Purgatory

[Zadown]

That could've ended better ... or worse. At least they will not find me here, that temporal shift should have done the trick. And this reminds me why I never teleport from place to place, far too easy to do ... this to me.

 

The Dreamer gestured at his surroundings in response to his inner monologue. The room wasn't large, at least not for the planewalker who was used to open spaces and the vastness of the Astral, but it wasn't small either. The floor and walls were made of brown stone, polished to almost mirror-like quality, the edges of the stones barely visible. In casual glance it looked like the place was cast out of bronze, especially in the gloomy darkness that blurred the lines between stone and metal. There were only a few objects breaking up the beautiful simplicity of the room: two candlesticks, heavy and baroque in style; a bookstand made of massive black wood, bearing a thick grimoire; and a single chair of simple wood, seemingly out of place here.

 

All those were near the edges of the room, near the arched windows, tall but nevertheless not tall enough to reach even close to the high roof that vanished in the darkness. The middle of the floor was cleared of obstructions. Only things there were a thrice-reinforced magic circle, engraved with the usual runes of protection, imprisonement and warding, done without a single flaw. And the Dreamer, standing in the middle of the otherwise empty circle: a tall thin man in tattered and now blood-stained robes of indefinable color, a chaos of leather, chain and plate-armor showing under the remains of the fabric. His right hand held a faintly shimmering spectral no-dachi, formed of mist, pain and memories - his left hand was empty and formed into a tense claw. His eyes seemed to change color on their own volition - now they were dark, bleak grey, night-black shadows drifting over the lighter background. The planewalker sighed.

 

I guess I knew this could happen. This is why I always take the long way, run the lost paths like everything that has half a brain. Instant transportation means you invade a reality, are considered an outsider, a planar force. And that binds ye in the moment of translocation, shackles ye in chains heavier than whole worlds swimming through the space.

 

He reached forward with the look of somebody who is going to get hurt, carefully thrust his left index finger forward. Where it would have passed over the runes, it just stopped. Air turned darker, almost red, in a small area around his fingertip, and there was a muted crackling sound. The Dreamer leaned into his finger, let it turn white from the pressure, but nothing much happened. He retracted his finger and stared at it thoughtfully. After a pause he shrugged almost imperceptibly and clumsily sat down in a lotus position.

 

Ah well, at least I was trapped by mortals. In the worst case their buildings will wither and die, their immortal mages taken out by ennui, their soldiers die and steel rust. As long as they do not call Law here I will be safe. Still ... so embarassing.

 

Sparing one last glace to the large city outside the tall windows he shut his eyes and fell into a deep trance.

[Zadown]

"Wake up, demon."

 

The words penetrated his idling, languid thoughts. With infinite care and equally infinite lack of haste, he opened his cerulean eyes. The room was well lit now, sunlight streaming in from the numerous tall windows, reflecting from the polished rock with painful (to any mortal eye) intensity. Overriding the gentle scent of corruption, waste and general urban living from below was an expensive perfume and a faint smell of honest human sweat and oiled steel. Dust motes danced in the brilliant shafts of sunlight, distant sounds of pack animals and shouting humans drifted in from the city. All these details the Dreamer noticed before he even tried to turn his head to the right direction.

 

He finally opened his eyes fully. Before him stood his captor in bright blue robes, escorted here by two soldiers in blue livery with unwieldy looking polearms. The soldiers looked ill at ease, avoiding his darkening gaze and obviously tried not to fidget. His captor ... well, she looked just angry.

 

"Good morning, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths. What brings ye here to my humble abode? I'm afraid I can not under these circumstances show the hospitality I am accustomed of showing."

 

The Dreamer smiled mockingly and bowed to the mage. She was carrying the same staff she had had when they first met at Castle of the Birds. Same dark skin, dark eyes and black hair, skin still sculpted by magic against the ravages of time, but there was some quality, something that was different now. He shrugged in his mind - humans had never been his speciality.

 

"You know why I am here, demon. I am no longer fooled by your appearance so you can cease your mockery, and I already told you the only way you'll ever leave that circle. Now, has a night of imprisonement made you any more reasonable, demon? You know full well there is no escape from a binding, no matter the power you might have."

