Zadown

The door shut after her two bodyguards soundlessly, leaving the three planewalkers to their megalomanic plans. Jankiize turned to look behind her. There they were, two nondescript men in grey and brown clothes that were impossible to remember. Her gaze kept on sliding off them, the memory of them trying to evaporate despite her holding on to it. She concentrated, using her arcane training, and whispered the words that sharpened her eyesight. Now she could see them, the disguise wavering around their real forms, obscuring the hard to see stauri almost completely, making the fiery archdemon seem a transparent daydream. Jankiize was aware they both stared back at her, watching her to watch them, but she didn’t care. Then the demon spoke, his roaring and crackling whisper startling her. “Do not undo the spell by letting the world pay attention to us, Mistress. Allow us to fade to the background.” She nodded at the words, hesistated and turned around, unsure of what she could’ve said. Jankiize thought of returning to the solace of her training room, but she didn’t want to make these two bodyguards real by bringing them to her own space. She wanted them gone, started walking towards the busiest parts of the construction in childish hopes of them getting lost in the twisty maze of scattered obsidian stones, scaffoldings and other obstructions. She knew that it wouldn’t work, but she still felt like walking, didn’t want to be alone with the two ordinary, boring men in grey and brown. For a while, the different demons at work, the imperial, inhuman demonologists in their colourful robes of crimson and red and black and the few mercenary guards, killing time by talking and playing dice, cards or bones with each other, managed to distract her. A small voice in her head kept muttering about the two bodyguards following her, but she did her best to ignore it. “Hey! Jankiize!” The girl turned, wondering who knew her here, among all these strangers. She saw a young geothurge in a grey robe and remembered her encounter with the apprentice, the mis-painted rune. He walked to her, his eyes quickly brushing over the two men behind her, a moment of quizzical look on his face that cleared as the bodyguards faded from his memory. This small victory, the fact that her guards did not frighten other people, could not do so being totally invisible, made her smile faintly. “Stefan, was it?” “Was wondering if you’d remember me, miss. Stafan, actually, Stafan Obsidian, it is amazing how many people make that mistake about the name. Shame since I really like my name, but there you go, can’t help these things.” His speech was as rapid as the last time, and she wasn’t sure if it was normal or if he was nervous. The light tone made her feel better, finally banished the small voice that tried to make her miserable, and her smile widened to a genuine one now. It made her beautiful face light up even when it reached her eyes only partly. “Painting runes again, Stafan?” “Umm … not right now, my master said I do not have the self-discipline for that work. Been shaping rocks instead, that might be better for me, less chances for things to go wrong, I’m sure you know what I mean. Was just coming here to float VI-XXII to the tower when I saw you, you here on what business, need me to guide you anywhere?” “I was just walking. What are you building next?” Right then, an older geothurge, fat and angry, clad in dark robes with a row of runes embroidered in them that showed he was one of the senior architects as well, appeared from between the stones and headed straight towards Stafan. His voice started loud and rumbling, and it only got louder by every sentence he shouted at the young man. “Here you are, loiterer! I told you to get VI-XXII to the tower, not to spend your working time talking to the mercenary scum! And when I …” The man got no further in his tirade. At the words “mercenary scum”, Jankiize noticed from the corner of her eye how Angrôthn leaped forward and leaned over the geothurge, whispered something to his ear while white sparks flew from the demon’s nostrils. She saw that, and also what the others saw, how an ordinary, boring-looking man stepped forward quickly from behind her and leaned closer to the geothurge’s ear, spoke a few inaudible words. Whatever her bodyguard said, it made the man pale and sputter, stand rooted to the spot for a moment before turning unsteadily and walking away. Stafan stared after him, then turned at her, at loss for words. Jankiize shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. My … bodyguard is overly protective.” “Your bodyguard?” Stafan looked straight at Angrôthn, and it looked like he saw the demon, then his face cleared and his eyes slid back to Jankiize. She could almost see with her mind’s eye how a part of the boy’s memory disappeared, crushed by the thick enchantment spun over the demon and the ghost by the Dreamer and Yhelmiel. Stafan started speaking again, rearranging the remaining pieces of his memory so they covered the gap in them. Still, his words were slower and there was a wondering look in his eyes. “I wonder what that was all about, never seen old Nhalmazar cut off like that. Must have been something he ate.” “Yes. Must’ve been. You showing me what you are building next?” She could not keep a degree of tiredness away from her voice.

I feel about zero .. no, -1 urge to start again. Browser-based strategy games, such a soft, harmless addiction compared to the real stuff.

As I already sort of said, it is ok for the characters to raise above the mundane normality of a given form (in this case, an apprentice planewalker) and do something slightly inplausible and heroic. Even a localized, short-duration temporal rift like that might be slightly over what Valdar should be able to do, but it is within the realm of possibility from my point of view as the "creator" of this multiversum, and given that Valdar doesn't do that sort of thing all the time just underlines how really angry he was about what happened. He tapped into his deeper inner reserves of both skill and power because of his rage, something well in line for slightly chaos-slanted planewalker. The Dreamer has quite good knowledge of time-related magic so again it is entirely possible he has taught some parts of it.

I've often wondered if I'd see this story again. It is one of the finest gifts I've ever received from anyone (I cried actual tears when I read this, at work, so deeply it affected me back then - and I don't cry often), and also the most accurate use of any of my characters in somebody else's story. I'd really like to see you write more, Isa. Great talent's a terrible thing to waste.

Jankiize blocked a blow, backed a step and detached her right hand from the hilt to make a sweeping gesture while she loudly whispered a spell. Her first opponent was flung away and hit the wall, landed on her feet shakily. The second one rushed forward to pierce with her sword, but Jankiize partly parried and partly dodged the attack. She parried the next vertical slash, used the remaining energy of the spell to push the second attacker backwards, moved towards the first enemy and knocked the sword off from her hand. Jankiize hissed a second spell, directed it at the head of the first opponent who fell to her knees, stunned. The remaining assailant stepped forward and aimed a horizontal slash towards Jankiize’s legs. Jankiize tried to back away from the blow but was too slow, exclaimed from the pain and struck downwards with her sword scoring a perfect hit on the collar bone. The strike jarred the sword away from her enemy’s hand and it clattered to the stone floor, the wooden blade bouncing a few times before landing to a corner. “Ye should be able to take on two mortals without bein’ hit, m’lady.” The panting girl nodded to both of her practice enemies and waved the two female mercenaries out of the room. Only after they left, rubbing their minor injuries, she turned towards the Dreamer, who was waiting motionlessly near the wall. “Most of the time, uncle. These people do this for living, however. Even with magic I can only do so much, especially without wards.” He gave a short, dry laugh and his eyes turned emerald green. “Everybody who fights does it fo’ livin’, m’lady. Remember that, will ya?” “Yes, uncle. So, what brings you here? Going to show me the flaws of my forms again?” “Naw, yer forms were fine, for a mortal. This practice against real opponents ‘s good for ya, th’ forms only give ye a base to work with, they aren’t th’ end o’ th’ road. Nah, what I’m here fo’ ‘s th’ fact Angrôthn’s ‘ere. Ye still want us t’ camoufla’e yer bodyguards?” “As I said, I do not need a huge demon following me around all the time. But if you insist, you can at least disguise him, yes.” “Ya well, if that makes ye happy.” The Dreamer shrugged and walked slowly out of the room, pausing to glance behind him to make sure Jankiize was following. She muttered something about being far from happy, but followed the planewalker after hastily abandoning her practice sword and grabbing the sheathed Winter’s Touch. They exited one of the few completed rooms of the fortress as she attached the sheath to her belt. A wave of heat and smell hit them both at the door, the Dreamer barely blinking, Jankiize wiping sweat off her forehead. She was getting somewhat used to both, but it did not make them enjoyable, so she spent most of her time in the small but rapidly growing completed parts of the fortress. Under the black roof the air was slightly cooler and did not smell quite so bad. It also gave her refuge from all the boisterous, dangerously bored mercenaries, chillingly inhuman demonologists, self-centered, day-dreaming geothurges and the various incomprehensible non-humans. The unadorned corridors and vast rooms without any furniture were largely empty of people, for now. Jankiize still slept in the tower, but found the frequent visitors the Dreamer had whenever he was home a distraction, something that made studying or practicing her forms impossible. Even when the planewalker was gone, various subcommanders and lieutenants of Chaos, barons of different hells and members of the Kalash visited the place, either looking for the Dreamer or examining the maps he left on his table. She found their attention, or the attention of those of them who noticed her at all, to be embarrassing or even downright scary – the Kalash were the worst, and Jankiize still shuddered when she remembered what had happened during the trip from Arkstâd to here. A growling demon that got slashed by a hexed whip as soon as it glared at her jerked Jankiize out of her reverie. She circled around the brutish creature, now writhing in agony, and hurried her steps to keep up with the Dreamer’s long stride. They crossed the inner courtyard quickly and entered the tower they had brought, now set in the precise middle-point of the fortress. Owiric was already there, as was her future bodyguard Angrôthin: he was a towering creature, like an upright, lean and muscled bull immolated in flames. He wore a dark brown leather harness and a loincloth of the same material. From his belt made of large links of metal hung a flanged mace and a falchion of some fire-darkened but still translucent material. The archdemon turned towards her, and when he did that she suddenly saw his wings – long, wide leathery things made of flickering fire and black soot opening past the limits of the room, through the ceiling and the walls. Then the vision faded, but Angrôthin gave her a meaningful look as if the wings were his secret he had shown only to her. “Evenin’, Sir Owiric, Angrôthin.” “Evenin’, Wodzan Xe Chanima, m’lady Jankiize.” The demon only bowed his head further, already slightly crouched in order not to gouge the ceiling with his horns. He snorted out white sparks and moved restlessly in place on his hooves. The room seemed smaller with the demon present, and while Jankiize knew the planewalkers were more powerful than this eight foot tall titan, his power was more tangible, easier to see. She was startled when the demon spoke with a voice of growling flames and crackling furnaces. “Greetings, Mistress.” He still stared at her, perhaps expecting a reply, but she was too flustered to say anything and moved closer to the Dreamer instead. The planewalker smiled wanly, his eyes the light green of spring leaves, and gestured towards the tall demon. “Now, be polite to yer new bodyguard, neh? Say yer greetin’s to Angrôthin, m’lady.” “Hiya … Angrôthin.” The Dreamer glanced at Owiric. “He’s been bound, ya? An’ he’ll be ready for th’ disguisin’?” “Ya, of course to both. Do ye really think I’d let an unbound archdemon ‘uard th’ Grail Carrier?” “Naw, but ye know I had to ask, Owiric.” The two planewalkers had completely ignored the demon and the girl, who stared at each other while they talked, the girl with nervous tension, the demon with relaxed, nonchalant subservience. When Owiric spoke of the binding, Angrôthin gave a sideways glance to the planewalkers and then winked to Jankiize, so quickly she wasn’t completely sure if she had been imagining it. She turned her attention back to what the Dreamer was saying and tried to ignore her nervousness. “An’ here’s my bodyguard for her, th' one I said I'd call when th' opporturnity'd present 'tself.” He whispered some words of a spell or a calling and pointed at empty air, or what seemed like empty air. After a while Jankiize’s eyes could discern ghostly lines floating above the floor, like a grey sketch drawn on the air, three-dimensional. It was a short, armoured man wielding a naked blade, helmet obscuring his face and his feet blending against the background stone floor. Jankiize was reminded of something, but the memory was fleeting as a half-forgotten dream and she could not catch it. “He’ll not speak, nor care o’ greetin’s even as much as a demon, but he’ll protect her, aye, an’ protect her well.” “Ye found a stauri that’d fight for ya? I’m almost impressed, th’ Dreamer.” Jankiize felt overwhelmed. Both of the bodyguards felt oppressive in their own way, the other a strong, seething fire, the other a gloomy chill. She did not care how loyal they were – they were too much, and she had a sinking feeling when she contemplated the fact these two would follow her everywhere from now on. She had never asked to be used as a playing piece in this game of the immortals, and now it seemed her last privacy and peace of mind would be robbed by two powerful, pervasive presences walking behind her wherever she’d go. Somebody knocked discreetly on the door. It then swung open, revealing a very handsome, scarless man of about middle height wearing the garb of a wise man, small trinkets tinkling faintly every time he moved, his cloak being held in place by a brooch the shape of the mark of Chaos. He had no visible weapons, but he had the aura of power any planewalker radiated unless specifically trying to hide themselves. Jankiize felt the beginnings of a headache buzz through her brains, her practiced sensitivity to flows of magic overloading her sixth sense. The Dreamer and Owiric both nodded to the third planewalker, and her guardian raised his voice enough that it’d carry clearly to whole room. “Evenin’, m’lord Yhelmiel. I trust ye’ve recovered from th’ last time.” “I have, even if it was unpleasant to be hit with that spell of yers ri’ht after th’ Patriarch had crack’d my wards. Everythin’ ready?” “Ya, if yer ready t’ channel th’ powers o’ th’ Grail, Jankiize?” “Yes, uncle. But do you really need it for this? I thought you can…” The Dreamer held his hand up, a gesture that silenced Jankiize. “I can, ya, but there’s nary a’spell that can’t be done better with more raw power, as long as ye have th’ skill to mold that mana. Th’ Grail can hammer th’ roots o’ th’ spell so deep it cannot be undone b’sides by it’s maker, an’ it can hide th’ structure o’ it, th’ words an’ runes that make up th’ enchantment. There’s many a’reason it commands such respect from th’ immortals o’ th’ Lost Paths, an’ this is one. Perfection of the Art.” He articulated the last words with an odd clarity, unusal to him, and his eyes shone silver. Jankiize saw a hunger in the eyes of Sir Owiric, and Lord Yhelmiel shut his, all three planewalkers touched by this dream of power. The moment passed and the old, more guarded looks returned to the various faces. Yhelmiel coughed and spoke in his pleasant voice. “Very well, then. Shall we begin, m’lords, m’lady?”

