Sleuth

[Zadown]

So many lives wasted. They reach for the Void but lack the knowledge to use the power they try to grasp. She could've just let me go and I would have been grateful, perhaps even helped them in their tiny, meaningless war...

 

The Dreamer looked around. It was grey winter afternoon, sun a barely seen presence hovering just above the horizon somewhere behind all the clouds and wind-blown ash. The molten surroundings were still too warm for snow and looked abstract, dreamlike, like sandcastles after a few waves but in a wrong scale. There were no sharp shapes, no bright colors. A dead desert .. to the naked eye.

 

The planewalker shifted his eyesight. The sky cleared, sun vanished, the buildings flickered between their destroyed and their remembered shapes. And the ghosts appeared. An uniform army of them now, no separation between chaos and law, all brothers and sisters in fiery death. Some had already gone away, too serene and religious in life to be shocked into staying behind even by the fiery holocaust the Dreamer had conjured or too weak of spirit to remain after death in any form. The rest all stared at him, ghostly spectres wearing burnt rags and wielding half-molten mockeries of weapons, all real differences burned away by fire. He could feel the potential in them, the power of their anger and misery.

 

"Think you could help me find the Grail, spectres?"

 

They did not move or make a sound.

 

Didn't think so. But they are a power, a resource for anybody ready to meddle with the souls of the dead. And, well, half of them were forces of the Law and almost half of them locked me up for months. I doubt anybody thinks I am here, either - there is an incalculable number of powers capable of the breaking of planar crystal. Quite a small number who actually do that kind of things, yes, but still incalculable number of powers it might've been .. doubt anybody is bored enough to investigate.

 

He muttered in a dead language, words he had learned so long ago he had forgotten everything about the lesson except the spell itself. The words made him shiver. They were words of mist and death, of shadows and cold darkness that lurks in places people don't visit. The words shaped the shadows in front of him, made them darker, carved a shape from the conjured cocoon of darker air. He brushed air with his fingers as he spoke, sculpted the shadow's final form. He fell silent, then breathed life into it gently. The shadown in front of him opened its eyes, two pinpoints of murky green light.

 

"yess masster?"

 

"Ha! Yer master indeed. Go find me a piece of planar crystal, if there's any around."

 

The Dreamer made a dismissive gesture and turned his gaze back to the sea of dead souls all around him.

 

"Any volunteers for the army of the Dreamer? Silence and not moving counts as an aye, ya?"

 

They did not move or make a sound.

[Zadown]

The Dreamer stepped backwards to appraise his handwork. Before him floated a dark copy of the planewalker himself - tall and thin, eyes flickering with power far greater than the dim stars barely glowing in the faces of most of the shades, scars etched into the blackness with dark grey. Without further seremony, he solemnly put a cold iron crown on the shade's head, removed the remains of his blood-stained, tattered robe and hung them on his clone and finally gave the shade a no-dachi looking like a black copy of Pain. The shade now looked almost more like the Dreamer people knew than he himself did. Without his robes, his chaotic armor could be seen clearly, changing from plate to leather to silk to chain, bits and pieces of different materials drifting across him. He had found another iron crown for himself too, it preventing his grey hair from flowing around his head too much. Pain was sheathed in a scabbard obviously made of the same material as the undead shades or the copy of it, like coagulated darkness.

 

"There you go, all ready for the travails of the world, armed with robes and sword just like me. I shall call you Zadown like all my previous shards of me called themselves. Reign over the dead as ye see fit, m'lord Zadown, but remember yer sire. Breathing life into ye was not easy, but taking it away would be, ye hear me? And ye remember the plans I told ye, shade?"

 

"Yes master, I hear and obey .. in my own way, father."

 

There was menance in its sibilant voice and its eyes burned with red. It did not raise its sword, however, and the Dreamer just nodded. He took a deep breath and, gazing into the eyes of his creation, exhaled releasing a tiny part of his spirit. It looked like he breathed out misty glowing tentacles that writhed through the air and entered the shade's mouth and nostrils. The glow faded and they both shuddered.

 

"Ye are my spawn, little shade. I shall not bind ye, as shackles hinder more than just fighting against my will, Zadown - in that consider yerself fortunate."

 

"Yes, father."

 

"Now prepare the defences of this place. With luck, ye and the army shall still be here some year when I'll need ye."

 

The planewalker made a dismissive gesture and the shade nodded to him, then floated slowly away. He turned his attention away from the shade and surveyed the room they were in, more of his handwork. It looked like a cross between a castle and a church, having tall ceilings and huge rooms, thin tall windows like the room he had been imprisoned in, here and there candlesticks lighting the place with faint magical glow instead of candlelight. The base of the building had been made with molten, burned rock, but as the walls soared upwards they turned into dark shadows, sculpted with the same spells he had created the shades and the sword Zadown carried with.

 

Amazing what ye can make out of a dead city, really. So many memories and souls floating around, so many shadows still being cast by the bright light of my explosion all those weeks ago. And out of those shadows I can sculpt buildings, pawns, weapons or candlesticks, whatever I want.

 

Now, all this has been fun, but it doesn't really bring me closer to my goal.

 

The Dreamer walked out of the fortress, ignoring the few shades gliding around. Outside winter had claimed the ruins of Tlaenor finally, covering with snow those parts of the city he had not cannibalized when building his newest base. The lonely black building, done in beautiful gothic style ... nothing worth doing is worth doing badly ... looked surreal in the middle of the white snow. The fact the highest parts of it were slightly transparent did nothing to help the oddness of it.

 

The Dreamer was here. Hah.

[Valdar and Astralis]

Across the gulf of space and time, Valdar felt Tlaneor die. In the vaults of his mind he heard, a million voices crying out in agony- suddenly silenced, felt the force of the Dreamer's warcry, and paused for a moment.

 

Wrath of a Planewalker indeed. . .I wonder what they did

 

The trail fled before him as he picked up the pace, previous echoes of "Shinyshinyshinyshiny. . ." fading from the paths. He approached the broken worldwarily, unmasking his presence so not to alarm the Dreamer. Brushing aside an Astral crow feasting on a whiteclad bloody mass, gutted Tlaneor loomed before an awed planewalker. Shadowed shapes flickered around an ugly scar where it's planar structure had been breached, expelling several million tons of molten dirt and flesh into a bloody debris field around the world. Rivers of raw mana flowed through the translucent border between real and unreal, and down into a smoking desert of molten glass where proud Tlenor itself once stood. Where the Dreamer was.

 

Valdar gently etched an eldrich rune against the boundary layer and entered a trance, leaving his body in a convinent kneeling position surrounded by defensive lattices while projecting his mind to the smouldering ruins below. Slowly, a black dot in the snow resolved itself into a castle of shadows, around which an army of crusading dead stood in silence. Valdar landed softly next to a black draped ghost holding a charred musket, and summoned his body while watching the Dreamer.

 

The Dreamer did not seem to notice at first that his host had grown by one spectre, this one slightly less dead, preoccupied with a . . . shadow construct. An undead king to rule in this new outpost of the planewalker.

 

The shade departed, and teacher nodded to student.

 

"Impressive, ya?"

 

Valdar could not but agree.