 

He had been waiting for something on those lines, but the tone was unexpected, oddly pleading instead of gloating. He himself never wasted time talking to the things that he bound, but then again he never tried binding anything far more powerful than he was. He yawned rudely, feigning tired, and turned his sleepy black eyes at Sherishsen.

 

"I am not a demon, mage. If ye intend to stay alive during yer little jaunts in the sky I'd expect ye to have studied the lore of Astral a bit more. Ya, ye might've caught me like a demon, since I was foolish and needed a way out - but that is where the similarities end, m'dear.

 

As for the proposition, giving away my true name is something I'll never do. Dying would be far less of a hassle, and I generally try to avoid that, as well. Ye can keep me here, ya, and I can keep my true name to myself, ya? Nobody wins, at least not until this tower falls of old age and I regain my freedom after a thousand or two thousand years of vengeance in my mind. I can catch yer soul after yer death, I can destroy yer family, yer relatives, yer descendants and yer whole culture if I want to, all the cities, towns, villages, hamlets and small houses to the last lame cat. I can burn them with hellfire with yer pitiful soul forced to watch it all, watch me reanimate the dead corpses and bind everybody ye've ever loved or fought for into them and watch them shamble around the burned, dead cities mad with their own undeath, their flesh rotting away..."

 

She finally interrupted his low, threatening voice.

 

"Enough! Rot here then, demon. You win nothing by those threats. If you will not give your true name of your own will, I will take it with power."

 

Saying that she turned away, her robe swirling around her, and marched out of the room without a further word.

 

With power .. with what power? She might wrestle the name of a demonic footsoldier out of it ya, but even a lowly demon lord would blow her head off if she'd try anything through the circle.

 

The Dreamer scratched his head and frowned.

 

Since she is still alive she can't be that stupid ... so these things don't quite add up. Hmmm.

 

The planewalker turned his eyes away from the empty stairway he had been left gazing and looked through the windows, straining to see all the way down. The city seemed pretty normal as human cities all around the multiversum go: bigger and smaller houses, smoke from the chimneys, people going around their business. Soldiers here and there in blue tabards, a score or more them on the far-away walls. Some horses and carts, children running around, lots of ordinary mundane people with a mage or two - he could tell the difference easily, even through the impenetrable wall of the summoning circle. The sun was up and shone in a blue sky, lonely clouds dotting it but not obscuring the golden light. A nice, warm day on a material plane ... too bad he had to spend in locked up like this. He sighed.

 

Well, if she truly is mad enough to try to force me tell my true name, I'll be free as soon as she tries. She might end up dead, but that's how this game is played...

[Zadown]

He woke up from his new trance startled, disoriented for a moment. There was a presence approaching, something huge yet somehow friendly, like a warm glow. The Dreamer opened his dark green eyes and glanced around before turning to look at the stairway. Sun had almost gone down and long shadows shrouded the room into semi-darkness. The sky outside was full of colors, from the bright orange near the setting sun to very dark purple on the other side of the horizont, first stars starting to appear in the wake of the sunlight. Below in the darkening city some lights were lit, humanity's own field of stars getting ready for the night.

 

I am not supposed to feel anything through this circle; it should stop everything not of nature without exception. They could lock a god up in here, or a whole host of angels, and as long as the circle remains intact it should be a unsurpassable barrier.

 

He frowned and stood up keeping his eyes on the stairway, gripping his useless sword's hilt tighly. He could hear footsteps, and the force of the presence he had felt grew stronger, came closer. The Dreamer brushed away some of the dried blood on his arm and noted his armor had regrown to cover the new scar he could feel itching below it. He straightened up to his full height of 6'6" and gripped the hilt with both hands, holding it before him blade downwards and waited. First thing he 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 he could feel their gaze on him. They were wearing no tabard, but they had small bronze badges with engraved picture of a goblet.

 

Adventurers or heroes, seemingly succesful ones too. These are no city militia.