Haven't read her stuff (I'm really bad at reading), but a depressed, pessimistic and overly analytical view of your own work seems to be occupational disease among most writers (or perhaps artists in general?) I know. To be your own worst critic helps to some extent, as it allows you to refine your own work - the opposite, thinking everything you write is godly is hardly good either. Finding the balance seems really hard and most people seem to err heavily on the "everything I write is junk" side. Years of positive criticism and real, genuine growth as a writer have made me realize I'm pretty good, at least as long as I write the sort of prose I'm best at. At the same time I know not everything I write is the best in the world, or even good. Took a lot of work to reach this state, tho. Anyways, refusal to accept the praise of others is Impolite and shows you think you are better judge of your works than others - I'm pretty sure the exact opposite is often true.

The insides of the tower glowed in the blue-green colors of the endless rows of runes that powered its flight through the Void. That and the low gravity of the Lost Paths gave Jankiize the illusion they were travelling under the sea, that they had learned to breath water. She was practicing her katana forms when the Dreamer gracefully floated to sight and landed next to her. “Try not to overextend yerself, Janki. If ye do that they either skirt yer defenses or knock th’ katana right out o’ yer hand, an’ both are bad for ya.” He gently pushed the icy blade to a better position. She memorized the change and then sheathed the blade, looking questioningly to the planewalker. “Don’ get me wron’ Li’tl’ Princess, yer forms aren’t bad for a youn’ mortal. I’m sure ye’d last a few rounds against an archangel, even without yer armor.” “Was that what you came to tell me, uncle?” “Naw. We are steppin’ out o’ th’ Void soon, m’lady, an’ I thought ye might want to see th’ fortress from th’ air before we land. We’ll be here a’while.” “What fortress?” “Th’ mobile fortress o’ Bhalbet, th’ crushin’ fist o’ th’ army of the Chaos, of course. ‘cept it not bein’ very mobile yet, needin’ th’ Grail to move it aroun’, an’ not wholly built yet, either. We’ll be there in a tenth o’ a candle, m’lady.” The Dreamer nodded cursorily and left the small room, his eyes flickering from one glowing rune to another to make sure they all worked as intended. Jankiize could feel the perfect shape of the planewalker’s magic, an elliptical field of force composed of several spheres. A tiniest error could make different parts of the tower move with different speeds, tearing the whole structure apart. She saw how it was being done, but knew she could not replicate the spell, not even with the help of the Grail. The artefact provided her power easily, but no direction – it did not make her wishes come true, but merely acted as a mindless well of strength for her to use as she wished. The girl moved to her window and glanced out. Beyond the translucent emerald glow that marked the borders of the Dreamer’s spell, the Void was absolute black dotted with the pearls of distant worlds. She could barely sense the faint lines that connected the pearls with each other, the twisting Lost Paths where the planewalkers reigned. First few days of the travel she had been enticed by the view and had spent hours gazing to the inky depths of the Void, but after it had been clear there’d be no angels or demons to see, no strange planewalkers who’d see them and wave to the passing tower, she had pretty much abandoned that hobby. Now, everything seemed the same as always. She pushed her head through the window in an attempt to see what lay ahead and was rewarded by the sight of a growing sphere of world crystal right in front of their path. Brace yourself, m’lady. She frowned at the intruding thought but retracted her head and took a better grip of the window jambs. Shortly afterwards the tower shuddered and tilted, swinging from one position to another languidly but alarmingly. The view changed from inky darkness to the swirling blue of Astral, the same deep, dark and mysterious blue she had so often seen in the Dreamer’s eyes. That color filled the sky only for a brief moment, then the tower jarred and the sky flickered, changed to a whirling mixture of dark purple and fiery red with black clouds. The tower steadied as gravity returned, making Jankiize almost fall to the floor. When she regained her posture, she hurried back to the window and glanced down. Below the floating tower was a large construction site, small figures scurrying around carrying, dragging or pushing big blocks of obsidian-colored stone. She could see the edges of the small pocket plane, even though they were miles away. Between the borders and the half-finished fortress was a city of tents on one side and a smaller village of barracks on the other, with various smaller buildings and tents scattered all around the barren place. The air was not empty either: an assortment of imps, winged hell-creatures, gargoyles and a few bigger demons wheeled around the abyssal sky, looking like they belong here. One of the smaller and more stupid little imps flew closer, hit the faint emerald field and was fried by a violent discharge of energy that made the tower rock and sent its smoking carcass towards the ground. Jankiize heard the Dreamer’s faint voice cursing in Àlankhân as he smoothed over the rocking motion of the tower and started guiding it downwards. The little figures turned bigger and the flying ones started to gradually be more numerous above them than below. Jankiize watched curiously at the demon-workers, geothurges cajoiling stone to follow them and whispering to blocks of black rock about the virtues of a new shape, Kalash warriors standing everywhere looking aloof, mercenaries loitering and playing dice, the colourful tents of the brass djinns and igneous efreetis, at the armoured figures of unknown, rare cultures she’d never seen before. It was like a city floating in the vastness of the Void, a city of fairytales and magic and wonder, beautiful in a very alien way, uplifting her downtrodden spirits. Then the smell hit her: refuse, garbage, old booze, burning trash, blood and rot, rare spices and marvellous perfumes, hot metal and naked fire, sweat, incense and vomit. She gagged and retreated from the window, blinked her eyes. Arkstâd had smelled bad, as well, but this was … inhuman. Perhaps it is just the difference between an old, civilized town and a military camp. There’ll be no friendly faces here, no mushroom pie and tea. Five years in this hell… Jankiize turned and leaned her back on the wall of her room, slid slowly to sit on the floor. Her face twisted but she did not cry, muttered angry words under her breath. When the loud grinding noise followed by a stony click informed her that the tower had landed on the prepared spot, she stepped out of her room in her Grail Carrier’s uniform, face calm and cool, composed. No use crying over the pact. No use crying, at all. One last deep breath and it was the Lady of Bronze who extended her hand to the impassive planewalker, who walked out of the door of the tower into the hot, dry day outside. Arkstâd had been noisy just before they left, all the survivors and what was left of the wyvern guard rebuilding the trading town from stone. The sound of hammers on stone had been a constant, soothing background to the days after the victory over the Steam Army. Here, the sound was twice as loud and there were no pauses in it, no nights of rest in this small pocket-plane crafted or found for the sole purpose of building this fortress. The sky was immutable and had no sun, no moons or stars, just a sickly, hot crimson glow that made everything look as if they’d been dipped in blood. The demons were right at home here, the place resembling many of the more traditional abyssal planes, even if the temperature was lower and the only open flames were those of the campfires. Jankiize walked through the hellish construction site with an angel bodyguard inconspicuously following her nearby. Most of the grunts were lower caste demons, lacking in intelligence or finesse but bulging with glistening muscles that allowed them to drag huge blocks of stone or to break rock effortlessly with their long mallets. They were all chained, either physically or by their names, and supervised mostly by higher caste demons, a few hired demonologists looking out of place in the middle of all the abyssal monsters. Those of them who spared her a glance showed what the knowledge of the lower planes had cost them – their eyes showed fire and unyielding will but little humanity left. Besides a few bored-looking mercenary guards, geothurges seemed most human of the workers. Long and spindly or fat and jovial men, they were immersed in their tasks with the air of superior beings that tolerated all the lower workers so their masterpiece would be finished faster. Their mud-stained robes, cracked monocles and dirty tools showed their concentration had cut them adrift from the reality, that they were in their own world of balances, pressures, rock and stone, spells and cantrips. She paused to watch one of the younger geothurges paint runes with thin, red lines along the base of one of the towers. He had a crude headband that prevented his unruly sand-colored hair from spilling over his eyes, and he was wearing a simple, stained grey robe and wooden sandals. From his leather belt hung some basic tools. The boy hummed tonelessly and finished the last rune, a satisfied smile appearing on his face. Only then he noticed with a start that somebody was there besides him and gave Jankiize a surprised look. He spoke quickly, some language that was totally foreign to her but which her translation enchantment had no trouble with. “Oh, hi. What do you think? These will fade into the stone in a few hours, and when the fortress is ready and starts moving they will redistribute the strain so it will not break. It’ll be a grand sight, the flying fortress of Bhalbet.” “Err.. yes, I’m sure it will be.” She looked over the long row of twisty red sigils, curious about what sort of enchantment they imparted on the black stone. The geothurge apprentice removed his headband, used it to wipe the sweat off his brow and put it back after drawing his fingers through his hair. He seemed suddenly nervous. “You can read them? I thought you were a mercenary, even if you are a bit young for one. And you don’t seem like a demonologist, if you don’t mind me saying so. That armor really fooled me, it did.” She mostly ignored the nervous prattle and shifted her sight to see how the magic flowed around the newly-painted runes. Jankiize frowned and turned towards the geothurge. “Is the enchantment supposed to twist into itself over there, do you see? Won’t that break the stone once there is strain?” “What do you mean, twist? I’ve painted all the runes as they should be painted … oh.” The boy went pale when he noticed his error and kneeled hastily next to the stone Jankiize had pointed at. He swallowed loudly, took his brush and fixed the rune, muttering something under his breath. “I should’ve seen that, I really should. Listen, thanks, no need to mention this to the supervisors, now is there? I’ll do my best from now, honestly.” Jankiize could not help but smile at the worker’s chastened look. The geothurge grinned back and extended his hand after wiping it on his robes. She hesistated but after a pause shook hands with the boy. “Apprentice geothurge Stafan Obsidian of the 27th Engineering Regiment, at your service, miss …?” “Jankiize.” In the expecting silence the look on the geothurge’s face was so comical she grinned and gently removed her hand from the boy’s grip. She almost said something, half-opened her mouth to speak, when the angel guard, still disguised as a knight, approached and diverted her attention. It came close and whispered words only she could hear. She nodded and turned to leave. Some impulse made her look back and wave to the young geothurge, share one last grin with another human before walking towards her work. With the angel on her heels, she stepped inside the tower. Besides the few demon and angel guards and the Dreamer, there was a person in the room she did not recognize. The strange planewalker was a heavy-set man clad in solid bright red platemail, a black symbol of Chaos painted haphazardly over his heart. He wore a full helm and had a two-handed sword sheathed on his back. The Dreamer nodded to her, and the stranger raised the visor of his helmet, showing a wide, ruddy, bearded face with a few scars, the widest of them cutting across his forehead horizontally. She walked to the Dreamer without saying a word, hid behind his thin but tall back. The Dreamer took a step back and gestured towards him. “M’lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua, th’ Grail Carrier, may I introduce ye to my old enemy an’ ally, Sir Owiric o’ Chaos.” “’Tis a pleasure, m’lady.” “Pleasure is all mine, m’lord.” “Ha, I see ye’ve brou’ht ‘er up properly, ye old scoundrel. Is she allow’d to hear all this, Wodzan?” “Ya. Go on, Owiric. Ye were sayin’?” “Gainin’ th’ Grail was as big a coup as ye said, an’ my ‘amble regardin’ those troops paid off amon’st th’ higher ranks o’ Chaos command. Yer lackin’ in th’ finer arts o’ diplomacy, Xe Chanima, so I’m handlin’ that part, an’ I’ve been workin’ towards gatherin’ more troops an’ such. Once this fortress lifts up, we’ll see th’ biggest army o’ Chaos amass’d behind it that I’ve seen, an’ I was in th’ battle o’ th’ Seven Miracles, ya.” “It’ll lift up, easily. Ye haven’t seen th’ flames o’ creation that burn within th’ Grail.” Jankiize drifter further away from the conversation, aware that what the two planewalkers discussed was confidental and huge, history in the making, but unable to care. It was beyond her, even now that she was hopelessly entangled with this Eternal War. She paused at a window and watched a column of floating blocks of stone follow a tall, heavy-set geothurge in black robes, was reminded of her brief encounter with the apprentice. Owiric mentioning her name turned her attention back to the conversation of the two planewalkers. “… an’ so, she’ll have to ‘ave more protection than that one angel ye have guardin’ her. Ye should’ve realized this as well, Wodzan. Don’t tell me yer getting careless at yer age, neh?” “I was aware o’ it, ya. My guard was decisimat’d at th’ Last Defense o’ Arkstâd, however. After th’ Herald an’ my bodyguards ‘tis just yer average soldiers left. There’s one, but I wanted to wait until we’d be here before summonin’ him.” “Uncle!” “Ya, m’lady?” “I don’t want to have any huge demons following me around, and you should know it by now. It is hard enough to talk with anybody as it is, I really don’t need an eight-foot tall fiery demon standing behind me as well.” Owiric laughed, holding his large, armored stomach. “Harder yet t’ talk if yer dead, li’tl’ mortal. Ye’ve ever ask’d yer uncle how easily lives may end aroun’ planewalkers like us, ya?” His hearty laugh turned into cold smile as he glared at the Dreamer. “Ye should someday ask him to tell that story. An’ I’m afraid I do have an eight-foot tall fiery demon who’s adept at standin’ behin’ little girls like ye, ready to protect th’ Grail Carrier.” The Dreamer shrugged, his eyes pale grey. “We can mask th’ bodyguards. It’ll make her harder to find as well – Angrôthn’s not very hard to locate from a crowd or on a field o’ war.” “I’ll leave that to ye, m’lord. Yer better at th’ arts o’ subterfu’e an’ deceit, ye bastard.” The Dreamer grinned widely at Owiric’s bitter tone and nodded. “That I am, ya.”