Edited April 17, 2004 by Valdar and Astralis

[Zadown]

"So... it's been a while, Valdar. I see ye manage to survive these days without me watching over ya, good."

 

The Dreamer turned to look at his apprentice fully and noted with approval the defensive spells, how mana flowed around his pupil, his slightly wary stance. His voice turned softer and the elf barely heard the next words.

 

"They tried to imprison me, ya know. Snared me with a magic circle, they did, and this is the result. There are things we cannot tolerate, things that require us to show the mortals we can be more vengeful than even the gods .. given we do not need any survivors to worship us."

 

"But um, wasn't this all still a bit much?"

 

Valdar gestured at the devastated city. There was steel and ice in the Dreamer's voice as he replied.

 

"No, apprentice. Even if they are beyond learning their lesson, ye do so at the very least. Unless ye do the same if the mortals try to abuse the power ye held, I will have to do it for ya, with twice the fury and devastation. We are not a force to be toy'd with, a djinn in a bottle that'll give the puny mortals three wishes with a wave of his wand. We are the avatars of freedom, distant examples how ye can attain greatness without bowing to any power, and to imprison one of us is to insult us all. Even if I personally have strayed from unbound neutrality, it was my choice.

 

But that is that. What had brought ye this way, or do my deeds burn so brightly they beacon all the way to the fortress of Pen?"

 

"Shiny?"

 

"The Grail? Ye heard it so far? Guess time'll make a better tracker of ya than I ever was."

 

"It was the Grail? Ooo ... I think it is being carried towards the Wide Gulf. Followed its way here and felt your presence so I came to visit."

 

Valdar pointed with his ear to a distant part of the multiversum, eyes shining with the siren song of Grail. The Dreamer nodded slowly.

 

"That's wrong way for me, slightly. Was going to visit an old friend in the Cloud, near the border of the Veil. Ye might be a better tracker but I still doubt that direction of yers - all the signs and portents point more that way.

 

If ye do be right about it, be wary. It has strong powers, the Grail does, and Mistress Sherishsen, the mortal most likely carrying it, is about as tricky as mortals go before ascending to immortality."

 

"So you won't be coming with me towards Wide Gulf? I can almost taste its way, the marks it leave are strong."

 

"Naw, Valdar, I'll follow my own path, wherever it might lead me. Besides, ít has been too long since I last met Phacyra. I'd introduce ye two to each other, but I guess ye have a trail to follow before it grows cold - still, 'tis about time ye'd meet at least one of the few planewalkers I do not call enemies as such."

 

Valdar said nothing but gazed upwards, tracing the far-away Grail with his eyes. The Dreamer shrugged and conjured a table and two chairs out of the shadows of the dead city.

 

"Well, ye can't be in that much of a hurry, m'lord Valdar. Do sit down and let me tell ye the tale which ends in this devastation ye can see here. It should give ye an insight or two about the Grail too."

 

"Of course, master."

 

"Not to mention we should talk about yer specialization. I think I've taught most of the easy magic and the trivial lore of the Void. Ye should broaden yer studies in some particular area, like tracking .. or my speciality, breaking and rebinding the bonds of servitude on planar servants. Not many planewalkers have such armies as I had before that fight with Sarnael."

 

"Oh? I haven't really given it much thought since I've been able to walk the Paths on my own."

 

"Ye wouldn't, I'm sure, but there's so much to learn out there in the wide multiversum ..."

 

They sat down, and refreshments such as the planewalkers use were fished from elsewhere by the Dreamer. He told his story from the divinations gone wrong to the meeting with Sherishsen, the clash with Law and his narrow escape to future, the talks with the mortals and the end of Tlaenor. From there the talk meandered this way and that, was interrupted by the Dreamer's lectures and practical lessons about different spells.

 

".. and ye see, if ye sculpt too big a form out of the shadows and try to power it with a single soul, the power of the spirit will not fill the whole shape, but it shall be too diffused to do anything and yer whole creation shall fail and fade; a great waste of good materials. If, on the other hand, ye use a greater soul to power a larger form, ye might succeed - but the resulting behemoth is clumsy grunt, all of the focused power it had in life shattered and used to control the giant body. Better use is to create a more intelligent and powerful shade out of them, like I did. Not to mention the items of power I gave it, thus infusing it with further will and strenght .."

 

The sun set, silhuetting the unusually animated Dreamer waving his hands in the air as he explained the theories and practices of shade-creating and the attentive Valdar sipping elven wine from a tall glass. Around them the citizens of the New Tlaenor glided without a sound, not caring they were being dicussed about. As dusk fell the two planewalkers continued talking, not caring for once that somewhere, far away, the Grail and its carrier were running from them.

[Zadown]

"Fare ye well, Valdar. Fatespeed!"

 

"Fatespeed, Dreamer!"

 

The Dreamer paused to watch his apprentice vanish towards the Wide Gulf. He floated next to the plane that had contained the city of Tlaenor, a tiny speck in the vastness of the Void: he went still without robes, clad in the odd living armor of chaos, colored rusty red. His sword Pain was in a scabbard at his belt, which was unlike him, and his grey hair was bound by a narrow iron crown, giving him altogether a more warlike look than usual.

 

For once, I am not being actively pursued, not until they find my scent again, those dogs of war. Perhaps I should take all the advantage of that I can.

 

He sat down in the nothingness of the Astral and murmured softly, cajoiled his protective spells to shift and change, dispelling some, changing others and conjuring yet others into existence around him. His appearance to the sixth sense changed, his mark and tracks were altered at the price of lowered protection. In the end, as an afterthought, he muttered a word and his outward appearance changed too. The crown grew to a full helm obscuring his changing face, the armor changed to brighter red and lost its chaotic appearance and turned into platemail of solid thickness. Over his heart a scorched symbol of the Chaos appeared, eight arrows of various lenght in a circle. The sword and scabbard turned wider and its curve straightened, creating a western-style two-handed sword, which the Dreamer put on his back. Lastly he shrunk a little and gained a little weight, giving him the look of a real warrior instead of a skeletal scarecrow.

 

I know I am honoring poor Owiric a bit too much by this trick, but it can't be helped - he is the only planewalker wearing the colors of Chaos openly I know of, and weak enough I dare to do this.

 

He stood up, now completely disguised, and stretched his limbs to familiarize himself with the weight of his new gear, streched his mana flows to feel the new balance of his defensive enchantments. The Dreamer took one last look at the plane he had been imprisoned in for so long and waved his armored hand, then he sped off to the direction of the Cloud.

 

These protective layers he uses are weak and overly simple, I wonder why he even got in the forces of Chaos. I really hope I won't be forced to fight, not as this feeble metal protects me much.

 

But the Lost Paths were as empty as usual, and he flew along them without any incidents, revelling in the peaceful stroll through roads that'd be crawling with hostile beings if he'd use them unmasked. The Mark of Chaos provided to be almost sufficient in itself - the few travellers he met avoided him as soon as they saw where his allegiaces lay. After a while he exited the main paths, the busy roads with as many as two or three travellers per day and entered the network of twisting narrow paths of the Cloud. Few ever went that way, and fewer returned - though not as dangerous as the Veil, the Cloud was still a hiding place, an even wilder part of the wilderness of the Astral, and many deadly things hunted there between the small planes without fear of retribution.