 

The planewalker 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 room. Behind them came a young page carrying an engraved wooden chest full of symbolic pictures that were hard to see in the twilight. The Dreamer could feel the power pulsing inside the chest, taste the raw essence of chaos in it, warm and welcoming to him now that he had truly chosen his side. He grinned in delight showing a full set of white teeth, making the page shy away from him and almost drop the chest. He winked to the page and turned to look at the last member of the retinue, Mistress Sherishsen. She looked as lovely and beautiful as always, despite her grim and determined look, and the Dreamer nodded almost as deep as his upright pose made possible.

 

"Good evening, Mistress Sherishsen of the Paths. I see ye have a never-ending supply of suprises for poor old me."

 

He nodded towards the chest and smiled.

 

"Evening, demon. This is your last chance before I rip your true name out by force. Just give it to me now before I have to do that and we'll be both spared a painful experience."

 

She obviously didn't expect a surrender but still waited for a few seconds, looked the Dreamer in the eye with the oddly pleading look on her face. The planewalker made a dismissive gesture with his right hand.

 

"Despite whatever ye have in that chest, I doubt ye can rip anything out of me. I grow tired of this empty talk; let's see yer cards, Mistress."

 

Without a further word she turned her back to the Dreamer and stepped forward to the chest. She muttered something under her breath while touching different spots of the chest, clearly disarming and unlocking the container. Her motions were swift and sure, showing that she had done this before many times. Still, when the chest opened and the golden glow of what was inside flooded the room, almost like liquid transparent fire, she stopped short fingers outstretched towards whatever shone inside the chest. The room lit up with the light: it climbed up the armor the warriors wore, made radiant angels out of them both; it surrounded the circle the Dreamer was trapped inside of, but did not enter, drawing a circle of fire around him; and it expelled all the shadows, flooded the room with light more pervasive than any sunlight. He could feel the raw, undiluted chaos of it even through the circle, saw how it tried to reach him, saw how Sherishsen's eyes had lit up and he shivered unvoluntarily.

 

There are only a few things in the whole multiversum with this kind of power. Oh the irony of this all, if it is what I think it is. To find what you are looking for this way ... I am sure the Fates are laughing themselves to death over this.

 

The mage finally overcame her awe and reached forward, her hands sinking in the golden radiance. She gripped the shining item with both hands and raised it out of the chest, allowing its light shine even more brightly, making the tower a lighthouse, and she couldn't help smiling triumphantly at her prisoner.

 

"This ... is my card, demon. The Holy Grail."

[Zadown]

The Dreamer could not help himself. He started laughing, let his sword fall on the floor, doubled up and beat the unseen barrier in front of him with his fists in a fit of hilarity. The goal of all his travels lately, in the hands a mortal less than ten feet away - and he could not reach it. He fell to his knees, coughing between the laughter, eyes reflecting the light of the Grail on their pearly-white surface. He coughed a few more times and turned upwards to look at Sherishsen, staying on his knees.

 

"The Holy Grail .. indeed. And ye think ye can use it to wrestle my true name from me? I bid ye good luck. Feel free to start at yer earliest conviniance, m'lady."

 

The mage couldn't hide her new look of annoyance and uncertainity under her mask of triumphant smiling.

 

"That is the last time you'll ever laugh at me, demon. Your bravado is as useless as all your other deceitful lies."

 

She raised the Grail above her head and closed her eyes, obviously concentrating. The Dreamer stood up slowly, going through his inner defenses and was satisfied with all of them as usual. Killing a planewalker was almost as hard as killing a god - stealing one's true name was unheard of. He had experiences of over-ambitious beings trying and he was not overly worried.

 

But still, that is the Holy Grail. No point in not being cautious about this...

 

The force of the Grail washed around him, welled up climbing the invisible barrier and reached through it without breaking the circle. He could feel the stream of golden fire rush towards his inner defenses, a powerful surge of chaotic power .. that was easily deflected by the outtermost of his many wards around his true name. He felt the raw energy and potential in the flow, basked in its warm glory and knew it lacked the ability to break his will, as he had suspected. The Dreamer ignored his inner world, knew he had nothing to worry about, and turned his attention to the outside. Sherishsen was staring at him, sweat pouring down her forehead, teeth bared in a painful grimace of a doomed effort. A line of fire connected him to her, somehow managing to pass through where no magic should, and he idly contemplated trying to swim that stream upwards, break out through it.