16 – Preparation Arkstâd sprawled below them in the soft spring sunlight. The city was busy with rebuilding, the faint sounds of masons at work drifting all the way to the two girls. In east they could see a small cloud of dust, the mark of a caravan from the other side of the stone desert, one of the first in three years. In west the sea of lava was calming down and would soon be navigable again, which explained the workers repairing the ships at the docks. Wyvern-riders and black gulls wheeled above them in front of the cerulean blue sky. It was peaceful, hopeful scenery, springtime in more than one sense. “So, you sure you won’t come with us, Nemue?” “Yes. I wish I could, but my life’s here, Janki. It sounds exciting, all those tales of the Lost Paths and war and so on, but not for me. I’ve seen enough war for a lifetime.” “So have I, Nemue. But I have to go.” Jankiize pulled a red flower from the ground and sniffed it absently, threw it away while watching downwards, past the tower. Nemue saw how sad she seemed and spoke hopefully. “Couldn’t you stay? I mean, you are the Lady of Bronze, everybody would love it if you stayed. Or if you don’t want that, you could just stay at our place, I know how dad grumbles but some of that gold you get so easily would cure that… no?” “I’d love to, but I can’t. This is something I have to do, that I’ve promised to do. A pact.” She took a small stone and threw it forward, down the slope. It disappeared behind larger stones far away, her eyes following it all the way. “What is it, then? Does that horrible Lord of Chaos make you follow him? Can’t you just leave him?” Jankiize sighed and turned to her companion, gave her a forlorn look. “If it just was that simple.” “Ah well, I guess I knew you wouldn’t stay, even before I asked. You aren’t destined to remain in a little town like this, it is easy to see. And I’m not destined to leave, just as well. You know that baker’s son who lives near our house?” A look of mock horror appeared on Jankiize’s face, cleared away her worries. “That fat one!? Don’t tell me you like him?” Nemue frowned and elbowed her, feigned anger when Jankiize started giggling. “Not the fat one you fool, the fat one’s at least twenty-two years old, an old man! The handsome one!” “That’s why you are staying? I get abandoned because of a fat baker’s son! How cruel!” “The handsome one you silly, not the fat one! No fair, wearing that armor…” Later, after getting bored of the mock fight, after hours of talking, when the sun fell lower and the red hues of the landscape turned deeper, the lava sea glowing red in the darkening twilight, they started walking back towards the town. At the tower they paused, awkwardness creeping between them after being absent all evening. Jankiize nodded towards the looming structure. “This is it, then. Not sure if I have time to see you before we go. You’ve heard the Dreamer has decided to take the whole tower with us?” “Yes, you told me.” Without a word they sat down on the cooling rocks and watched the big tower together. Nemue broke the silence first, wonder echoing in her words. “Even after all I’ve seen I find it hard to believe he is just going to take all that with him as he goes. All that stone … how does he do it?” “He’ll loan the power of the Grail through me, and use the three thousand years of lore he has. Easy for him, I guess. He is not a human like we are, the world is different for him.” “And you?” “What?” “How different is the world for you?” “I’m … not sure, Nemue. I’m not one of them, the immortals. And not really one of the mortals, either – I’ve seen too much, been taught too much.” Jankiize put her hands on her armoured lap and stared at them, barely seeing them in the deepening dusk. “That’s why I wanted you with me, so I wouldn’t be alone out there, with just them as company. After this time in Arkstâd it already feels like a dream, those trips through the Paths that lie beyond the sky, angels as our servants. A dream or a nightmare … but I understand why you’ll stay here. It was too much to ask. I’m sorry.” “Don’t worry about it, Janki. Just come visit me once in a while, will you? You can tell your dreams of those journeys to my kids in a few years, hmm?” The two girls shared a look, Nemue grinning and even Jankiize smiling faintly. “Sure, I’ll visit you. But do you mean you and that fat baker’s son…?” “Not the fat one! Stupid!” “The stupid one? Haha! Ow! Hey, that almost hurt!” It was night proper when they finally hugged one last time and parted, Jankiize staying at the door to the tower watching her friend’s journey towards the town. When Nemue vanished beyond a curve in the path, she sighed and opened the door, the wards on it glowing brightly in welcome. The room was more crowded than she’d expected and only the familiar sight of the Dreamer prevented her from panicking. In front of the planewalker stood a dozen tall animated armors with odd energy swords attached to their belts, or where their belts would have been. They reminded her of the constructs Law used, but then she saw their burning, living eyes and felt the chaos-tainted aura swirling around them. As one man they all turned towards her, dozen pairs of eyes regarding her intensely, and then they all kneeled in unison. The Dreamer watched it from the side, his eyes dark blue. “Evenin’, th’ Grail Carrier. These are th’ first ones to hear th’ call of th’ Grail, a delegation o’ th’ Kalash.” “Honoured to meet Your Holiness, the Grail Carrier.” “Err, it is a pleasure to meet you. I hope the journey was not too taxing.” “It is our regret to tell that while we started the pilgrimage with a holy number of us, only twelwe of us remain. We beg forgiveness, Your Holiness.” The Dreamer smiled wanly but said nothing when Jankiize looked at him for guidance. The intricate, living armors still kneeled in front of her, a dark cup engraved on each of their left shoulders. Eleven of them stared at the floor, silent – the twelfth looked up at her with its ball lightning eyes and spoke with a metallic voice. Her second sight showed all the magic crackling around the Kalash and she felt dizzy, as if she had stepped right into those dreams she had spoken of, despite of being wide awake. “You are forgiven, and please, do raise. Um, if you don’t mind me asking, what is the holy number?” “Most amusing jest, Grail Carrier. It is, as you must know, twenty-seven for the twenty-seven virtues of the Chalice. The unholy troops of Law have gained control of the Paths in many places – once the real warriors of faith move out, in strength befitting the might of the Kalash, such losses will be avoided.” “Good, good.” The Kalash stood up but kept their eyes lowered in a gesture of deference. Even the twelfth fell silent and Jankiize felt embarrassed and out of place, tried to think of a way to go to sleep without offending these odd fanatics. “Um, I’m rather tired, so if you could excuse me …?” “We apologize for keeping you from your well-earned rest.” The leader barked a series of inhuman metallic clangs and sputters and marched out of the tower with his warriors following in single file. Jankiize watched them go, feeling worn out by the bizarre encounter and a strange electric headache that faded slowly as the door shut down behind the last one. She turned towards the Dreamer with a questioning look on her face. “What was that all about, uncle?” “’Tis as I said, neh? Th’ Grail’s a standard, a flag to rally even those o’ Chaos who’d never follow Dukes o’ Hell or Lords o’ Chaos. Th’ Kalash are deadly an’ furious in battle, an’ I knew they’d come, with th’ lore o’ Grail interwoven with their history so stron’ly as it is. Try not t’ agitate them – th’ less ye speak with them th’ less there’s chance ye accidently say somethin’ blasphemous, ya?” “I’d rather not speak with them at all. They are creepy things, remind me of those Law’s constructs we fought against.” “Ha, that’s exactly what I meant ‘bout blasphemy, neh? I’ll try to see they’ll not bother ya. Oh an’ Janki?” ”Yes, uncle?” ”We leave early in th’ mornin’, around dawn, so be here then. I’d prefer not to go aroun’ lookin’ for ya.” “So soon? But … I thought we’d be here for a few more days!” “Yer five years are a’tickin’, m’lady. We must not waste any of them, neh?” “Waste? They will be wasted alright, out there away from real people, with living armors and grinning demons, and all to buy back something you stole from us. You arrogant bastard!” A sudden anger flared in Jankiize despite her weariness, and she grabbed a wooden stool, threw it at the planewalker. It met the wards and exploded into splinters with a thunderous boom, covering her exit to her own small room. Alone, the Dreamer stared reflectively at the broken sticks that had been a chair, then at the closed door the girl had slammed shut. He shrugged and smiled wanly, wandered away to check the enchantments he had engraved into the walls of the tower. She woke up to a radiant glow. After blinking out the worst bleariness from her eyes, Jankiize saw the Herald had woken her up, was now letting his aura of light dim back to normal. “Good morning, m’lady Jankiize. I hope you slept well.” She yawned in response, looked around but did not see sunlight coming through the portholes. “It is still night, isn’t it? What is it?” “The Dreamer has decided it is time to leave, and requires you to act as his conduct for Grail’s power, m’lady. If you could be so good as to ready yourself and join us in the main room as quickly as convenient, please?” “Mmmh yes, yes, I’ll be there, now please leave.” The solar glided out of the room. His leaving left the room in a dark blue gloom, only the indirect, weak light of the moon illuminating it at all. Jankiize blinked a few times, then muttered something unladylike and whispered through her link to the Grail. In an instant her vision shifted and the room seemed alight with golden fire, a hue she was already growing tired of. She padded sleepily across her small room and put on her clothes, the padded underarmor and the adamantine scalemail, a belt with the scabbarded katana over that, her wyvern-leather boots. Jankiize pouted at her mirror image, frowned mentally to her two scars and the cut hair, dragged her fingers through her hairdo. I look like a small boy wearing his father’s wargear. The mighty Grail Carrier, indeed. Something made her turn her head sharply toward the door. Even through her sleepiness she quickly realized it was the Dreamer slowly firing up the first spells of the launch sequence, which meant she’d better be ready soon. Giving one last critical glance to the mirror, she marched through the door. In the main room of the tower the twelve Kalash stood in attention in two rows of six armors, nodded deep to her as she entered the room. The Dreamer was examining the runes he had engraved to the walls, the endless rows of them shining with a faint bluish light now that he had muttered the first trigger words. When she entered the room he turned around and nodded as well, but not very deep. “Mornin’, Grail Carrier. Can ye take th’ Grail an’ follow me, so we can drag this thin’ up an’ push it through to th’ Astral, ya?” “Sure, uncle.” The inhuman gazes of the Kalash were irritating her, the flaming ball lightnings they had for eyes seemingly following everything she did with great, limitless curiosity. She couldn’t help herself but glare angrily at one of the living armors before walking to where the Grail stood, pulsing warm, chaotic energy as always. Touching it burned away her bad mood for a moment, filled her with fiery acceptance and uplifting power. The Grail responded to her touch with a flaring light that lit up the room, changed everything to look like gold and amber. Jankiize followed the planewalker up the stairs with a bounce in her step, dismissed the metallic sounds that she could hear behind her as the speech of the Kalash. She felt almost cheerful when they reached the upmost room. Jankiize noted that the portals were all dim, shut off for this transition, and only the big gate to the Astral was still alive. The two guards, angels this time, were dismissed – the girl and the planewalker were alone in the small space. Around them the small windows showed the sleeping landscape around them, bathed in the blue light of the bigger of the two moons. Above was the dark grey pre-dawn sky, still full of bright stars. The Dreamer stepped to the big portal to the Astral and made a slow, complex gesture that made the portal die gradually. Jankiize walked to one of the windows and watched at the few lights visible in Arkstâd, lanterns of the really late revellers and the early morning workers. “This is it, then, uncle?” “Ya, we’ll be leavin’ soon, m’lady. I’ll be usin’ less power this time than when I re-made th’ Maiden, so ye shouldn’t have any trouble. An’ there’ll be a guard around us, those eleven Kalash here an’ some o’ Owiric’s hellguards.” “I wasn’t really worrying about those things.” “Oh? Well, I’m sure ye’ll get th’ hang o’ usin’ th’ Grail better, sooner than later, m’lady. Ye only have t’ act as a conduct this time, an’ ye know how to do that, neh?” “That wasn’t really it, either.” Jankiize shrugged absently, stared at a distant light that might have been the lantern of a certain glassblower, or possibly of the nearby baker. “Let’s go.” Those few awake in the town saw an eldritch green glow flare on the hill where they knew the Lord of Chaos had his tower. The glow surged upwards, engulfed the whole building, and a loud crack ringed over the slumbering Arkstâd. Then the glowing tower turned sideways, showed as a thin green line stretching towards the sky before vanishing.