 

It had been a while since he had last been this way, and the paths had changed slightly, not to mention his memory concerning the journeys before his awakening were misty and distorted. Thus, he ran this way and that, pausing at some intersections to meditate on his inner map and got almost lost a time or three. As he ran forward struggling to find his way, he could see at the edges of his vision the local predators hovering uncertainly. They knew he had wavered from his true course and thus their instinct called them to attack, but they saw his mark and knew him to be a planewalker, a force more powerful than they were used to.

 

As power repells, it can also attract - the rewards for killing a planewalker for beings that know how to drink the lifeforce and magic from the dying shell are great and sometimes worth the risk. Thrice accursed gods, I should have abandoned my camoflage before I entered these regions. It'll be messy if they try to ambush me, but they would never had the nerve to attack the Dreamer. Now, where was that place again?

 

As he had often done after abandoning neutrality, the Dreamer let go of his sharp, clear thoughts and let his feet carry him forward on a seemingly chaotic pattern. In an odd corkscrew he flew past dead ends and dark corrupted planes, shattered planar crystals that were now infested with shadowy forces, foggy parts of the Void that defied all forms of vision. Inside the full helm his eyes glowed vivid blue and as he was carried helplessly onwards by his feet, nevertheless a joy of freedom bubbled inside him almost as clearly as it had done when he had been freed from the magic circle. The locals were left behind, traps and snares unsprung, and he could feel his destination growing nearer.

 

Finally, after running the last few days with unusual haste even for him out of the exhilaration of knowing where he was and how to run the short distance remaining, he halted. Before him shone a constellation of tiny planes, one of them broken and shattered beyond even the skills of the Birds of the Void to repair. The paths here were past narrow and downright tiny, so that two beings bypassing each other on the path would have their protective spheres brush each other unless they were overly careful - but the danger was as small as the paths, given the non-existent traffic here. The Dreamer grinned, reliving some old memory connected to this place, and sidestepped through the illusion of shattered plane.

 

* * *

 

"The nerve! 'm sure the words BANNED FOR 500 YEARS aren't hard to decipher, planehobbler! And by my count, Sir Owiric of Chaos, it has been 127 years, which isn't quite 500 and not even remotely OVER 500 years!"

 

He was held by the lapels of his platemail by an archdemon, hanging over ten feet over the floor. The place was as it had been - smoky and smelling of sulphur, dimly lit with worn and stained walls of unidentifiable material. Beyond a sharp curve in the corridoor low laughter, music and other noises could be heard. The Dreamer sighed inwardly and let his conjured illusion fade, falling down to the floor as his platemail vanished. He landed with grace and turned to face the towering demon, trying to right his altered defenses to their normal state.

 

"Sorry, Rurag, forgot to take off my mask. Now be nice an' go tell Phacyra Wodzan is here to see 'im."

 

The demon lowered its massive tusked face down to face the Dreamer. Sparks of hellfire drifted from its smoking maw and flames danced in its eyes as it sneered at him.

 

"Good try, mimic, but I happens to know what Wodzan looks like, impostor."

 

The demon's voice altered to have a singsong quality and its eyes narrowed as it dragged the details out of its memory.

 

"He 's a tall thin planewalker in a deep, dark green robes, wielding a scabbardless green jade katana by the name of 'Benefical Dragon'. He 'as green eyes, greying brown hair, no beard or moustache and around one hundred or so scars. He is unaligned."

 

The voice turned back to the low growl and the demon opened both its eyes to their full size again.

 

"So there, creature of chaos! You might be strong, but we do not appriciate impostors here, Sir Mimic. Even if you are not Owiric, consider having something in common with that lame horse of the Void: YOU ARE BOTH BANNED FROM HERE!"

 

The Dreamer seemed unperturbed.

 

"Ya, ya, Wyzhraqiand... or wait, ye really want me to call out yer whole true name, oh Gatekeeper? Now go tell Phacyra as I said an' stop foolin' around, ye might scare that twit Owiric but I'm not overly impressed. He shan't be either, once he hears I've been kept waiting here like some third-rate demigod from the Borderlands."

 

The demon snarled wordlessly at the planewalker and its right hand twitched as in repressed anger, but in the end it only pointed at the Dreamer with its long clawed finger before marching away, belching smoke and white fire.

Edited April 24, 2004 by Zadown

[Zadown]

"Hoi Wodzan! Long time no see!"

 

"Heya Phacyra! Ye haven't changed a bit, ye old scoundrel!"

 

The Dreamer stepped forward and lowered his wards, shook Phacyra's hand and slapped his shoulder, Phacyra doing likewise. He wasn't quite as tall as the Dreamer, but was almost equally thin with sharp features, stubby nose and short black hair, deep blue eyes and yellow-stained teeth. He wore a full suit of leather, black and brown, said to be demon-skin but carried no visible weapon. The jacket had myriad pockets, however, and it was known he could have a dagger in his hand in a blink of an eye if needed.

 

"Ye gave ol' Rurag here quite a scare. Ye know I'd never forgive ya if ye'd force me to make a new jacket out of him, even if that'd do wonders to my demon blood stock."

 

"Aww, never 's such a long time. To my defenses I must say he did not let me in after I had spent ages trying to remember the way here, almost had the mosquitos of the Cloud on me since they thought, rightfully so, that Owiric would be easy prey. Never should've used him as my disguise."

 

"Ha, only too right! But that and yer new looks tell of a dozen tales to be told. So, please do follow me to my humble house and accept my hospitality, such as it can be in these lowly circumstances, o' Lord Wodzan, Master of Scars."

 

"Lead the way, Sir Phacyra, Master of Hiding in Remote Corners of the Void!"

 

At that Phacyra grimaced yet did not comment on it, instead turned and walked deeper in the building, Rurag scowling at the Dreamer but making way. The Dreamer followed him through the acrid smoke as they entered a larger room with tables, most of them empty but several having one or more shady looking creatures sitting around them. There was a tension in the air, such as is present anywhere several entities with great powers and no trust towards each other are crammed into a small spaces, but Phacyra's presence seemed to defuse it as he walked past. They walked along the wall until they reached a door which Phacyra opened, then they moved into the small room. It contained only a desk with a throne-like chair behind it, a smaller chair near the fireplace, and a bookshelf full of massive leather-bound grimoires. All the furniture had the look of superior quality worn down by countless years.

 

"This is my small office, but unless yer memory is completely wiped out ye should have no trouble remembering this room."

 

Phacyra gestured towards the smaller chair and flopped down on his throne. The Dreamer smiled wanly as he moved to sit down.

 

"Actually, that is not too far off the mark, and partly explains why I have been away for so long. I'd thought ye'd know by now - ye always were well informed, despite being stuck here at the end of all paths."

 

"Those words might make me add one and one, getting a result ... but do not leave me to my ponderings, tell me what has happened? I get enough games of mind with all the other puzzles I hear here."

 

"'Tis a long story, brother. Ye said something 'bout hospitality, neh?"

 

"Yes yes, now let's see ..."

 

Phacyra produced two beautiful crystal bottles, both full of some red sluggish liquid, and two glasses he deftly poured full. He gestured slightly and one of the two glasses flew steadily through the air to the Dreamer, who took it from mid-air and drank a sip.