 

Alas, I think that is beyond me. The Grail might not be able to break me, but I seriously doubt the opposite is true either. This is like two stones fighting, two castles trying to conquer each other. No way to win.

 

He yawned and sat down again in a lotus position, let a small portion of his mind watch the mock battle going on and made himself ready to descend into a trance again. He spared one last look at Sherishsen and was suprised to see tears on her cheeks, of anger or sorrow he could not discern. She looked back into his very calm green eyes and let the Grail drop down a bit, ceased the futile attack and sighed or sobbed once. The Dreamer closed his eyes.

 

"You do not understand, do you Dreamer? You have to help us!"

 

He re-opened his right eye slowly, a look of amused contempt on his face.

 

"So now it is the Dreamer, hmm? I regret to inform that is not my true name, and if the Grail told ye that, I think ye have in yer hands a flawed fake, something better thrown away despite of the pretty lights it can make. And I do not have to help anybody, especially not people keeping me locked up in a circle. If ye let me go now, I might show mercy and not demolish the whole city as I leave, hmm?"

 

She did not answer him, but put the Holy Grail away in its wooden chest and gestured the warriors and the page to leave. The light faded reluctantly, tarrying in the corners of the room as if it'd been evaporating liquid or fire slowly burning out. The sun was down now, and the tower room vanished in almost total darkness for a while. She still did not speak, and the planewalker closed his eye, listening but not moving. After a moment she turned to one of the candlesticks, lighted the fire with a small gesture and sat down on the only chair in the room.

 

"Dreamer?"

 

He opened his eyes again and answered after a pause, watching the shadows created by the small flame dance around the room.

 

"Ya?"

 

"What are you? I was so sure the Grail would work. It holds immeasurable powers inside, is far more powerful than anything I've ever seen... are you a god?"

 

"Ha! A god! Now there's a tailored insult for me, almost as wicked as the ones offered to my by Chaos the last time I saw it face to face. No, I'm not a god, little one, but some do call me a godslayer and not totally without reason. Naw, I am not a god, an angel, a demon or a mage, not a mortal or of celestial or of infernal origin. That does not leave a lot of options left, now does it?"

 

She studied him in a thoughtful silence. There weren't many sounds drifting from below, only a few fading noises, and a peculiar calm seemed to permeate the room.

 

"A .. planewalker?"

 

"Very good, little one, a planewalker indeed. And now, why should I feel inclined to help? As I said, keeping me in this circle does little to improve my good will. I am patient, when patience is called for, but I'm slowly getting .. annoyed in here. And it has been a while since I last rained death and destruction over a material plane - I somewhat miss the feeling of power that gives me."

 

He retrieved Pain from the floor while he talked and produced a spectral whetstone from somewhere inside his tattered robes, starting to hone it as he waited for an answer.

 

"You see, m'lord Dreamer, that despite my failing in wielding the power, that goblet is the real and only Holy Grail. The stories of how it ended up in here are confused and contradictory, but in the end I was guided to retrieve it for this city of Tlaneor. We are the last bastion of Chaos on this plane - all else has been conquered by the Law, and already we can feel its influence creeping over our borders. Mages can fail the simplest of spells, age-old enchantments flicker and fade or turn corrupted and apprentices are unable to learn the simplest of cantrips. Magic is fading under the onslaught of the Law, or it was before the Holy Grail was brought here.

 

Now there is a calm before the last storm, random skirmishes along the border as they test our newfound strenght, the calm of preparations. We can see the smoke of their smithies where they create their engines of war, we can feel how the constricting taint of Law gets stronger where the Grail's light falters and does not reach. Our magic here in this city near the Grail is still strong, and we have the warriors of the Grail and the archmages of the Sky, a collection of heroes greater than any in the stories of old. But we are but a bastion in the middle of a sea of enemies, and despite our bravery, we can only delay the inevitable, not win against such numbers as the Law shall bring to bear upon us.