It's already 2nd of October here in Finland so ... HAPPY BIRTHDAY! *gives Peredhil an Almost-Draconic Brand T-shirt with the text "Hug me!" written on the back with big letters* It uh.. is XXXXXL, so it might be a bit big. Wyv said he doesn't have smaller sizes, sorry.

Thank you, Yui. I'd blush if I didn't know ye've taken Flattery 101. That was just morose morning thought, a dip to well below average mental weather ... I'll post it, of course, but not quite yet. Perhaps at the first 5k or first 10k words, dunno. There's nothing much to see yet anyways, it starts with such a languid pace. Just all that stuff I know you hate anyways like character interaction, dialogue ... *grin* And it's prolly not the last Dreamer piece either. Diary entries are unedited reflections of current state of mind so they aren't too reliable.

I must admit I wasn't really happy with either blade poem, but I trust the judgement of both of you better than mine - guess they weren't as trite as I thought. Wyv said there's too many love poems, and there's always too many teenage angst poems, so I thought I'd write some post-teenage angst poems instead...

blades 2 to be or not to be that has been said but the real question is to burden or not to be silent or not to drain your friends with unreal phantasms or to curl around your muteness?

blades a friendly word might conceal a blade the edges of the sentences slice up old wounds an innocent word can pulse with poison wake up memories best left alone faceless, anonymous our tones are flat ASCII rictus tells so little

Brief Description The Dreamer is a planewalker, an immortal of great power. His cold ruthlessness is legendary in the Pen Keep, and most people generally keep away from him and even from the little door to his Astral Harbour, his own "room". He is 6'6" tall and thin, wears a wine-red chaotic armor that shifts and changes shape like a living thing, a perfect match to his eyes that shimmer and flicker, switching color according to his mood. On his head he wears an unadorned iron crown that keeps his grey hair down, on his feet he has a pair of dark dragon-leather boots. He wears no cloak nor gloves. His bearded and moustached face is a map of scars showing all the fights he has lost, but the rumours that abound about him on the Lost Paths mostly remember the fights he has won, the god he killed and the planewalkers he has managed to send to their last, utter and permanent Death. On his back is the scabbard of Pain, his spectral no-dachi that cleaves spirits as well as bodies, makes the victims bleed their dreams and memories out. Even if he is not a nice guy, he is generally polite and calm if not provoked. People tend to be wary around anybody who calls them "puny mortals" and has the ability to rend their living souls out of their bodies, however.

The Lost Paths were on fire. Glowing red tendrils snaked through them, lead by bright pinpoints of power, planewalker captains and archdukes of various hells and abysmal planes, followed by their dogs of war. Some of the huge armies carried massive flags, the new symbol of the Chaos army blazing with brilliant colors against the darkness of the Void: the Holy Grail surrounded by the eight arrows of different lenghts, all of them pointing to different directions. And in the corner of the flag, almost impossible to see from this far, a small mage sigil - the Dreamer's mark, a burning flame in a broken triangle of Law from which two of the eight arrows of Chaos flee. It looks like the empty veins of the dead Void are pumped full of blood. And blood there shall be, rivers of it. It is time for the Eternal War to end.

Epilogue The tavern was smoky, people burning herbs in small coal braziers and inhaling the intoxicating fumes. Some were drinking more traditional poisons, some eating in the more silent corners of the room. Near the fireplace the place was loud, people banging their flagons on the tables, singing loudly and generally making a racket. There were almost no women present: the landlord was a thin, one-armed man wearing a hood that concealed his face, the servants odd, graceful constructs made of long, polished sticks, their metal hands handling braziers, flagons and plates with sorcerous nimbleness. The people drinking were all fighting men, their swords and axes and vleoras and spiked maces hanging from their belts, lying on the tables next to their meals or leaning to the wall, near if need be. In the corners some of the people eating were of a more civilian nature, a few swathed in clothes and possibly female. At a table by the bar sat an officer, his plumed helmet on the table, his young face showing signs of drunken merriment mixed with cruelty, the face of a mercenary captain on a short leave. His table was full of the most boisterous and loud of his crew, the sergeants of his unit. The officer slammed his flagon down, eyed his band. “So, how does it feel to be on the winning side, on the Grail’s side, lads? Beer taste any better now?” “Beer’s fine, Capt’n, but the table’s still lackin’. Where’s our winner’s spoils, eh? Where’s the admiring womanfolk?” “Haha, with that scar on your face, Split, you’ll need to find womanfolk’s who have already drunk twice the beer ye’ve had today!” “I’m not split where it counts, my boy. I’d show ya but my back can’t handle liftin’ such heavy weights at this hour, see.” “Speakin’ of womanfolk, Capt’n, there’s one now, an’ a fine one too.” They all turned, the captain and his four sergeants. The door had just opened and they could see the shimmering planar wall far beyond, the dark shadows of sharp rocks and dead trees showing as black against dark blue in the eternal night. They did not care about the view, though. What they saw was a young woman in bronze scalemail and her two companions, nondescript men in grey and brown, so mundane they were forgotten the second their eyes slid back to the girl. She had uneven, short blond hair, symmetrical, oval face with two thin scars and a determined look. Her body was slim, the armor she wore making it slightly more bulky. The girl let her eyes quickly sweep across the room, her mouth twisting in distaste, before she marched towards the bar and the landlord. “Watch out Capt’n, if she’s a planewalker she’ll steal yer family jewels, ha!” “The abyss she will, planewalker’s don’t come here an’ they are different, their eyes all inhuman an’ shit. This one’s a mortal, an’ she’ll warm my bed tonight.” “Let’s see yer smooth, officering ways, then. Hahaha!” The sergeants laughed raucously, toasting in advance for their officer’s new exploits. The girl ignored their looks, stopped right next to them to talk to the landlord. Just as she was handing something to the sour man, the captain leaned backwards and grabbed her, hoisting her to his lap in one swift motion. He had time to smile lecherously before he felt the sharp steel under his chin. At the same moment he had that sobering experience, the world around him twisted and stretched in nauseating ways, the smells of brimstone and ash floating in the air. Something lifted him up by the arm and he growled aloud with surprise, barked in pain as one of his bones snapped. One of the two mundane men that had followed the girl was now a towering demon above him, bright sparks floating up from its nostrils every time it exhaled, huge yellow eyes made of fire staring at him. In the normality where he had just been pulled from, his sergeants kept on drinking and laughing, not noticing what had just happened to their captain three feet away from them. “Shall I kill him, Mistress?” Jankiize stared upwards at the frightened, pale face of the captain, made ugly by the mixture of pain and fear shining through, saw how his trousers had a growing stain. She sighed, wearily, and made a little gesture with her empty right hand while she sheathed her knife. “No, leave the miserable little man be, Angrôthin. He’ll be good, now.” The demon growled but let the captain go. He fell back to his chair and curled over his broken arm. Normality flowed over the incident, returned him to the same table as his sergeants, who could not understand how their manly captain had suddenly grown sickly pale. Jankiize ignored the commotion behind her, paid for the large packet of food the landlord gave her and turned to leave. Angrôthin stepped closer and whispered to her with his growling, fiery voice that only the girl could hear. “You are too merciful, Mistress. One day a snake you release back to the wild will return and bite you.” “I’m still human, demon. That’s all.”