 

"Mmm that is better. Ye do recall our last meeting, after that incident with Sarnael .. who, I may add, is no more?"

 

"Of course I do, 'm not the one with no memory."

 

"Well, despite ye advising against it, I decided to act on my plan, no more content on meaningless thievery of lesser angels and harassin' of mortal's churches. The battle was fierce, but not as bad as ye had tried to warn, and we fought to a standstill. At that point, I sensed no clear way to win or no easy way to retreat, so instead of losing I tainted myself with chaos and used that to get past his defenses, barely an' with a spell that harmed me almost as badly as it harmed him. He died and I fell into dark, deep sleep, dreaming away pieces of me ..."

 

"So ye are th' Dreamer? Ha, I should have guessed with all the fights against gods I heard him .. or ye .. to have."

 

"Ya, that name I was given later, when I woke up to hunt what was missing. I was half-mad as I awakened amidst the ruins of his home, and I lacked more than half of my memory ..."

 

The Dreamer launched to an account of his travels after his awakening, occassionally illustrating a scene by sketching a hasty illusion into the air. Phacyra interrupted him when he wanted something clarified, and sometimes their talk wandered away from the story, to their old history together. Time passed, but the two immortals did not care, and in the end the story was told.

 

"... and that is that, and here I am with new scars, new sword and new clothes, new allegiances but old nature. In my visions and by the omens I have seen, I estimate the Grail has gone this way, though I do know it has great powers of misdirection and obfuscation, and I fear all my searching will be in vain in the end."

 

There was a brief silence.

 

"That was quite a story, brother. For the search, I doubt I can do much else except to store all rumours of the mage Sherishsen. Ye know how any mention of the Grail stirs chaos and clamour, something I do not want, not here in my peaceful hole past all civilized regions. No, I listen but I do not want to be heard, and I know ye know that."

 

The Dreamer nodded, turned to look as if something past the walls and the ceiling of the room.

 

"She still out there, waiting for ye to come out?"

 

"Yes, she is. Or was more likely than not, last time I sacrificed a henchman to try to discertain the clear truth of it. She'll be there until the end of all worlds if I do not move from my little rabbit hole, I wager."

 

"I know I've said this before - but why not confront her at last? Ye have grown in power, and ye know I would help. There are few forces I know that could withstand the two of us in fury, and despite how many webs she has spun in this time, I am confident we'd win and ye'd be free."

 

"Ah, if it was that easy. But years go by without changing my heart in this matter: I will not harm her, nor help anybody to do so, despite what she'd do to me if I would step outside."

 

Phacyra made an empty gesture, looking sad and turning to gaze the floor - the Dreamer sighed loudly and shrugged. An awkward silence fell on the room, and both planewalkers were lost in their different thoughts for a moment. At last the Dreamer coughed softly and spoke.

 

"I should take my leave when the trail is still even remotely fresh. 'Tis not just a matter of the Grail, as powerful a lure it might be. Ye do realize we cannot allow Sherishsen to get away, even if the cup passed beyond our long arms? Her crime is grave and one we cannot tolerate."

 

Phacyra lifted his gaze and spoke with a tone thick with bitterness.

 

"Yes .. for the planewalkers are the free birds of the Astral, never barred, never locked away in small holes at the edges of lost paths, wandering knights of terrible power and absolute justice."

 

"Yes. Terrible justice and absolute power ... that describes us very well."

 

The Dreamer let his eyes turn black and the silence return.

Edited April 25, 2004 by Zadown

[Zadown]

"... ah. Actually there is something ye could do to help my search, brother. Something I hate to ask, but ..."

 

"But ye know ye shall not get a name and a place of a true mortal oracle from anybody else, ye cheap bastard? I really should ask a more painful price from my services, even from ye. Remember the lore of the birds I gave ye? Now that was ill and underpayed service."

 

"That I do remember, the lore of the Castle of the Birds, and it helped me more than I thought back then. What I almost forgot was the fact I actually do have something to pay the second half of that price now."

 

The Dreamer stood up, smiled and conjured forth a fist-sized globe of planar crystal, shimmering dimly in the gloom. Inside it a dark mass swirled as if sentient smoke, and briefly two glowing pinpoints of green light could be seen, then they vanished into the swirling darkness again.

 

"An unbound shade of a general of Law - useful for many a thing, even if it is on the weak side. I am sure ye can get a hefty price from it sooner than later."

 

He placed the globe on the desk and took a step back. Phacyra took it, gazed into its depths and put it away somewhere under the desk with a wry face.

 

"Well. It is something, even if it is less than the price of an oracle, and since I know I shall give ye the name and place whatever happens, better be sold cheap than give things away, free."

 

His hands came away from the underside of the desk holding in them a small card, toying with it.

 

"Here is yer oracle. But must ye really burn them every time ye use them, Wodzan? Such a terrible waste, even with mortals - true oracles are so rare and hard to track, only to have ye frying their frail heads in one surge of grand prophecying?"

 

"I do not desire to kill, as ye should know. But 'tis a necessity, by two counts: even the truest oracles can see with clouded sight on bad days, something I cannot afford, and more importantly, I cannot have them tell their tales again, alive or dead."

 

"Do it yer way then. I'm sure ye know better what works as far as pursuit is concerned, being the one of us two trailing a comet of devout followers across the Lost Paths every time ye leave a plane, instead of being cooped up inside one single tiny house."

 

"None of my followers are as powerful as yer nemesis, and I do not hold my hand against any of mine."

 

The Dreamer moved forward to take the small card and read what it said with intense concentration. He frowned and turned to look at Phacyra.

 

"Khârzalar? How'd ye track anything in that hell-hole of a place?"

 

Phacyra grinned without humor.

 

"Hell-holes are where my people move, o' high and mighty. Any oracles in perfect heavens are beyond my dirty paws. At least this way yer only weeding out those in misery already - ye can pretend to have morals, if ye so wish."

 

"Very amusing, brother. Morals? Sounds like ye've had too many conversations with depressed fallen angels. Ye should ban such nuisances from here."

 

The words seemed to amuse Phacyra, and he smiled showing his yellowed teeth and winked to the Dreamer.

 

"Where do ye think I get my provisions from, hmmm?"

 

The Dreamer smiled back, eyes now silvery-white.

 

"I seem to have forgotten too much. But enough of this talk, I have to get going even if the road to Khârzalar is not overly long."

 

With those words he turned to leave, and Phacyra stood up to escort him out. They were silent as they walked back to the front door of the house, silent as everything that was meant to be said was said, comfortable in the presence of an old ally even with their slight differences. At the door they halted, and shook hands again without any unnecessary ceremonies before the Dreamer sidestepped away.

[Zadown]

The Dreamer floated in the Astral. Before him shone the crystal wall of Khârzalar, reflecting him and the distant lights of other planes beyond. He felt ... anxious, uneasy. Khârzalar was an unhospital place, fiery hot and dangerous even for planewalkers. He checked his wards against fire once again even though he was perfectly aware they were ready, unchanged from the time he had last checked them.

 

Yet another mortal prophet. They are unsettling, watching me with those eyes that see the future more clearly than they see the present.