 

So they will bombard this refuge of heroes and mages to dust, grind our bones under their behemoths of metal and steam and take the real Grail. It will not be a loss only for us, but for magic and Chaos everywhere, a point where it all can start unravelling, a first day of the last days if nothing is done here. Thus I asked for help from Chaos and they sent you, a demon I first thought. But now you see how you must help, and I will break the circle as soon as you can give me your true name so I can trust you."

 

The Dreamer inspected the sword he had been honing, noted how starlight glinted on its transparent, misty blade. He let silence deepen between them before he returned his gaze to the woman before him.

 

"Chaos or not, Grail or not, the begining of the end for all I care. Nobody will ever get my true name, and if ye still hold on that condition, I expect I shall enjoy watching the fall of Tlaneor from my lofty perch. Sounds like this tower will crack and fall soon enough."

 

"Good night, Mistress Sherishsen of the Lost Cause."

 

The Dreamer shut his eyes again and drifted into a deep trance.

[Zadown]

He drifted deeper into his trance, determined to wait this out. He had hibernated before, bypassed centuries of ennui and cooling down ancient vendettas. Being locked in a summoning circle in a city about to be razed seemed as good an excuse for a nap as any. He sunk deeper into himself, let go of the normal senses. Ideas and memories swam up to meet his descent, huge whales swimming in the ocean of his mind. He had done this so many times he didn't notice the dark corrupted shard of himself hiding between the other ideas before it was too late, before the supressed part of his mind smashed itself against his consciousness. He had time to realize it was a part of the dream god he had assimilated before a darkness descended on the planewalker. He lost control of the trance and fell ... asleep.

 

I really .. should keep .. the inside of my head .. cleaner .. zzZZzZ ...

 

The Dreamer felt how his body swayed in its lotus position, then slowly and ponderously fell on one side, snoring gently. He watched all that from outside, already dreaming, but dreaming of real things. His point of view drifted upwards, keeping its attention on his sleeping body. Outside the tower it was past midnight, huge moon looming on the cloudless starry sky. Inside the lone candle still burned but did little to illuminate the room, fought a losing battle against the deep shadows holding reign. His invisible dream-self shivered without a body of its own, or felt the world shiver instead. There was a different quality to the experience now, a fairy-tale unreality that made the moon even bigger, the candle-light more pronounced, the stars more twinkling.

 

Across the curled form of the sleeping planewalker appeared three shadows apparently from the empty air, created by the dancing candle-flame. They wavered, then soldified and grew in lenght. And then they called to their owners, made three elves appear in the room.

 

First was obviously, very obviously female, wearing nothing over her nubile form. She held something red and glistening, the size of a large orange in her left hand that pulsed and dripped liquid to the floor; on her right shoulder a dove perched, cooing. Despite her nakedness there was something very predatory in her manner: both her canines and nails were sharp and she stood in a half-crouch as if ready to jump.

 

Second elf was apparently female too, by the design of her breastplate. She was wearing a full suit of grey elven mithril plate, complete with a full helm, a shield painted lead-grey and a slender long sword. Nothing else showed from beneath the war-gear except long ears tipped with sharp steel, protruding through the winged helm. Her posture was relaxed but her sword was in her hand and she did not seem to have a scabbard. On her right shoulder sat a black crow, looking behind her in an alert fashion.

 

The third elf was clad in grey robes and her back was to the dreaming Dreamer. He guessed her sex by the fact she was no taller than the other two and her shape was slender, her hands delicate. She held a big leatherbound book under her left arm and a small owl perched on top of her right hand, and stood very straight as a statue.

 

The planewalker felt an urge to swallow, but had no throat to do that with. The three women seemed more real than the world outside this dream, while the rest of this experience felt a lot less real, like he was seeing three real persons in the middle of a dream of a dream of a dream, the contrast between the elves and the dream making him dizzy.

 

"Aww there he sleeps, so helpless despite being such a big pawn in the game. Almost cute ... almost. Can't we go watch some other one? I've never enjoyed scarred men."