Earth shook, whether from the force of the shells or from some escaped battlemagic, it was impossible to determine. The Dreamer and his tiny company had vanished into the demoralized but huge Steam Army, golden fire and harsh white glow duelling against each other somewhere in the depths of smoke and dust. Arkstâdians stood by, watching the powerful forces clash together with a mixture of awe and fear. They did not want to venture out of their defense lines to the open killing field, and nobody blamed them. Jankiize could feel the constant drain the Dreamer exacted on the Grail through her and was in turn taxed by the work. She felt like a huge hand was crushing her slowly while somebody else was pulling a hot wire through her head, trembled and sweated and had trouble breathing as the fires of creation flowed through her, energies the immortals smote each other with. What you need all this for? You are hurting me, uncle. Sshh, m’lady – weather this storm and I will shut down the channel soon. She sent her grudging acquiescence through the wavering mental channel they had, shuddered as the Dreamer pulled another great stream of glowing flames through her, from the Grail. The pain heightened and made her fall to her knees and gasp, the cup still in her white fingers but it too dimming, its seemingly unlimited energies being voraciously devoured by some conjuring, some feat of magic profound and megalomanic. Graeher helped her to the chair but with a distracted air, watching over the rail, to the same direction Sreacjim was staring at. Jankiize resisted the urge to curl up or sever the link between the planewalker and the artefact. Instead she tugged feebly at the commander’s arm and whispered hoarsely. “What is it? What is he doing?” “There is a clear area amidst the battle, it must be something he wants to show us. Hard to see from here, but he seems to have something in his hand.” “Listen *cough* listen, he is draining enough magic to destroy everything within miles. What is he doing!?” “He flung what he had up, look.” Graeher pointed and Jankiize squinted to see the little black dot against the sky. It slowly flew higher in a straight line that seemed to defy gravity, then its trajectory curved in an unnatural manner, as if it had been drawing a circle. The dot swung through the empty air towards the balcony and she saw it was a dagger cutting the sky, its hilt toward an unexisting central point. Behind it flickered faint shapes that focused to other daggers, all drawing the same big, slanted circle, all slowly cutting the air. It was a crown of daggers, beautiful in its weirdness. The circle swung away from them, shrunk and grew complete, a whirling halo of sharp blades. Wearily Jankiize stood up, slowly aware that her work as a conduct was mostly done. Some enchantment of the Dreamer had cleared the smoke and the dust and revealed how the battle had slowed down to witness this birth or rebirth or conjuring. The halo of daggers spun in an ever-tightening orbit over a slender shape next to the Dreamer, opposite to the White Oracle. The shape was like a glass woman filled with the golden essence of the primal forces of the Grail, the mighty artefact creating a body out of nothingness. As her crown of daggers descended to spin protectively over her head, her crude form refined itself, the roiling energies inside her changing from raw potential to solid fact. The Maiden of Daggers breathed her first breath the first time in ages, smiled as her golden lips turned red. A merest thought was enough to make the Grail sharpen her eyesight, that much knowledge she had wrestled from it. Jankiize paled as she saw the Maiden more clearly – the now fully formed, naked woman radiated viciousness and bloodlust. Despite her appearance, there was nothing human in her. She was an elemental force of killing, a manifestation of grace, agility and death. The newborn Maiden extended her hands in a twisted gesture of benediction, conjured two long daggers out of thin air and ran forward, leaping and spinning, a dervish. Jankiize saw how the Dreamer watched his conjuring with wariness, even fear, and how another crown of daggers appeared above the battlefield, then a third, both vast halos circling far above ground. She saw how the Maiden’s own small circle of daggers sliced apart the White Oracle’s guards and wards, how the two blades she wielded slashed archangels apart. The Maiden of Daggers wore only a coat of blood and a terrible smile when she cut the White Oracle apart like the planewalker had been a rag doll. * * * “So?” “Ya, m’lady Jankiize?” ”What now?” The tower felt empty around them, most of the Dreamer’s guard dead. The Dreamer sat at his table, had been gazing the map and the fading illusionary soldiers. Jankiize stood and paced around despite her bone-deep weariness, felt too shaken by the events to be still. The Grail shimmered weakly on a small table behind her – but even blind, or in the dark or miles away from it she could’ve told now which way it was. It was connected to her, the link burned to her mind with the golden fire the cup was full of. “Now we’ll turn th’ Eternal War around, raise th’ Grail as th’ standard for th’ Chaos an’ rally those who are true to th’ cause behind it. Th’ powers it has are only half th’ point, really. ‘Tis a standard forces withdrawn from th’ war or uninterest’d in it will follow.” “And when will you do what you promised? Raise my parents?” “When we have no need for th’ Grail any more, when th’ forces of Law ‘ave been broken, when we lose th’ Grail or when ten years have passed.” “Ten years!” “Ya, ‘tis may be ‘ard to turn th’ tables aroun’ in such a short time, but ye mortals are such a hasty people I thought ye might balk at fifty years.” “I’m twenty-five in ten years! Almost as old as my parents!” “Ya?” The Dreamer seemed puzzled. His eyes changed between green and blue as he regarded the angry but tired Jankiize. “Five! Or I’ll cut the link and set the Grail free, send it adrift again.” The planewalker tensed at the words, his face turning hard and morose, the scars dancing around in a threatening way. As his eyes darkened swiftly, going from blue to purple to almost black, half-formed shapes swirled around him to show he truly was angry. “After all I’ve done, ye want to undermine my work an’ cut th’ counterattack short? Ye really want to live in a multiverse controll’d by th’ Law that much? Ye want another Steam Army crushin’ th’ Tree o’ Life?” “Live in a multiverse controlled by the Law? I’d rather just live, uncle! And this isn’t it! I’m sure following the forces of the Chaos on their campaign will be even worse, at least here in Arkstâd I got to meet other mortals. You want me to spend ten of my best years running along with some overglorified demon stampede and BE GRATEFUL!?” Jankiize shouted the last words at the top of her voice, golden embers wheeling around her to match the shadows flickering around the Dreamer. They both scowled at each other, too angry for more words, when the planewalker’s eyes lightened up without warning, went from black to light grey. “Five years, then. So be it.”

The world held its breath. In the still moment, despite the long road that had brought her here just for this she hesistated, looked around to find the wise and deep eyes of the Dreamer that’d tell her what to do. He did not appear, but Sreacjim nodded in his stead, released her from her indecision. Slowly, she walked to the chest. This close the warmth was almost uncomfortable, a pulsing heat that sent a chill through her. As she stepped forward, the old monk muttered words of unlocking while touching different spots of the chest, clearly unlocking it. Despite his great age, his motions were swift and sure as he had done this a thousand times. Still, when the chest opened and the golden glow of the Holy Grail flooded the balcony, almost like liquid transparent fire, he was startled and the chest swayed in his hands. The place lit up with the light: it climbed up the armor the warriors wore, made radiant angels out of them both; it caressed Jankiize, turning her into a lady made of the fiery matter of stars; and it expelled all the last shadows of the dying night, flooded the balcony with light more pervasive than any sunlight. She could feel the raw, undiluted chaos of it and she shivered involuntarily. The girl barely heard what Sreacjim said. “We, the Brotherhood of Armageddon, entrust you this, our burden. Wield it to save us and to save the world.” Jankiize nodded, enraptured by the Grail, and reached towards the glowing chalice. It was warm and soft under her fingertips, like living gold. She had expected the bolt of power it sent through her and did not sway, was surprised how gentle the contact was. The Grail whispered to her even when it had the strength to shout, dimmed to not to blind her. She laughed aloud and raised the artefact high for all the troops to see, and it blazed again as a golden sun, as the challenge of Chaos to the approaching army of Law, dancing and fickle light drowning the harsh, monochrome glare of the Lady of Order. Arkstâdians saw the golden fire and cheered in their pits and trenches, broken houses and small hiding places, the volume of the yells raining plaster and sand on them. “The Grail! Lady Bronze! The Grail for Arkstâd!” Now, how exactly am I supposed to use this? Euphoria faded and reality asserted itself, whispered to Jankiize about the approaching army and the planewalker leading it. She could see the steam-tanks, crystal golems and mercenary sappers now, the long noses of the Law’s artillery ponderously turning to point towards Arkstâd and the bright glow of the White Oracle. The power of raw chaos throbbed under her fingertips, but she lacked the skills to shape it, the vision to grasp one of the myriads of possibilities it offered her. That realization hit her badly and made her smile falter as she had swallowed something bitter. The golden, concealing light of the Grail masked her face, but Graeher saw through it and whispered in a loud voice. “Everything alright, Lady Vangaijuua? You do not look well.” “We’d need an immortal to hold this power – I know magic, but I’ve studied the Art less than ten years compared to the three thousand years of lore the Dreamer has. We thought it’d be easier to use…” Her voice faded as she sought to attune herself with the artefact, understanding the sheer amount of its complexity by every passing moment. Some limited parts of its power were obvious, but they all hinted at deeper functions and meanings, were like childish sketches scrawled over the pages of a single book of a great library. The benign softness of the Grail was a mere faulty first impression. Under that, deeper in the vast rivers of mana flowing in the core of the chalice the powers were elementary, primal in their nature, and Jankiize gritted her teeth as she felt them tugging at her spirit ready to crush her if she overextended herself. She stood at the brink of a great chasm and looked down at the cosmic forces swirling underneath her, all sense of time lost. Somebody shook her, tugged her back towards the useless material thing she had left behind, and that barely gave her the focus she needed to return feeling partly annoyed and party relieved. Sweat darkened Jankiize’s hair and stung her eyes when she managed to regain the control of her body. Sun had moved in the sky, and the Steam Army was close now. She felt weak and exhausted, the power of the Grail draining her instead of sustaining her, and gave a grateful smile to Graeher as he helped her to a chair that had been brought up. “Has anything happened while … I was gone?” “No, but now something is happening. Their Lady of Order is coming this way with only a small honor guard.” Jankiize gave a resigned sigh and rose up from the very comfortable chair to see over the rail. A small squad of archangels disguised as knights escorted a lone woman in billowing white robes. She could sense her aura of power and the pervasive taint of Law it brought with it, but had trouble estimating her true might. The Dreamer tended to hide his strength most of the time, perfecting his skills in subterfuge but also robbing her of a point of reference. When she got closer, Jankiize saw her robes, which had seemed white, were not so, and when she moved they shimmered and changed hue so the eye was bewildered. She could feel the enchantments woven in the robes try to confuse and intimidate her, but she kept her mind clear by concentrating. As she broke the effect of the befuddling charm, she saw the Lady of Order turn her head upward sharply and stare at her. The planewalker was beautiful in an ethereal way, with no visible scars. It was hard to focus to her face, which seemed to shimmer and change along with her robes, but there was an impression of a cold, calculating smile. “Mornin’, m’lady Van’aijuua. ‘Tis a too fine day to ruin ‘t by unnecessary strife, ya?” “Morning, the White Oracle. Arkstâd brings no strife here – they have lived here in peace and would still live here in peace, if your army had not invaded this plane.” “They can remain ‘ere in peace, if ye give me that pretty bauble ye are holdin’, m’lady. These bindin’ words I, Jannael Baladargian, speak o’ my own free will.” Jankiize paled at the words. Sreacjim, free of the debilitating effects of the aura of confusion as an undead, gave her a warning look. She really means it! Those are the real binding words of a planewalker’s pact, not to be broken lightly if ever. If I keep it we lose and she takes it by force unless it fades again, if I give it to her she’ll use it against Chaos. Don’t worry, Jankiize. I’m here as I promised. Uncle Dreamer!? From the main body of the army a lone crystal golem had detached itself without anybody noticing and addressed the planewalker now with a tinkling, grinding voice. Everybody turned their attention to it, the confusion and fear on their minds lessening as the focus of their senses shifted. “’Tis not for ye, Lady of Bones. Ye should’ve kept yer thin cadaver hidden, m’lady – yer too lightweight for this game.” The White Oracle howled in anger, angular shapes manifesting themselves over her gesturing form, blinding light twisting into a globe of protection around her. The golem fell forward, a misty apparition appearing next to it at the very same moment the planewalker released her anger. The crystal construct blew apart in a shower of sparks and jagged shards of deadly glass, the shockwave passing through the ghost without harming it. Behind it, in the Steam Army, a human sapper shuddered and stumbled to his knees, a gnome engineer fell from the steam tractor he had been riding and a guard shuddered in place, growling incomprehensible words. With every convulsing soldier the ghost turned less transparent, more real. Its grin was now visible, and the scars dancing over its pale face, the grey hair and black iron crown. Quick, Li’tl’ Princess, act as my conduct and let me tap the power of the Grail. Please? Wait, how … ah. Yes. A thin golden line crept across the sky from Jankiize to the still coalescing Dreamer. When it was finished, it flashed as a golden lightning, the thunderous boom of the power transfer making people’s ears ring. She could feel the huge drain the Dreamer exacted from the Grail and she realized how fragile the planewalker was right now, still weak from his scattering. Another thunderous boom rocked the surroundings. The White Oracle had sent a searing bolt of white fire at the Dreamer, who had easily deflected it with a roaring, rotating shield of golden flames. He smirked and gathered the shield to a tiny ball which he tossed at his opponent. She shrieked and raised a half-globe of crystal to protect her before vanishing into a golden explosion. What emerged when the flames died down was a desiccated, rotten lich in white robes, pale energies gathering around her fists. Both armies had seen it all, and reacted now with a muted roar. Arkstâdians turned their surprise into cheers, Steam Army into cries of dismay. Over the din the White Oracle’s icy voice could be heard, augmented by magic. “Ye think ye’ve won, Scourge o’ th’ Planes, but ye still have no army to back ye up. I withdraw my pact – I’ll buy th’ Grail from ya with blood instead.” The Dreamer answered by laughing loudly as he drew Pain, Owiric’s demon soldiers rushing through portals winking into existence to join the fray.