 

He tugged at the hilt of his sword, making sure it was loosely set in the scabbard. With one last look around, he stepped through the crystal - and into a hell.

 

He landed on blackened stone, thin red veins of lava crawling through it like painted lightning. Around him bloomed a defensive ward, a bubble of coolness in the sea of fire. Through its unwavering air the Dreamer could see the rains of red boiling blood and lava in distance, black and orange clouds that hung uncomfortably close to the ground, huge black jagged obisidian shards reaching for the sky, a road made of blackened skulls in front of him. The heavy atmosphere wavered and pulsed, heat creating a constant haze and distorting far-away objects. He could hear the wordless roar of a burning world, feel it hammering his defenses, trying to crush and burn him at the same time, and grimaced in discomfort. Sweat started to appear on his pale skin. He drew his sword, its spectral blade invisible against the chaotic background, and started walking.

 

The skulls cracked and snapped under his boots, their ashy surfaces slick and hard to walk. Nevertheless he managed to maintain his posture as he walked forward, undaunted by the rains that swept across the unhospitable plains, not flinching when a geyser of molten rock erupted near or when a larger skull of some dragonic species cracked and gave way under him. Ahead, somewhere in the haze, a tall mountain of lighter grey suddenly loomed, appearing first as a mirage and soldifying as he came closer through the distorting lens of superheated air. On both sides of the road a series of totems sprang up, small things charred and blackened unidentifiable tied to iron poles, some burning slowly with colored flames, some already fallen down and melting away on the ground. The skull-road widened, the mountain now almost solid tower of grayness at its end, a blacker stain in the wavering mirage denoting a tunnel or an entrance. The background roar intensified and found a patter, waves of louder noise followed by waves of almost quiet.

 

He walked the last few yards and stopped, waiting: a calm cold sphere in a sea of deadly fire, or a deadly star of utmost icy cold amidst warm breezes of the lovely Khârzalar. The Dreamer smiled wanly to the latter mental image and raised his pale hand to his dark eyes, wondering what sort of Ice King he seemed in here, how deadly would be his touch. He was brought out of his reverie by the crackling, snapping cry of a khârzalarian - the Dreamer cocked his head and let his magic do the translation, as always.

 

"Hail --- Doombringer

Hail --- Cold Fury of the Void

Hail --- Waterwalker Softskin

 

Thrice Hailed Be --- And Work Our Fate

Smother the Prophet --- Foreseen Death

We Bow Before --- In Ashes After"

 

It was almost twice as tall as the planewalker, a creature of obisidian skin, no eyes, blade-like fingers in overly long arms and carrying a black spear. Its legs were short and ended in odd feet, like trees with round bases and roots sticking from them to all directions. It was heavy, and wide, and grotesque to untrained eye, but even it its wild forms there were some queer beauty, and the red robes (if you could call anything so different by same name we use of our own robes) were full of golden symbols, a color not native to Khârzalar. To any outsider watching, the Dreamer would've seemed a mortal meeting a god, so small and powerless he seemed before this hulking creature, yet both the planewalker and the khârzalarian knew it was the other way around, a god walking amongst mortals, this once and carrying a deadly doom with him. He spoke, and his voice crackled and snapped in their language, if not quite managing the same form.

 

"Hail --- And Give Way

Hail --- Memory Past

Hail --- Servitude Lost

 

Thrice Hailed Be --- Forgotten Guard

Turn Your Sight --- Prevent Not

What Was Written --- What Shall Be"

 

The khârzalarian was now silent, and bowed and made way, vanishing in the haze with such speed it might as well been an illusion, forgotten and left to dissipate. Through the empty space it left walked the Dreamer, skulls cracking and snapping under his feet, until he reached the entrance into the mountain. The heat was such even the tunnel radiated enough light to see, and once he stood at the entrance itself with no haze between his eyes and the tunnel, he could see all the way forward. The tunnel seemed straight and smooth, very out of place in this world of soft molten and jagged sharp shapes, and even its color was unmarred by soot or fire, all the way to a darkened, scrotched door at the its end.

 

He felt uneasy as he gazed into those depths of the mountain, beckoning with their apparent coolness. A sense of danger lay thick on the view and he cleared sweat away from his eyes to get a clearer picture. Magic flowed as fiercely here as did fire, making sixth sense as painful to use as gazing into the centre of the sun, but still he shifted his sight, gritting his teeth against the kaleidoscope of painfully sharp colors that made him see. What he saw made a wan smile appear on his face - apparently seeking knowledge was as perilious undertaking here as it was elsewhere, casting the lazy and unperceptive to their deaths. Muttering a few words under his breath, he stepped up to float a few inches above the apparent surface of the corridoor and floated forward towards the distant door.

[Zadown]

The door opened before him without his touch. Behind it was a vast cavern, stained and charred unlike the corridoor, the ends of it vanishing into deepening gloom. The room had more of those totems he had already seen outside, and black tablets of stone leaning on the walls, lying on the floor in small untidy stacks, with a few huge towers of them looming near the edges of his vision. Right before him stood another khârzalarian, even taller than the one he had met outside. Its head almost touched the ceiling, at least 15 feet tall, and the blades that made its hands could've been used as great war-swords by humans, so long they were and with such a sharpness they gleamed. The robes it wore were orange adorned with silver, but unlike the guard outside it held no weapon of any kind besides its bare hands. It turned towards him and spoke in understandable Élechian, a language used by the lost Yainiaaliraealienilainians before they vanished from the world, now wielded as a torch illuminating ancient knowledges by true sages.

 

"Hail, Doombringer. I've known this hour since I gained my gift, for the very first vision I gazed in the fires of the world was one of my own death, future running through me and out of my mouth like a white-hot river of lava, burning me and branding the listener with wisdom they do not want to hear. I have engraved my prophecies; my work is done. We can begin."

 

"Yer ready and willing, mortal seer? That is a relief - many seek to deny their doom when I come to them, even when they must foresee how the arrows of their ambush are deflected and their kin slaughtered, or how their pitiful magics are undone by my Art, and they are humiliated before their end. 'Tis unfortunate, but it must be done."

 

"They do not see clearly, then. Whether or not you would burn me to ashes, my words would be true either way. But I have seen I cannot dissuade you by words either, and any force we have here is less, even combined, than the force of your mere servants."

 

With those words, the seer bowed its great head. The Dreamer tapped into the local flows of magic, volatile and fiery as the world, creating a great halo around him glowing in all the hues of red and yellow. It was as if he had brough the fire outside to this refugee of knowledge - colors danced on the reflecting surfaces of the stone tablets, turned the stained, charred walls into pictures of cooling lava and made the iron totems sparkle as if they burned. He gestured, and the open channel of magic he had created snaked through the air and attached itself to the seer, who convulsed but remained standing, opened his mouth but did not scream. Pinpoints of light flared into existence in front of the seer's head, creating him eyes - but from his mouth a slow gush of liquid issued, as if blood. When he cried aloud, his voice was now harsh, loud and alien.

 

"ASK NOW --- BEFORE I AM GONE!"

 

"Where is the Holy Grail and who guards it?"