 

"He is our warrior. One of the best. His looks only show he clashes against the sharp edges of the world every step he takes. This will be beautiful, sisters."

 

"Hrmmphh. Muscular young men dripping water when they rise up from baths are beautiful, pawns are sooo useless after they are dead. Aiee, these dreamforms make me itch, can't we just manifest?"

 

"You know the rules, sister. Or you do not, which would explain why you are seventh, she is third and I'm still first. No stepping into the flow of causality sisters, lest we drown in it. No manifestations .. besides, I thought you did not enjoy scarred men, sister?"

 

"Mmmm I'm always willing to try new things."

 

He shivered again, this time far more violently, and tried to wake up. Those voices made him very uncomfortable, instilled a sense of cold dread in him. He saw his dreaming body twitch and moan, but the dream did not let him go so easily. Seeing that he realize suddenly the elves had not moved during the whole time - even their lips were still when they spoke, the birds they carried frozen in place.

 

"We have seen him now, clarified the paths he is to take, eliminated luck from the equation. Our work here is done."

 

"Bah, always such a spoil-sport, sister. What point is there to have an eternity without fun?"

 

"Wars are fun, sister."

 

With those final words the three elves vanished as they had never been here. Their shadows grew shorter, then mingled with the other shadows of the room and vanished from sight. He watched his sleeping body, unable to turn his gaze, and saw it sweat and moan in its sleep, twitch and graps the hilt of Pain with both hands. Then, with a last convulsive shiver of his dreaming self he jerked awake back in his body, feeling very cold and alone.

 

I dreamed .. something important. Three figures... three... hrmmm. All gone now.

 

He blinked and stared at a few drops of blood that had appeared in the room, unable to comprehend the sight.

[Zadown]

The dream had left him unsettled and nervous, despite the memory of it fading away. He did not feel like going into a trance any more, afraid of what he might find deeper inside him, afraid of losing control and falling asleep again. The Dreamer stood in the center of the circle, alone, awake and alert, and let time pass around him. He watched the city thrive underneath him, people scurrying around on their mundane tasks. Days went by and nobody visited him. The city swirled and changed, showed signs of war more often every day: armored warriors, soldiers in blue, wounded people, joy fading off to be replaced with grim determination and despair. Far away he could see black columns of smoke marking battles and skirmishes. Weather turned first hotter and days longer, then colder and days shorter. Warm long summer nights with clear skies turned into chilly dark evenings, rain washing the city clean but turning its streets to mud.

 

The city turned more tired and wounded. The food market was almost gone by now, carts of fruits and vegetables replaced by carts full of dead and dying men from the frontlines. Colored fires of magic started to flash in the night, fireballs vanishing into the autumn sky to crash on the opposing armies somewhere beyond his sight. The columns of smoke got thicker and closer. He could see the tiny dots of carrior birds circling the battlefields. Some nights when it was clear and cold, the sound of the machines of Law echoed faintly to his ears: a metallic growl, crack and snap of overrun trees. The Dreamer thought of nothing much - he let his mind stay blank, absorbed everything he saw and hear. A few times he became restless as he remembered his usual freedom when running on the Lost Paths, honed his already sharp spectral no-dachi to do something. Then he stood up again and did not move for days. He could smell winter in the wind.

 

Next day she came to visit him, alone. Sherishsen did not look ravaged by the war: her robes were still the best quality, her body looking healthy and unscarred. Only apparent wounds were on the look she had, sorrowful despair marring her face.

 

"Good day, Lord Dreamer."

 

He was silent and still, eyes milky white of dead things, face vacant. The words sunk into him and coaxed him back from the emptiness. He shivered slightly as he returned to his body and turned to look at Sherishsen. The planewalker did not know if a moment or an hour had passed since he had been spoken to, studied the woman's face as she looked somewhere beyond the city, oblivious of the fact he had finally moved.

 

"G'd day, Mistress Sherishsen. If it is still a day - I do not know how long ago ye spoke, and the clouds obscure the sky."

 

She turned to look at him.