The raising sun dragged itself ponderously over the horizont and started to burn away the mists of the night. Its light glinted on the loudly growling steam-tanks, refracted into millions of colors by passing through the crystal golems, brought the colourful uniforms of the Steam Army alive. The sunlight easily outraced the clumsy army and ran over the empty, cratered land before the old city gates, leaped over the broken and torn wall, paused atop the scarred red towers and plunged then deeper into Arkstâd, revealing old signs of bombardment wherever it touched the buildings and the streets. All over the old scars of the war were the new crude fortifications, craters that had been dug deeper and were used as trenches, huge sharp stones pointed towards the advancing enemy. Movement flickered in the defensive lines, marking the guards and militia hurrying to their positions. They were tired and scared, silent and moody, grim and determined – and they all knew there was nowhere to run. Some rare few carried enchanted steel spikes to jam the tracks of the massive warmachines with, some brave and strong ones had long mallets hexed to break crystal and metal. Most of those bleak men carried their weapons because the previous owner, or more often owners, had been killed. A light enchantment, vast in scope but shallow, was laid over the crossbow bolts to make them aim true and penetrate deep. Against a traditional enemy this wealth of magic would have made the troops overconfident, boisterous. Against the rolling, inexorable warmachines they had now seen thrice in action they knew it would not be enough. Over the defenders lay a deadly calm, an unspoken agreement of selling Arkstâd so dearly they would be remembered, in some song or story at least. “Enemy o’hoy!” The voice was young but carried in the cool morning air. Far away appeared the tell-tale sign of the Steam Army, a white cloud hanging close to the ground: the exhaust of a hundred machines of war. Graeher, Jankiize and Sreacjim watched the cloud from near the middle of the second line of the defense. They stood on a balcony that had miraculously survived the three previous battles and now hung two stories above the cratered ground. The first line of defense was a line of skirmishers, hidden crossbow marksmen and one of the few remaining monks. This second line would be where the real fighting would start, where they would start painting the streets red with both their and the enemy’s blood. They had adopted to this new style of fighting quickly and well – there were no warriors clearly in sight. Jankiize felt anxious and tense. She had not learnt the tricks of the Void yet, was as stranded here as everybody else. Her belief in the Dreamer’s intervention had vaxed and waned, was now almost gone as a shadowy daydream. Second and third battles had been fierce and bloody, and he had not showed up. This time would be no different, except she’d die here and nobody would ever bring her parents back. Through her dismal thoughts she slowly sensed something coming closer, some warm and friendly presence of great power. Jankiize half-turned to see, but was startled to feel a leather-gloved hand on her shoulder. Sreacjim gave her a sideways glance, shook his head a fraction and turned to keep his vigil. Ah! They are bringing the Grail. She forced herself to watch as the white cloud approached, looking so innocent. The warm glow behind her grew as it got closer, made her smile despite everything. Graeher sounded faintly amused as he spoke. “I’m glad you find something entertaining in this fight, Lady Vangaijuua. Your serenity gives our warriors strength.” “Ah, no, it isn’t the fight. I … just remembered something, a good memory.” She noticed the same warmth seemed to melt some of Graeher’s icy steelness away, even if the commander did not directly sense the approaching power. As the old officer looked at her and smiled, more with his eyes than with his mouth, Jankiize was abruptly reminded of the Dreamer, of the way he had smiled at her. Perhaps he will be here after all. We did win those two battles without him, didn’t we? And since we will not win this one without him, he’ll be here … ah, childish fancies. Better be ready for the worst. She shook the warm and soft feeling away, took a deep breath and steeled herself for the ruthless combat ahead. Jankiize muttered a few words, not proficient enough to see the lines of magic without a spell. Their side looked like it should – dim glows of enchanted weapons, the result of hers and the monks’ work, showing through stone and wood, the few last monks shining with muted power, Grail burning like golden sun behind them, being carried closer. She herself was bathed in bright flames, the wards in her amulet, protective enchantments in her armour and spells of ice and keen edge on Winter’s Touch shining with the brilliance of planewalker magic. The girl turned her gaze towards the approaching army, expecting to see only the blurred embers marking the crystal golems. Instead, a dazzling supernova in front of the army made her stagger violently backwards. She hit her head on the stone wall and fell down to sitting position, holding her head before Graeher had time to help her. “Ow!” “What was it, Lady? Was that some sort of attack against you?” “Ow … no, no.” Jankiize stood up clumsily and allowed the commander to help her, blinking to get rid of the afterimages. “It’s just … I think they have a planewalker leading them. A … Lady of Order, you would say. I got almost blinded by her aura.” “So, she is a being as powerful as the Dreamer?” The girl smiled grimly and dusted off her armour, still almost blind. She squinted at the commander, trying to see him through the pulsing lights in her vision. “No, not as powerful. The Dreamer said … what was it, now. Ah, he said that the gladiators of the Void do not create armies to hide behind. The problem is that the Dreamer you saw during the first defense was one trying to hide his presence, used his powers only sparingly. So, she might be able to do more than he did.” Graeher closed his eyes for a short moment. When he opened them again he looked resigned. “Then we are truly lost. Her warmachines would be enough but against a being of such power, what tools we have left?” “The Grail.” Sreacjim’s whisper was the first thing he had said in a while. Jankiize nodded to the monk, trying to look confident in front of the commander. Graeher looked questioningly at both of them, then gave a short, dry laugh. “I see. I wasn’t trustworthy or wise enough to be included in that council? I thought the monks would keep it inside their mountain, would use it to power their spells until the last one of you fell. Already it has saved us, but at what costs … so, why was it not removed from its vault earlier? Why go through all this…”, Graeher gestured, pointing at the craters, at the shattered walls, at the places where so many had died, at the missing monks, “… if we had the power to truly oppose them?” The monk’s dry voice drifted out of the depths of the hood, dead words with no remorse. “We did not trust her. She is here to take the Grail away, to carry the fickle thing for her Lord of Chaos. And the eldest of the monks did not agree, said the prophecy has not been fulfilled. Now they are gone and she still remains, and there are no other options. We are not guardians of the people of Arkstâd. We are here to guard the Grail.” Sreacjim shrugged and fell silent. In the silence she could hear three sets of footsteps coming up the stairs. First thing she saw coming up the stairs were two warriors, both wearing mismatched and obviously several times repaired plate, a selection of weapons hanging from their belts and on their back. Their eyes were shadowed by their full helmets. but she could feel their gaze on her. They were wearing no tabard, but they had small bronze badges with engraved picture of a goblet. The monk nodded to the two warriors, acknowledging their presence. One of them nodded back, then they moved aside to fade into the shadows near the corners of the balcony. Behind them came an ancient monk, bent with age, carrying an engraved stone chest full of faded symbolic pictures that were hard to see. Jankiize could feel the power pulsing inside the chest, the familiar taint of the Chaos strong in it. It reminded her again of the Dreamer, a memory she threw away to concentrate on the present. Sreacjim smiled, his white teeth showing even in the shadows of his cowl, and his dry, raspy voice had a triumphant note to it. “Behold – the Holy Grail.”