 

"Cup of Chaos --- Queen Without Kingdom

Neverfound --- Protector

Shrouded Lifegiver --- Sad Archmagi

 

Have Bypassed Cloud --- Circled Veil

Walked Unseen --- Cloaked in Shadows

Forsaken Power --- Descended into MERLIMAR!"

 

The seer shouted out the last name, smoke and liquid pouring out of its mouth, and the eyes of light exploded in loud cracks, scarring the skin below. It convulsed again and again, falling to its knees, the pure magic ravaging it from inside. Around the dying seer a haze now appeared as if it was boiling, and one of his bladed fingers fell off to stand upright on the floor. It was wailing now with thin voice and breaking apart, collapsing into itself as its inside turned into searing ash. One last time it seemed to master its limbs, and it pointed at the Dreamer, but it had lost the ability to speak and said no words. Finally it crumbled and curled up, leaving only few stones and blackened ash before the channel of magic closed itself. Above the ruin of the corpse a vision of a fiery spirit appeared, making the planewalker raise his sword, but it did not stay and faded into the air without a gesture.

 

Merlimar? Now that is a cruel jest of the Fates, making this place seem hospital.

 

The Dreamer stepped into the Void and was gone.

[Zadown]

Wind grabbed a score of brown leaves and tossed them into air. It played with them for a while, then left them on the ground and continued its way along the edge of the forest stirring branches and whistling past trunks, running above the empty brown fields. It grabbed a new batch of leaves and threw them at a man suddenly appearing from empty air, then the wind dissipated for a while. The scarred man, wearing dirty and tattered black cloak way too large for him, seemed to smoke as if he was melting.

 

Merlimar .. so large plane, so dead of all magic. I've heard the stories how to survive even here, despite every one of them ending in the words of warning: Do not push yer luck! Do not enter the vast worlds, dead of all magic! But I cannot ignore the siren song of the Grail.

 

AAAAaaaahhh, I can feel my wards giving up!

 

The Dreamer fell to his knees, the weight of this world crushing him, dragging him into its soil. All his enchantments were failing rapidly, spells that could deflect a blow from a god vanishing as smoke. Pain had already lost its spectral blade, was now only an useless piece of hilt in his deathly pale, scarred hand. He drew a ragged breath, let go an unvoluntary shrill whistle as his translation enchantment winked out of existence. His senses were failing one by one as well, the world turning dimmer, darker, being shrouded in mist. He clawed the earth in his agony and ground his teeth, arched his back hidden under the huge black cloak he had fished from the Void. The Dreamer gasped again and fell to his side, curled into a foetal position while rocking back and forth. He felt like vomiting but there was nothing inside him. He managed to cough up a thin tendril of smoke that vanished fast in the windy autumn weather, then darkness claimed him.

 

"Hoi you! You bum, wake up. Hoi! Bum!"

 

He felt somebody poking him somewhere far away. The shouts were harsh and hard to understand without magic, somewhere between the grunts of mindless animals and sensible speech. World felt hard and cold, the crush of the endless miles of empty air above and equally endless miles of thick earth below grinding him to oblivion between them. He felt weak as a kitten, even more helpless than when the Avatar of Chaos had held him in her grasp.

 

"Stop playing dead, bum, we ain't got all day."

 

The Dreamer willed some energy into his thin limbs and pushed himself up to his knees, wiped a thin line of saliva from his cheek. As he opened his eyes, he reeled almost falling down again: even the grey, weak sunlight sent stabs of pain through his head. Chills ran through him one after another and he trembled but managed to stay on his knees, managed to open his eyes.

 

"Hoi old guy, whoa your scarred, yes indeed! Want us to remove you from your misery or will you leave finally?"

 

Before him stood three men in coarse, worn clothes. The one who did the shouting had a long spear with strong, reinforced shaft, the sort people use in hunting. The two others were only loitering around the third and had no visible weapons, muttering to each other in low voices. He could see their dirty faces, torn and repaired trousers, shapeless boots and felt very sick again. Their sheer lowly presence revolted him, but he realized how weak he was and tried to not to show it.

 

Instead he lurched upwards and stood up, swaying. He was over a foot taller than the three others, towering over them as a thin scarecrow, cloaked in black. The weak sunlight sent an errant ray of light into the depths of his cloak, made the platemail he wore sparkle for a blink of an eye. It lighted up a disgusting reflection of the sparkle in the eyes of the three, a mark of greed, and they shifted their position slightly to encircle the Dreamer better. The planewalker merely croaked, barely audibly.

 

"What, hoi? Was that "Yes sirrah, I will remove my rotten drunken carcass from here, that is, after I have given away my excess cash"? Speak louder, old man. We don't want the kinds of you here, not at all."

 

At that the two others laughed but did nothing more, waiting to see how it all would go. The man with the spear moved closer and shifted his grip on it so the blade pointed towards the Dreamer, poked him once in the shin. The planewalker grimaced and drew a shuddering breath, swallowed hard to steel himself to stay upright. After a few false starts he found his still stuttering voice.

 

"If ye'll ... just leave ... nobody'll get ... hurt."

 

All three men laughed now, loudly as he had said a great and amusing jest. They moved closer, the leader now holding the spear ready to use, but still they held themselves back to say the final jeering words.

 

"Hurt, old drunk? Truer word hasn't been spoken, but hoi! - I'm 'fraid it might be arrogant bastid like you who'll end up hurt."

 

The planewalker closed his eyes and stumbled forward as if trying to find something to lean on. He grabbed the spear haft with both hands, ignoring the loud protest and the sound of a knife being drawn, and snapped the reinforced hardwood spear in two with a loud sound of tortured metal and wood. The Dreamer left the shaft in the stunned leader's hands and threw the tip with unerring accuracy through the throat and back of the head of the man on his right. The man on the left stabbed his side with a knife at the same time the Dreamer used his left hand to jerk the shaft away from the leader. He swung the shaft with great force and smashed it on the skull of the man on the left - whether the loud crack he heard was the skull or the staff cracking, the Dreamer didn't care. The planewalker stumbled forward once more, towards the leader standing motionless in his mute panic and thrust with the outstretched fingers of his right hand, crushing his opponent's larynx with a sickening noise.

 

The Dreamer sighed sadly standing above the three corpses.

 

Such small-minded, ignoble creatures.

 

He pulled out the bloody knife that had managed to penetrate the soft leather armor on its way and let it fall on the ground. Limping slightly, favoring his uninjured side, he started to walk towards the small town that could be seen beyond the fields, leaving behind a thin trail of blood.

[Zadown]

The low huts in front of him seemed as disgustingly rustic as the three men he had killed. Their wood was weathered and old, the workmanship shabby with an unfinished look. Still, they felt like the right direction. He was aching all over and spots of color danced in his vision, sunlight still sending stabs of pain through his eyes. He drew his black hood forward to block the light better.

 

Shelter ... and some sleep would be nice. I feel all broken inside; if this is how the mortals feel all the time, no wonder they have such short lifespans.

 

After turning around a corner, the Dreamer found himself on first street of the small town. A small scruffy dog started barking at him only to retreat whimpering when he got closer. He saw two peasant women gossip about something with low voices but fall silent when they noticed him. They both glared at him with unmasked hostility, the older one making some simple sign with her fingers towards him. He ignored them and glanced upwards, at the sky. It was apparently morning. The town was slowly waking up, people starting to move about in their first chores of the day. Nobody seemed to miss the three men, yet. The Dreamer shuddered and almost stumbled, feeling empty, cold and vulnerable without his magic.