 

"You hate me .. us, right? We have imprisoned you, a powerful independent being, to ask you to help us in this petty affair .. that is not small or insignificant for us in any way. This is my whole world, no matter what wonders the Void might conceal. My people and my mages, my hundred years long war I am about to lose.

 

And I know if I release you, the fate that would befall on my people might be far worse than the occupation of Law. Yes, mages and soldiers and warriors will all die, but the ordinary people are allowed to continue in the new world without magic. They might suffer, but they would live, still. And I cannot know if you allow them that in your vengeance."

 

He made an empty gesture.

 

"Who knows? Ye and I both know I can lie all I want, unbound, and we both should know by know I shall not be bound, with or without the Grail, voluntarily or by force. There must be repercussions, little one. Letting mortals get away with this sort of thing cannot be allowed."

 

The Dreamer smiled a little sadly, and waved his sword around in the small circle before continuing.

 

"The way things are now, ye are in a dead end no matter what ye do. I shall be free sooner or later. I will not ask to be released any more, not with what I have to do afterwards, ye see?"

 

Sherishsen sighed very deeply and looked stricken.

 

"I see, yes. With the very magic I aimed to save my people I have doomed us all."

 

He nodded thoughtfully and turned his gaze away from her, alertness already fading from his eyes.

 

"Farewell then, Doombringer. May you sleep a thousand years still, no matter how foolish and vain is that hope."

[Zadown]

The conversation released some tension in him he hadn't realized to exist. He had delivered his words of warning now, had in some way transfered responsibility from what he was about to do to those who had bound him. Despite what he often claimed, the Dreamer did not enjoy slaughter of sentient beings. And that was what waited in the end of this particular road - a retribution, an unavoidable show of force. With the weight lifted from his shoulders, the memory of his unsettling dream sufficiently faded, he sat down ponderously and prepared for another trance, longer this time. He took one last long look around: grey sky, the few trees in sight wearing their autumn cloak of red and yellow, small puddles everywhere on the muddy streets. A few people moving about in heavy clothes, chimneys coughing up thin columns of smoke. Autumn was turning into winter and the air was cold and moist, sun trying to shine through a layer of thin, sad clouds.

 

The planewalker closed his eyes and placed Pain over his legs. With a deep, unnecessary breath he let himself go, sink away from the present.

 

He woke up slowly, drifting back towards the surface of his consciousness without a hurry. The reality outside intruded a sense at a time: the smell of gunpowder, blood and snow, the coldness of the stone floor under him, the reassuring hilt of Pain in his left hand, growl of war machines prowling around the city, distant booms of spellfire and artillery, shouts and screams of dying men. He felt perfectly safe in the middle of these sounds of death, had one of his moments where the gulf between him and the mortals seemed wide and unsurpassable.

 

This war .. can't touch me or my kind. It is ant versus ant, frail shells for brief souls throwing away their short lives with wild abandon.

 

He smiled and felt the scars dance over his face. Eyes still closed he stood up and shifted his sword to his right hand. Chaos of the war washed over him, invigorated him. It felt right.

 

He savoured the moment for a while before finally opening his eyes. The city was burning, almost crushed by the mechanized armies of the Law. Snow covered the ground and soot and broken machines and men - everywhere he could see either fighting or the debris it left behind. The air felt greasy from excess magic and he could see the footprints of demons, a few broken bodies of dead angels, craters made by powerful battlemagics. It all had been in vain, however, only delaying the torrent of attackers here and there. The tower he was in was still some distance from the closest fighting, but he could see that would change soon enough. The lines were broken, the last fights marked cornered men yearning to fall in battle. The Dreamer opened his eyes wider and witnessed the fall of Tlaneor.

 

The machines spouted fire and sulphur, soldiers of law shot warriors of chaos with their long muskets, soldiers of chaos slaughtered soldiers of law with their swords and polearms. Spellfire still crackled in some corner of the city where the last of the mages made futile resistance. He could feel Law's tenuous grasp even through the circle, still weak and easy to resist, Chaos drawing strenght from the war even while its own men and women died under the onslaught. The generals of Law lifted their ascetic simple flags high and marched through the gaps in wall, confident of victory. War's sounds grew louder and he knew the end was near, that city had in effect already fallen.