Tiny illusionary armies crept across a map on the table, paused and flickered back to their starting positions. Frowning, Jankiize crouched over the map and tried to divine a working strategy against the impossible numbers of the Steam Army. She turned towards the commander of the wyvern guard and had a dizzying sense of déjá vu, remembered when it had been the Dreamer where she was and a younger, more naïve Jankiize watching the little transparent soldiers. “It looks hopeless, doesn’t it? My twenty bound warriors and what’s left of your guards, a few monks channelling the energy of the Grail against a fist of steel. We’ve dented them and they’ve crushed us, three times now.” The commander had a fatalistic smile on his face and he shrugged. “There’s no way to run, not in this season with the lava sea active. So, we’ll fight, hopeless or not. Once they breach to the city proper, as they certainly will this time, we’ll have the advantage if not the numbers. I apologize beforehand, but I must ask once more – can you not summon the Lord of Chaos, like you did back then in the first fight, Lady Vangaijuua?” Jankiize stiffened up as she heard the question and glared at the commander. She looked like a warrior now herself, her long hair cut short, another white scar visible on her brow, armor still as perfect as it had been the day it was made but dusty, the hilt of the katana stained dark with dried sweat and blood. She walked up to the old carreer soldier with the limp she had gotten during the second attack and spent a moment looking at him, saying nothing. He took it with the stoicism of an officer, stood in attention when she spoke softly. “Do you really think I would have let all those people die if I could have prevented it? That I consider this a sport of some sort, Sir Graeher, a sport that’d grow boring with the unfair advantage of having the Dreamer here?” “No, Lady Vangaijuua, I do not think so.” “Good. That’ll be all.” Graeher gave her a curt nod, executed a perfect turn and marched out of the tower. Once she was sure he was gone she turned towards an immovable form standing in the darkest shadows of the room, hard to see even by her augmented senses. “Sreacjim, think it is time to try what we spoke about?” “Given the fact there will be no fifth attack, this fourth one breaking us apart and crushing us to dust, yes, perhaps.” He stepped forward to the light, hidden within the depths of his robe but not shrouded by magic any more, and gestured with his gloved hands as he spoke. “The guardian of the grail has given his permission if I think such an action is necessary. It would seem so. The wards have already faded, most of the original monks are gone. Some still argue this is not what the prophecy meant, and on some abstract level they might be correct, but if there are no monks and no Grail, the question becomes rather moot. Hah, we are ready for the Armageddon, yes.” She allowed worry to show on her face as she sat down. “Do you think it’ll work? My uncle described the way the Grail fades and vanishes if impure beings try to possess it for their own purposes. How … how pure must one be? By what standards? I have killed, among other things …” “If the hands of Fate have pushed us to this point, if the lore the Dreamer had when he chose you was correct, we have nothing to worry about, girl. There are no absolutes, no raw purities or essences. You’ll do, if the Grail wills so.” Jankiize stood up and examined the broken and dying illusions on the exquisite map, one of them reminding her of the cute guard, who had been with hindsight obviously smitten with her. She sighed, fingered the hilt of her katana unwittingly and nodded to the undead monk. “If and if, but that’s the best we have. I’ll carry the Grail to this one, last battle if it wills so.” The monk bowed to her and vanished back into the shadows. * * * “Troops!” “Sir commander!” “What? TROOPS!” “SIR COMMANDER!” The scarred remains of the wyvern guard saluted their commander with raised weapons and helmets, with a reckless energy. They were the last veterans left, the most lucky, the most hardy, most cunning, the best. Behind them in the open area near the docks, normally only used during the sailing season as a market place, stood the Arkstâd militia, a far less menancing group of merchants, boys at the verge of adulthood, workers and mercenaries. Next to them were the twenty remaining planar warriors, hidden by illusions and armor to resemble mere elite knights, nevertheless an aura of otherness around them. They seemed bored and relaxed, their eyes of celestial or abyssal fire burning deep inside their helmets, and nobody dared to approach them. Sir Graeher stood on the same level as his men, a man of average height and build, grey hair and brown eyes. His red and black uniform was impeccably neat and he had an air of authority despite his mediocre physical traits, and his voice had steel in it, unyielding strength. Beside him was Jankiize, ‘the Bronze Lady’, clad in her armour without a tabard, her katana hanging in a sheath from her belt. She was short, seemed even less like a military commander than Graeher did, but the past months had trimmed her softness away, or made it private. Her uncertainity had vanished as well, sunk deeper and been forgotten there – the examples of the Dreamer and what her own guard had told her about how one of her birth rank should act coming to fore. She had been in the front line during the second defense of Arkstâd, walked out of a smashed, detonated building with an injured leg, the blood of the nearby soldiers on her armor and a haunted look on her eyes. That had not stopped her from being in the front line again during the third defense, where she got a glancing blow from a crystal golem to her brow, gaining her a scar. Even with her lame leg and new scar, shorn hair and simple martial attire she was beautiful … and very young, still. “Well, troops. The Steam Army is on the move again and will be here tomorrow, as you know. This is the fourth defense of Arkstâd, and that is exactly what we will do. We will defend our city, and we will defend it for us, not for Chaos or not against Law, but because it is our city. Who cares what ideologies the attackers follow, eh?” “WE DON’T!” “That’s right, troops, we don’t. We’ll just send them packing, with coffins and broken machines, like we’ve done three times so far. Alright, you know I don’t like to make long speeches and you don’t want to hear them, so scram! Officers!” “Sir Commander!” “Follow me.” Graeher turned to leave, and Jankiize and a small group of wyvern guard officers followed him to the nearby empty tavern converted to defense headquarters. The guards and the militia moved towards the remains of the city wall, the barracks or their homes, the guards in order and the militia slowly and in disarray. The remaning twenty planar soldiers watched them go, standing soon alone in the empty plaza.

On the table lay a broken mirror and a note written with runes no local would be able to read, weighted down by fat gold coins. It said simply: “Scattered myself. When needed, I’ll be there –WXC”. Jankiize pocketed the coins absently, stared at the note hoping it could speak, say just a little more than what was written on it. Without realizing it, she spoke aloud. “What does he mean, scattered himself? I can’t fight against the Steam Army all by myself!” “Boss is gone, mortal. He order’d us to listen to ye ‘til he is back, Lady Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua.” Jankiize was startled by the sound, then saw it was one of the bound demon warriors who had spoken, illusion and platemail making it vaguely human-shaped. She nodded to it, waved the note. “What does he mean, scattered?” “’Tis planewalker’s Art of some sort, Lady. Nothin’ I’d know ‘bout. Ye need us now, do ye? There’s fifteen o’ us, thirty if ye count th’ useless whitey flyboys.” “No, no. Just guard the tower, for now.” “As ye say, Lady. Jus’ don’t say to him we’d disrespect ya, neh?” She did not listen to the demon’s last words but looked out of the porthole, towards the unseen Steam Army. * * Gears blurred in his vision. Iehrewiohfbowief blinked, wondered at the sudden heavy feeling that seemed to radiate from his head to his torso and limbs. He felt suddenly all wrong, too short and too slow and too weak-eyed, shuddered. “Ieh you ok old mate you seemed to nod out there for a moment is that repair done yet?” “Uhm.. ya, ‘tis .. it is yes almost done I just need to fix th’ .. the last damage the gremlins did to the gears.” Dagibojdfragsonijobvad, his directly superior gnome in the repair troops gave him an odd look. “You don’t sound ok Ieh you sure sure you don’t need a break we’ve been at this for quite a long time now?” “Actually ya I could use a break I felt sort of odd for a moment there excuse me Dag while I compose myself perhaps some beer might do me good.” The gnome stood up awkwardly, knocked a toolbox over and staggered towards the direction of supply tents. * Twelve crystal golems stood in a perfect formation, four abreast and three in a row, all in same posture, all standing the exact same distance from each other. Only the small symbols and numbers painted on their steam engines were different. One of them moved softly, turned its translucent head first this and then that way. Satisfied with what it had seen, it ceased its movement, tried to stand in the same posture it had started with. And failed, slightly, very very slightly. * One of the human mercenaries eating at the fireplace paused in the middle of biting his bread. His eyes were empty, then he blinked and seemed normal again, but he dropped what he had been eating. When the sapper stood abruptly up and started walking towards the nearest hill, his comrades were curious and called after him, but not curious enough to move from the warmth and comfort of the fire. The young man walked in a straight line, stumbling as if unaccustomed to such short legs, finally reached the hilltop. His gaze sweeped slowly over the Steam Army’s camp, doing a perfect circle. When it was complete, he blinked again and had no idea why he was there. * It feels like the White Oracle. I can see the weave, the intricate web of Fate she has spun. And how I tear at it, tugging and pulling, drawing her attention no matter what I do. She might be the one in the card, it might be her loss when I emerge as whole from the shards sunk into her army. They just need the desperation to call her forth, the stupid, foolish gamble I’d never do but she might, go with a cup and thirty against an army. Time to sink myself deeper, fade away to depths even the all-seeing eye of the oracle will not see me, will not detect the venomous fangs already pumping poison into her outstretched hand … … I really hate this boring watch duty, it’s not like their tiny army is going to attack us. I wonder why we haven’t brought our real strength to bear, yet. Huh!? I blinked and the sun moved so much? I must’ve fallen asleep. Good thing nobody noticed … really good thing. * * Dusk crept across the unhospitable stone plains. The last strands of sunlight danced on the red towers of Arkstâd, dazzled Jankiize who was still watching eastwards, towards the setting sun. They caressed the beautiful and deadly crystal golems, their wavering shadows all the same except for one. Hillsides sank into shadows, slowing down a lone sapper walking back towards his tent, confused and tired. Darkness grew deeper in a supply tent where a gnome was drinking beer, frowning as if trying to remember something. And a guard paused before leaving his post after being relieved, exchanged a few words with the next hapless soldier. Sun set and it was dark.

The heavy door gave its usual welcoming creak as Jankiize pushed it open with what felt like her last strength. The main room of Nemue’s family’s home seemed empty, a few mushroom pies cooling next to the oven and filling the large space with their delicious scent. Around the walls were long stone benches covered in colourful rugs with a few gobelins on the walls themselves, showing that the family was fairly well off. Opposite to the oven and small table reserved for cooking was longer table, two small stone candlesticks on top of it. The sleeping mats were in a corner, rolled up for the day. Besides the mushroom pies, the room smelled of smoke, sweat and scented candles. Jankiize saw that the narrow door to the other room was open and crossed the livingroom to enter the hot glassblower’s workshop. This room was smaller, with tiny multicoloured windows that acted as advertisement of Saldar’s, Nemue’s father’s, trade. Saldar was busy working and Jankiize waved a mute hello to him right as Nemue, who had been sorting the glass shards they used as raw material, noticed her. “Hey Janki! Oh, you look exhausted. Come on, let me make you some tea.” “I’d love that, Nemue, thanks.” The two girls walked back to the main room, Jankiize slumping down on a bench next to the table and Nemue busying herself with the tea pot. Jankiize leaned her head on her hands and yawned when Nemue brought them both cups of tea and pieces of the pie. Nemue barely touched hers, watching as Jankiize ate with growing anticipation until she could no longer contain herself. “So, is it true?” “Is what true?” “You know! The rumours, what happened at the wall. Did you really order the Lord of Chaos to attack the Steam Army?” “Huh? Who said so?” “Everybody, the guards, the merchants … you are famous, girl! The saviour of Arkstâd, here drinking my tea and eating my mother’s mushroom pie.” Nemue’s tone was exhilarated and her face betrayed her surprise when Jankiize just buried her face into her hands. She was even more surprised and alarmed when her friend started crying almost silently, the sobs making her armour-covered back tremble. Nemue moved around the table and hugged Jankiize, patted her shoulder while making soothing noises. “Ssshhh. It must’ve been terrible, but it is over now. Everything’s going to be alright. You must be tired. Want to take a nap here, Janki?” “*sniff* … yes. And no. Everything’s not going to be alright. It’ll just get worse. And it’s my fault.” Jankiize started crying again, big round tears that washed the dust away from her face and fell to the stone floor.