 

"Hoi warlock! Go back to the woods, spirit!"

 

A small group of children ran past him, the boldest pelting him with small stones. Most of the stones bounced from his armor, but the Dreamer snatched one aimed at his face and glared under his hood. The children screamed and laughed, dispersing to all directions. The scowling stares offered to him by the adults were not much better than the stones. Somebody shoved him lightly from behind and he turned to see a young man glaring at him, wielding a shovel in a manner that suggested it could be used as a weapon very quickly, given any reason to do so.

 

"We don't want the kinds of you here, old man. We have already had enough trouble with strange folks this year."

 

The Dreamer coughed and swallowed before he managed to speak.

 

"Strange folks? What kind of strange folks?"

 

"Never mind that, drunk. Get lost, aye?"

 

He could feel the other townpeople getting nearer: silent, hostile presences all around him. He was also aware of the blood dripping from his wound, still not healed. He glared back at the young man, thoughts racing.

 

Blood magic might work even here, but it is too slow for the occasion. I could kill them all but that might be dangerous here, in my weakened state. So infuriating, forced to deal with this scum.

 

"Right ya are, young master. Away 'll go."

 

Inside the cloak the Dreamer's hands closed into fists. Nevertheless he turned and limped towards the nearby forest. He knew the young man was considering beating him up in any case and he moved with infinite care, all senses (those that still remained) alert, his sick and pained body ready to spring into lightning fast action. Something told the young man this wasn't a good day to beat up helpless old drunks, though, and after a second of hesistating he stayed where he was, watching the Dreamer move away. The planewalker walked slowly to the edge of the town, then turned to look back at all the peasants staring at him with their bleary, hostile eyes of lowly peasants. Without a pause, eyes still in the shadows of the hood, he threw back the stone that had been aimed at his face, hitting the child squarely in the head and knocking him down. The townpeople screeched, screamed and shouted aloud in outrage, but the Dreamer had vanished in the blink of an eye they had all turned to look at the fallen child.

 

He slowed down again in the forest, sweating and coughing from the exertion. The trees did not glare or throw rocks at him, not here, and he sat down on a bigger rock.

 

They will find the corpses soon, and after that I would need all my skills in illusions to walk back into that town without turning it into carnage, if I could use those skills here. Killing with bare hands gets so tiring after a while. But they did talk about another stranger. That must've been Sherishsen and the Grail - I'm sure I felt its warm chaotic glow even from beyond the planar crystal.

 

The Dreamer yawned and staggered, almost fell off the rock he was sitting on. He looked around, tilted his head slightly listening to far-away noises but could not detect any pursuit yet. He stayed in that position for a minute or two, head tilted, eyes closed, thinking, then stood up and climbed up the nearest pine-looking tree. After reaching the top, knowing full well mortal humans could not follow him up there, he balanced himself on a larger branch out of sight from the ground and fell into regenerative sleep.

 

He woke up after a while, feeling a lot better but at the same aware about something being wrong. The Dreamer moved slowly and without a sound, imitating a branch moving in the wind. First he could not see or hear anything, surrounded by the green and brown colors of the tree and the sound of the forest murmuring, then he started hearing several voices from below.

 

"... the old man went this way, I'm sure. The track of blood points this way and the dogs went crazy nearby."

 

"That's old trick, me boy. Go one way leaving easy track, leave surjapurm oil or ground pipra root to confuse dogs and go another way leaving no tracks at all. This 'old drunk' seems like one of the Mackra rebels or even one of them hanja warriors, I reckon."

 

"Hanja! Hoi gaffer, too early for faery tales still."

 

"See me lil boy, he killed Runjer, Tipa and Olver just like that and knocked Illamer's lad out cold from half a vrasta away with a stone. Ordinary drunk, sure!"

 

"Whoever he is, heard he went all attentive-like when Illamer said something about her. Said she'd be trouble, even staying in the temple. Nothin' but trouble."

 

"Truer word never spoken, Yrja."

 

"Yah, think she is due a visit. Fine lass like her, even if wrong color, all alone there with the priest. She might want some manly attention, hoi!"

 

The voices all laughed and diverted from the original topic to ribald jests. After a while the ruckus died down and the tones turned more serious, more faint, before fading away past him. When the last noises disappeared into distance, the Dreamer jumped down with feline grace.

 

Time to save Sherishsen ... for a cleaner death.

[Zadown]

The Dreamer moved through the forest silently and stealthily now that he had somewhat recovered from the ordeal of stepping into a dead magic plane. He still felt the loss keenly every time he tried to see something far away, or listen to faint noises, or when his now healed wound ached dully.

 

After I finish this affair, I'll stay well away from these places. I'd rather spend some extra months in a magic circle than stay here any extra heartbeats.

 

He followed the tracks left by the townpeople when they tracked him, confident that they wouldn't return this way quite yet. The trees blocked his senses in uncomfortable way and he felt uneasy, not used to skulking around like this. He knew he was likely the most dangerous creature on this backwater planet, but that didn't calm his nerves. Finally, he came to the forest's edge and saw the small town nearby, past a few long since harvested fields. A few people moved about: even with his useless mortal eyesight he could see armed men loitering around, a few children well within the protective perimeter of the militia and a some women, mostly clothed in grey. The forest he was in was the only real concealment around, and this was the closest he could come to the town within its shadows.

 

Now, where's one of those Law warmachines when ye need one?

 

The planewalker looked around and then turned his eyes back to the small town. There was a thousand elegant solutions to walking through hostile town without creating any fuss, but they all required magic. Knowing the effort to be futile, he tried to connect to the local flow of mana, strove to reach the elusive power he was so used to having at his beck and call. Instead of the warm glow of chaos-tinted magic rushing through his mind, he felt terribly open and cold, and he fell to his knees shivering. The Dreamer crawled to a shadow of a tree and curled up, resting for a little while.

 

Sun had barely moved on the sky when he opened up his eyes again. Town was as it had been, a few people moving about but a clear tension in the air. The planewalker seemed to reach a conclusion and sighed aloud. He grabbed a stout branch in right hand, spent some time looking for stones which he hid in his left sleeve. Thus armed, he threw the hood back from his head, baring his scarred face and grey hair, iron crown and green eyes. He selected a larger stone the size of his fist and walked forward, stopped just before he would've stepped away from the shelter of the trees. Taking careful aim at a peasant with a bow who was talking with a young girl, he hurled the stone almost half a mile. And missed, this time, the stone impacting on the wooden wall with a loud crack instead. The girl shrieked, perhaps wounded by wooden splinters, and the man yelled in alarm, while the Dreamer cursed loudly at his poor aim. He started to hurry forward and picked up another stone from his sleeve.

 

This'll be ugly, but truth to be told I do not care. These people deserve me - they are far more ugly than anything I could do to them.