 

Now, how to make them break the circle? Taunt or bluster, show cowardice or indifference?

 

The planewalker shifted his stance slightly, gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly. He estimated he had under an hour before Law would reach his prison and was startled to hear running steps from the stairway. He hid the sword behind his back and turned to look at the stairway, tried to force his unruly eyes to remain green. But when the soldier appeared, he was wearing the blue tabard of the Chaos, not the white wintergear of the Law. His blue tabard was smeared with blood and mud and his face was black from soot or dirt, and he moved with the unsteady gait of the wounded. The soldier turned to face the Dreamer and spoke between deep breaths.

 

"Sir .. Archmagus Sherishsen .. told me to bring .. you this. She said .. you'd understand .. sir."

 

The soldier's look showed he didn't and had no idea why he had been ordered here, but he obeyed orders. He walked closer and gave the item he had held in his left hand to the planewalker. As the bloodied doll passed through and broke the circle, the Dreamer felt the constricting presence of his binding vanish as a bursting soap bubble. His body accepted the torn toy automaticly as his mind felt raw, pure joy from its newfound freedom. Strands of mana reconnected to him, started to shine with electric blue glow as he drew into him all the nearby ambient energy. Absently, knowing that this was how things were done, he displaced the soldier next to him to some safe place and glanced at the smeared doll he held.

 

So. Law is no better master than destruction.

 

The lines burned with the intensity he drained magic from his surroundings, made the tower pour out bluish light from its tall windows. The few last fights around him slowed down, stopped as everybody realized something beyond their conflict was about to happen. The Dreamer leaped upwards, suspended himself in air in the middle of the room, soaking himself in raw mana. The weave of the world around him started to ripple and bend, tearing itself apart in the erosive stream of chaotic power. His eyes turned yellow and red, flared and shone. The words he had chosen during his long imprisonment flowed through his lips unbidden, shook his whole body with their strenght. The tower's roof first caught fire, then burst apart in sparks and flames, raining the streets below with hot debris.

 

Behold ... the anger ... of a planewalker!

 

The Dreamer shone above the whole city now as a creature of fire and light, a man-shaped vengeful sun about to crash to the earth. All movement had ceased below: every mortal was staring at the spectacle. Shaping the flames of pure mana roaring around him, the planewalker conjured a giant maul into existence, gripped it with both hands. Pain fell down unnoticed by all and struck the muddy ground blade first without a sound. Above it, the Dreamer let his corporeal body lose its well-defined shape, grew in size but dimished in density, turning into a burning giant ghost, looming above the earth. He lifted his maul and opened his mouth, screamed aloud to the world.

 

Behold the anger of a planewalker!

 

His words lost their coherence and turned into a wordless wail of unleashed rage. The maul hung in the sky for a brief moment, then it rushed down leaving a fiery trail behind - its head was now the size of a small house, whistling down with frightening speed. It smashed the tower apart and sunk through the ground. World held its breath. And then the city blew apart as if hit by a giant meteor, stones melting down, snow vanishing into hot steam, people turning into dark outlines and then vanishing without time to scream. The explosion engulfed the city, shockwaves smashing the army of Law outside it apart, fires turning the nearby woods into ash, scouring the snowy ground to blackened ruin. The maul smashed its way through the earth and to the planar crystal beyond, broken even that apart and made a hole in the world. In the center of the explosion, a violent wind was born and drew all the ash away through the hole, sucked the ruins of the city to the Void.

 

The explosion died down, faded into a hot wind. The hole in the world vanished, repaired by the elusive Birds of the Void. Wind twirled around the blackened desert of ash and quit, after a while. An eerie silence fell over the dead ground. And in the middle of it all, a sad, scarred man leaned on his spectral sword, standing on a disc of sand fused into volcanic glass. If there'd been anybody alive nearby, they could've seen a single tear fall down his cheek, could've seen how he tossed a broken, dirty doll away.

 

To be continued ... in Sleuth!