Guns roared and men screamed, the wyvern guard and the Steam Army locked together in a deadly embrace. The Dreamer waved his hand and the illusion of the war froze in place, mute and tiny over the magically crafted, beautiful map. “See now what I meant, m’lady? They would’ve decimat’d th’ guard, ya, but they’ll do that either case, an’ my way there’d been hardly any civilian casualties. But ye forced my hand, an’ now that we blunted their attack and bloodied their nose ‘twon’t be as pretty.” Jankiize did not reply. She stood there next to the map, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, dust and a few spatters of blood covering her armor. The little broken illusionary soldiers glared at her accusatingly, crushed and shattered by the army of Law. Her voice was small when she spoke. “But … they’d conquered Arkstâd if you had taken the Grail. You’ve shown me what they can do, at their worst! Deserts with the sigil of Law burned into the very earth, with flows of magic dead … you can’t say that is better than … than what happened.” She finished her words lamely and seemed to shrunk when her own words recalled to her mind what had happened, earlier. She looked like a defeated, exhausted warrior princess in all her finery and misery and the Dreamer sighed at the sight, waved towards the map, eyes grey. “Ya, at their very worst. There are li’tl’ reason t’ believe they’d go to such extremities ‘ere, or was. Now that we’ve crush’d or damaged their vanguard, I wouldn’t be so sure. Th’ cards do not show too bright futures.” The Dreamer snatched a card out of thin air and placed it on the table, face up and reversed. It showed a robed blonde woman sitting in lotus position, her face vague, nine golden triangular sigils of Law floating above her open palms. “Th’ Nine of Law, revers’d. Loss, in other words. Not sure whose, yet, but that woman might be ye.” The picture in the card shimmered and shifted, the shining sigils rotating slowly in the air under the hooded gaze of the woman. Jankiize glanced at the card. “Doubt it is me, uncle. What do I have to lose?” She nudged it and it started rotating, the sigils rotating to the other direction seemingly staying frozen in place. At the planewalker’s slight gesture, it spiralled upwards, turned sideways in mid-air and vanished. Jankiize followed its path and as it vanished it made her look straight into the Dreamer’s dark grey eyes. She shivered, despite having withstood those eyes so many times before, felt that they were deeper, older than usual. He did a tiny shrug. “What ye have, ‘tis th’ question, neh? All ye have ye can lose. Perhaps th’ theft of Grail would’ve cost ye somethin’, an’ th’ price th’ locals pay for it is th’ redemption of Chaos, th’ only way ye are pure ‘nough to carry th’ Grail. Or perhaps we are already defeated, an’ ye’d be better off readin’ that book about th’ Parallels than tryin’ to grasp th’ Grail – perhaps this multiversum’s lost to th’ Law." He smiled when he finished his words, his eyes dancing through various dark colors towards light blue, and he ruffled Jankiize’s hair. She winced and tried to fix the damage he had inflicted. “Why do you always look so happy when you talk about defeat, uncle? And so grim about the victories?” “’Tis endless war will end at th’ last defeat an’ th’ search for meanin’ will be fullfil’d. I do not have th’ peace of mind to follow my master, th’ courage or th’ knowledge to plunge through th’ Impassable Wall or th’ cowardice to surrender. No death awaits me, puny mortal, no dreams durin’ th’ nights. There’s no rest for me an’ th’ likes of me.” The Dreamer’s eyes shone with pearly white sheen and his smile was almost warm. His words shocked the girl, but the planewalker himself was as calm as she had ever seen him. “Do not give me that look, young one. Th’ unicorns o’ Law an’ their snow-white armies will bathe in red before there’ll be any defeats. I will write my name in blood on their pages of history an’ my fall will mark th’ end of th’ Age of Balance, ‘twill be no sooner.” * * * Jankiize followed her weary feet towards Nemue’s home. They knew the way and allowed her to wallow in her own confused thoughts. The talk with the Dreamer had not helped, him having been his usual cryptic and distant self. It had merely stirred the great turmoil inside her, made her even more uncertain if what she had done had been good or bad or something between. She didn’t notice somebody was trying to catch her before she heard a shout behind her. “Hey? You alright?” She turned and saw a wyvern guard slowing his pace to normal walk now that she had stopped and wondered briefly what she had done that would warrant the attention of the local guard. Jankiize looked at her armor, checking if there was a larger bloodstain somewhere or some other reason she’d been halted but could not see anything. At the same time, the guard removed his full helmet and placed it under his arm. She recognized the young man then. “Oh, you are the guard … from the wall.” “We were almost all at the wall, but yes. Was not sure if you’d remember me, you seemed pretty … dazed back there. How are you now? I mean … did you get out alright?” The rest of the squad was still sitting on a bench far behind the guard, joking and pointing at the two of them. She felt suddenly very weary, a wave of exhaustion and alienation washing over her that made the guards seem odd two-legged beasts, totally incomprehensible. Jankiize stumbled, the guard noticing it and moving closer to help, to steady her, but she waved him off with one hand and covered her face with another. “I’m … alright, thanks. Just tired. You shouldn’t concern yourself with me, guard. Listen, it is all my fault.” “Huh? The war and everything? We heard you and the Lord of Chaos talking, you know. It seems the other way around, it being your fault we are alive.” She collected herself and gave him a tired look. “It is not that simple. Or at least I don’t think it is. I don’t know …” He shrugged, unconcerned, sure of his own judgement that Jankiize was on their side, and smiled. “Well, for what it is worth, we … the guys that is, and me, are grateful that you got him to help. It looked pretty bad but him and the Brotherhood of Armageddon’s monks stopped them in the end … funny, you’d never have thought the monks would do anything good for this town.” The girl nodded, feeling awkward and hollow being praised for an action that might have doomed the city. The short distance to Nemue’s home extended to untold miles in her weary mind and she itched to get moving before she would collapse on the street from exhaustion. Jankiize pointed at the direction she had been heading. “I’d better get going.” “Oh. Alright. See you, then.” She gave him one last look, noticed absently how he had been fidgeting with his helmet and how he looked almost cute now with washed face and hair black instead of grey, then turned and walked away towards mushroom pies and friendly faces.

The earth rumbled and shook. The wall cracked but held, the warriors on top of it muttering and cursing aloud, their mood gloomy but grimly determined. Some of them glanced sideways at the short girl in bronze-colored scalemail but nobody said anything. Then the bleakness evaporated as if a breeze had gone through the troops, guards clamouring with renewed faith as somebody moved through them. Jankiize turned to look towards the disturbance, strained to hear the shouts. As it got closer, she managed to make sense out of the mixed voices. “Lord of Chaos! For the Chaos! Magic’s on our side!” She sighed inwardly and stood still, watching the shouts and the tall figure in the middle of the disturbance move nearer at a steady, fast pace. Finally the Dreamer emerged from the group of guards clustered around him and stopped near the girl, gave her a dark grey stare. Jankiize withstood it as always, waved towards the Steam Army. “So you finally came to put stop to this, uncle?” “Naw, I came to retrieve ye – ‘tis not safe for ye, here. I shouldn’t be here either, in enemy’s clear view, but ye forced my hand.” The troops had grown quiet and were now a silent, attentive audience. New emotions swept through them like wind rustling reeds as the Dreamer and Jankiize talked, the conversation spreading further by whispers that mutated the message more and more every yard they travelled. The Steam Army joined the dialogue with a barrage, their mortars and steam-powered siege guns striking closer to their mark this time, made the wall tremble. Some of the huge shells had been loaded with smoke ammo, which created a huge cloud of white steam that hid the Steam Army’s vanguard from sight. Only two pairs of eyes were able to penetrate the bank of man-made fog, and they both saw how the warmachines rolled forward, hid by the noise and smoke of the artillery. “Uncle! They are coming!” “I know, Li’tl’ Princess. An’ ye shall have yer battle, then, even if it might ruin all my plans an’ doom us in th’ end.” The Dreamer leaped down from the wall and vanished into the cloud of smoke and dust, the nearest few guards cheering him on before readying their crossbows, spears and polearms. They were outmatched by the mechanical monstrosities of the Law but ready to fight, part of their morale leaning on the fact they had never seen what the steam-powered warmachines could do. Even through the obscuring clouds, four pinpoints of light showed, four towers of the wall alight with the bluish-green fire of magic. Jankiize knew that could not be her uncle. It felt all wrong, even more chaotic, weaker but warmer magic than the Dreamer’s cold and exact Art. She felt the flows of magic connect to those four points, others fluctuating and shifting somewhere ahead in ways her second sight was too weak to decipher. Jankiize blinked to switch back to the normal vision, felt the beginnings of a headache. The clouds were receding, but the opposing army was still mere approaching vague shapes at best. Then the clouds turned red as a muted roar rose from somewhere near the middle of the ranks, a fiery explosion flung men and metal to every direction. This time the whole wall full of wyvern guard cheered, some of them pointing towards the wreckage left behind by the Dreamer’s flashy spell, some pointing elsewhere. Jankiize tried to see what else could be as interesting as the wake of rampaging planewalker, but could not see anything before she augmented her eyes with an enchantment, spoken through gritted teeth as the taint of the Law tried to smother her. There, running between the rocks and hiding behind bits of smoking metal, she saw them: small goblin-like creatures, black thin things with long claws and big eyes, elfin ears rotating in their misshaped heads. They were leaping and bouncing, still managing to cling to the shadows and stay in the cover of the remains of the artifical cloud, coming from the four towers in steady streams. She realized what they were, recalled the picture she had seen in some dusty old grimoire listing the odd creatures of the multiversum: Phyrexian gremlins, things born with the sole purpose of disabling and destroying machines and artefacts. She still failed to figure out exactly who or what had worked the magic to summon them, but she grinned in glee when she saw the first of the Law’s warmachines run into an ambush. The gremlins stuck their indestructible claws into the tracks, climbed up along the sides and vanished into the lumbering vechile as it ground to a halt. Another infernal explosion smashed a different part of the attacking army to smoldering hulks and burning bodies, but now the remaining warmachines were close enough for more accurate fire. Their long snouts sprouted fire and black smoke, the shells scoring direct hits against the wall this time, the explosions bringing down portions of the old wall, shrapnel and stones cutting and crushing waiting warriors. The blood and gore was too much for some and they ran or trembled in place, paralysed with fear, shouted in terror or in agony, screams that nobody heard in the cacophony. Fireballs arched above, the four mysterious spellcasters turning their Art now to direct attacking, and the gremlins rushed forward below, immoblizing and breaking down tanks and golems, biting and clawing men. Jankiize was frozen in place. The vivid reality of war was too much for her, the blood running over the stone wall and the shrill, almost inhuman cries of the wounded, dying and mentally broken. She had had so clear idea of what she’d do when she had first decided to come here with the troops, and now that idealistic image had irrevocably broken, tainted with blood and anguish. Her hands trembled holding the sheath of her katana, and she slowly fell on her knees staring at them without comprehending what she saw. Jankiize drifted away from the horrors of the battlefield, but the escape was only temporary. When she came to, she saw a guard shouting something to her. She tried to concentrate and managed to make sense of the previously meaningless sounds. “… you should leave, miss! Can you hear me? Miss?” Jankiize stood up groggily, frowned at the crater nearby that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and glanced at the battlefield over the guard’s shoulders. The white cloud had been replaced by black smoke created by burning oil and wrecked machines, but she could still see through such distractions with her augmented eyesight. What she saw made her let the enchantment fade and the merciful smoke cover the killing field. New explosions rocked the wall. The guard lost his footing and fell down over Jankiize, the very real physical jolt of the impact and his weight on her bringing the reality into sharper focus. “Hey! Get off me!” She pushed the young guard away at the same time he tried to tumble off. He barely managed to stay on the battlements, getting a good look of the fall. As the guard slowly inched away from the edge, Jankiize really saw him for the first time. He was barely older than she, his wyvern helmet lost and red-black armor dirtied. Tall but not yet sturdy, black hair turned grey by dust and plaster, no scars on the youthful face. A loud boom went off somewhere deep in the smoke and they both turned to look at the newest blossoming fireball, peering over the damaged merlon. “That’s the Lord of Chaos, right?” She wanted somehow explain and apologize for all the carnage but did not find any words and just nodded. “Yes, that’s my uncle’s work.”

Air rippled in front of the corkboard soon after Tzimfemme had left. Reality bent and grudgingly made way to the Dreamer, who appeared exactly in front of the written notices. His eyes were shining yellow as he looked around, a confused expression on his hideously scarred face. Finally the notes attracted his searching gaze and he read them from last to first, face impassive. After reading the last one, he read it again, smiling. Then again, grinning widely, eyes the golden-white of unmitigated joy and finally he started laughing - a roaring, deep and loud laugh, far too happy sound from such a being of death and destruction. Still chuckling under his breath, the planewalker snatched a Chárôt card out of thin air and nailed it on the board next to the first written notice with a simple, crude sealing rune. The card showed a picture of little Valdar in a fool's cap, stepping out of a house completely in flames and marching forward with a wooden sword on his belt and a magic wand in his hand. It was titled "0 - The Jester" in an archaic, hard to read font. He then stepped back to admire his handiwork.