 

All the children and women disappeared from the streets, the wounded girl now sobbing instead of shrieking. The men ducked behind corners and barrels. A few arrows were fired, but they fell pitifully short. The Dreamer moved forward with steady gait, grey hair flowing behind him and sunlight playing on his stern iron crown. He looked like a vengeful king, scarred by the misdeeds of his people until he could take it no more. Without breaking his stride, he sent another stone flying with deadly speed and accuracy. This time he managed to send the stone through a rotten barrel and hit somebody, who screamed in pain. His face did not show joy or regret as he walked forward, readying yet another stone. Another valley of arrows whistled through the air, none coming even close. In response, he threw his third stone hitting somebody on their exposed arm. He could hear the bone breaking even under the shocked yell. Out of stones, he hastened his step but did not break into run.

 

A few more arrows whistled through the air. Now that he was close enough, their aim was better: he blocked one of the arrows with his makeshift club, but another buried itself in his chest armor and a third gave out a loud metallic sound as it was deflected by his hidden platemail. The Dreamer narrowed his eyes but they stayed green - he could not alter their color here, without magic. Growling, he crushed the nearest barrel just as the archer behind it broke into run. Not wanting to let his prey escape, he dashed forward far faster than the mortal just ahead of him, and sweeped the legs from under the archer with his club. The man fell down, crying and holding his broken leg. Three more arrows flew through the air, the planewalker ignoring them now completely. At this range, only one of them missed, one bounced away from his crown and third sunk into his thigh, drawing blood. He bounced forward, smashing an archer's bow and crippling his hands by a vicious blow. This was too much for some, and he could hear the shouts and pleas for mercy as they started running away or towards their own houses, but a few saw the blood tricking down his leg and were heartened enough to grab their hunting spears and rusty swords.

 

The ensuing fight (the Massacre of the Old Drunk for those who dared to mention it afterwards) was brutal and very short. The planewalker's inhuman speed and strenght made it a mockery of a battle. He incapacited an opponent at a time, not caring whether or not the blows were fatal or just crippling, not trying to dodge or block any of the few incoming blows. Blood and gore splattered over the nearby wooden walls, pieces of weapons and screaming men were flung far away by the force of the Dreamer's strikes. In a few moments, it was all over. A red haze seemed to hung above the small battlefield, slowly falling to the ground or over the wailing or silent peasants on the ground. The Dreamer himself was a terrible sight: his beard, moustache and hair were all covered in grime and blood, his black cloak was shreddered to tiny, useless strips. Besides the minor wound in his tight, he was now bleeding from a dozen similiar and a few more major wounds, his own and the blood of the others streaming across his chaos armor in thick streams. In his green eyes, locked into that color, still raged a fury so potent those who saw him cowered in paralyzing fear and turned aside.

 

Many were sure this was the end of the world, and wailed and sobbed silently or aloud in their hovels, but the Dreamer paid no heed to them and walked forward again with the same gait he had crossed the fields with, sure and fast. The streets continued to stay clear for him as he walked deeper into the town. Only the bravest even dared to look from windows or behind their doors before his ghastly visage made them hide again. The street went uphill after a while, and there in the end of the road he saw a small temple, alone at the top of a hill. As soon as he saw it, he felt the warm glow of chaos through his cold wrath and he hastened his pace again.

 

Here it is, at last. The end of my quests for both vengeance and redemption, payment for both Sherishsen and Chaos.

[Zadown]

The double doors of the temple crashed open. Evening sun shone in, draw a sharp black silhouette of a tall, crowned man covered in ragged cloak, a few arrows still remaining in his armor. Below the sharp points of the crown, two green fires burned, the only color painted over that black shadow. The Dreamer stepped in and felt the aura of the Grail, inhaled the sweet warm sense of chaotic magic flowing all around him. Faint, suppressed by the dead magic plane, but still invigorating. A number of his lesser wounds faded away and the deeper ones finished bleeding; around him flickered thin, twisting forms of runes that were struggling to exist. The Dreamer grinned showing his white teeth, scars dancing on his blood-drenched, dirty face.

 

"Be banished, vile beast! Do not desecrate the house of the Indefatigable!"

 

A small priest in brown, coarse robes held an icon in front of him as a shield. He moved towards the Dreamer, shaking but determined, defying death with his faith.

 

"Ha, small priest! Yer cries are in vain - I am nothing as simple as a demon, and I'm not afraid of yer feeble gods."

 

Still grinning he snatched the icon from the priest and threw it away through the door with great force. With his other hand he knocked the priest down, almost as an afterthought. He walked deeper into the temple, his boots sounding loud in the almost empty building. After the antechamber the temple only had one huge hall, four thick pillars of wood carved full of religious carvings, raised platform with an altar on it and on the altar a shining cup, the Holy Grail. Its light was less bright and less blinding here, but its true form was still hard to ascertain. Before the light of the artefact stood a small, slender shadow, clad in familiar deep blue robes.

 

"Good evenin', m'lady Sherishsen. Please excuse my dirty outfit, but the locals deemed it wise to contest my right of passage."

 

"Evening, Doombringer. I see you live up to the name I call you now, even here, without magic. Truly, it would have been better for you to stay imprisoned until the ends of time."

 

"For those I met today, perhaps. And for the armies of Law in Tlaenor, certainly. For ye, yes of course. But even better would have been to simply let me go right away, instead of forcing me to do all this."

 

The Dreamer made an all-encompassing gesture with his left hand and let the tip of his stained and worn club fall to the floor.

 

"So you say it was I who killed all those people? That sounds like cowardice to me, an inability to take responsibility for your deeds."

 

"Naw, I claim every kill as mine, and have few qualms when I do so. Still, it all could have been avoided, and yet by nothing within my power. There is a strict code for us about these matters, one of the few things we planewalkers agree without strife."

 

"What now, then? You take the last things from a ruler you have already stolen the kingdom from, my life and the Grail? You have already destroyed all I worked for."

 

"Yes."

 

The planewalker let his club go and pointed at Sherishsen with his right hand, palm upwards. The hand disappeared and the look on the Dreamer's face changed from mirth to grave sadness at the same moment Sherishsen's eyes bulged out and she made a little choked sound, spitting out a few drops of blood. The Dreamer's hand reappeared, holding a beating heart. The woman stared at it in horror, shivered in pain and turned to look at the planewalker's face but found no answers there. She crumbled softly, not living long enough to see a single tear on the planewalker's cheek.

 

Farewell, Mistress of the Paths. This time I could not withhold my blow.

 

He gazed at the heart he cradled in both hands for a moment, then sighed and dropped it to the floor. The Dreamer stepped over it and over the fallen mage, walking towards the Grail standing alone and without a guardian on the altar, swimming in the pulsing golden light. He reached forward to grab the artefact with his bright red hands, washed with Sherishsen's blood. And grabbed only empty, chilling air, his fingers passing through the golden cup as if it was an icy mirage. He tried again, his triumphant smile turning into dismay, only to grasp freezing, empty air again with both of his hands, and he realized he could feel the Grail's warm glow growing fainter, more distant.

 

"NOOOOOOOOOO!"

 

The Dreamer yelled in anguish and tried to grab the cup again and again, every time only grasping cold air, even that getting warmer and warmer by every desperate try. The cup faded now rapidly, turning ghostly, and finally vanished utterly with a loud roar that shook the small temple.

 

The Holy Grail was gone.

 

To be continued ... in Web!