le travail d’un habitué.
D’après la position de l’entaille, l’assassin s’était placé derrière le fauteuil. Julius n’avait surement rien vu venir.
Toute cette analyse ne prit qu’un fragment de seconde à March, mais c’est ce fragment de seconde que l’assassin choisit pour attaquer.
Le corps de March se mit en mouvement de lui-même et son instinct lui sauva la vie. La lame de l’assassin passa à quelques centimètres de son cou lorsque March se jeta contre la cheminée.
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Il attrapa le tisonnier qui reposait à ses pieds et s’en servit pour désarmer son assaillant. L’assassin lâcha la dague avec laquelle il avait si lâchement assassiné Julius, mais au lieu de tomber au sol, la lame disparut dans un nuage de fumée en quittant la main de son propriétaire. Un autre Mage.
— Qui es-tu ? demanda March.
L’assassin ne répondit rien, se contentant de fixer March du regard. Son visage était couvert par un masque ne laissant voir que ses yeux verts émeraude et il portait de simples habits noirs, sans aucune pièce d’armure.
Les deux guerriers se mirent en mouvement au même instant. L’assassin lança son poing vers March alors que celui-ci lâcha le tisonnier pour invoquer les lames tatouées dans son dos. Les cimeterres magiques auraient pu trancher la chair de n’importe quel ennemi sans sourciller, pourtant, l’intuition de March le supplia d’éviter le coup. Il bondit vers la droite et lorsque l’assassin frappa de son poing l’âtre où s’était trouvé March, celui-ci explosa dans une gerbe de briques rouges. La puissance du coup était phénoménale et même March n’aurait pu le contrer.
L’assassin retira son poing du trou béant qu’il avait fait au mur. Là où auraient dû se trouver ses mains, il n’y avait plus que du métal.
L’assassin arracha les manches de son habit et révéla deux bras argentés sur lesquels se reflétait la flamme du brasier. Cette fois, March attaqua le premier, en espérant profiter de sa vitesse pour surprendre son adversaire.
Il bondit en avant, ses lames prêtent à en découdre. L’assassin assura sa position et lorsque les deux cimeterres s’abattirent sur lui, il se contenta d’agripper les lames comme s’il ne s’agissait que d’un morceau de bois. Sa poigne de métal était implacable. March relâcha ses deux armes en espérant le surprendre. Les poings de l’assassin se refermèrent sur une fumée blanche, mais au lieu d’être déséquilibré, il agrippa instantanément March par les épaules.
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— Tu ne m’auras pas avec tes vieux tours, Tempête.
L’assassin tira March vers lui et le frappa d’un coup de tête au visage qui l’envoya au sol. Sa vision se brouilla, il sentait le sang couler de son nez, certainement brisé par le choc. La silhouette de l’assassin le surplomba puis les deux tenailles métalliques se refermèrent sur sa gorge en le soulevant du sol.
March se débattit, mais la poigne qui le privait d’air ne faisait que se resserrer. Il ferma les yeux, sûr que la fin était proche.
L’air lui manquait, il perdait peu à peu connaissance… Il entendit le son de la chair qui se déchire puis un hurlement… mais pas le sien. L’étreinte mortelle se libéra et il tomba au sol.
Quand il rouvrit les yeux, il vit la pointe du tisonnier dépassant du torse de l’assassin. Saira se trouvait derrière lui et tenait l’autre bout de la tige de métal.
L’assassin tomba à genoux sous le coup de la douleur et March en profita pour lui asséner un grand coup de poing à la tempe qui l’envoya à son tour au sol.
— Éloigne-toi de lui Saira ! hurla March.
— Qui… qui est cet homme ? dit-elle en panique.
L’assassin tenta de se relever malgré sa blessure. March comprit qu’il ne fallait laisser aucune chance à son ennemi, une leçon qu’il semblait déjà avoir apprise dans son ancienne vie. Il invoqua une nouvelle fois ses cimeterres et d’un mouvement souple, trancha les jarrets de l’assassin qui hurla. Cette fois, il ne bougerait plus.
— Par tous les mages ! cria Saira.
— Saira, garde ton calme. Trouve-moi de quoi le ligoter, cet homme sait qui je suis, il a des réponses.
Les mains de Saira tremblaient, mais elle acquiesça et se mit à la recherche de liens. Il était temps de passer à l’interrogatoire.
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