Clemency

[Zadown]

The vast room was littered with old and odd things: dusty crates, empty boxes and outmoded machines. Various exotic and ordinary weapons hung from the hooks attached to the thick wooden beams and in one dark corner several suits of armor were arrayed on a squadron of mannequins. The few errant rays of light that managed to get in through the boarded up windows showed the thick mist of clinging dust that hung in the dry, musty air. They also illuminated signs of habitation. A few tables, chairs around them, parchments and real paper littered on their surface along with mugs, plates and assorted cutlery, a cluster of fat wine bottles each fortified with a layer of rope. On a scruffy-looking sofa were piled a haphazard pile of clothes, cloaks, trousers, shirts, most of them black or very dark. Next to that, on the wooden floor, lay a large mattress with a blanket carelessly thrown over it, a pair of boots standing in turn next to the mattress.

 

A part of the room was separated from the main space by flimsy walls and a door that lead to darkness where no ray of light dared to venture. Within those deep shadows, a single tiny light source glowed with a calm, blue color. A careful observer might have noticed the dim blue star rising and falling slightly, perhaps even coming to the conclusion it was situated on a sleeping person's breast, moving in the rhythm of his or her breathing.

 

In the middle of the messy space, attached to both the floor and the ceiling, was a tall, slanted shaft of metal, seemingly out of place even next to the various oddities. The faint light in the room made it hard to tell, but the metal pole seemed to be made of two different materials, the inner parts of it boringly uniform, the outer layer carved into shapes hidden by the gloom.

 

A wooden creak, then another and another. Somebody was ascending wooden stairs towards this room, and soon enough the light the person carried marked the shadowy corner where the only entrance was located. A left hand appeared first, carrying aloft a small cage of metal that imprisoned a sputtering, smoking flame, the lantern's weak light made mostly superfluous by the rays of sunlight. Behind the light emerged a short, young man in ornamental but worn robes of red and purple, the embroided runes of silver tottering on the fine line between tacky and flamboyant. His serious face was framed with black hair and a passable attempt at growing a beard, making him seem older than he was. In his right hand was a short, plain wooden staff, almost as worn as his robes.

 

He paused at the top of the staircase and looked around the untidy space, sighed as he usually did when seeing the mess. His gaze swept over from left to right, more out of habit than from any real need to be cautious, before he moved forward to lower his suspended staff back to the floor. Just as its wooden end almost hit the wooden floor, the man froze. An emotion swept through him, waking up around his eyes, then transforming his face and spreading to all his limbs – he went from relaxed and irritated to terrified (even if he would have never have admitted it) and wary.

 

In the darkness, the dim blue star halted and turned red.

 

-

 

The Rod of Cosmic Redemption outshone its surroundings when seen from Astral. It was a thin pillar of white fire, slanted from left to right, the physical surroundings that kept it in locked in place hazy and wavery when observed from this side. Everything was tinted blue and transparent, as if the world was made of colored glass, everything except the staff touched by the Avatar of Balance. The Dreamer could barely discern what the space he'd soon step into was like, so blinding was the glare and so great the distortion. He gave up trying to penetrate the muddy waters of the planar Astral with his deep blue eyes and shrugged to himself.

 

The staff is more of Astral and Balance than of iron and lead, that much is easy to see. But why she sent it here? Any lowly angel could fetch it back, so there must be an invisible test here again, a puzzle to solve ... most likely something to do with mortals, as usual with Balance.

 

The Dreamer blinked slowly, luxuriously, took a deep if unneeded breath and unlimbered Pain's scabbard from his back, holding it in both hands. Without a direct order the fabric of the Astral parted in front of him and he sidestepped into reality.

 

-

 

“A demon!”

 

The shout broke the atmosphere of warm afternoon's sleepiness that had been prevalent so far in the dusty room. The tall planewalker appeared only a split second later than the shout, the ringing echo of it kindling a yellow light in his eyes. A gaudy blue sphere of protection bloomed around the young man situated on top of the stairs - in contrast the room seemed suddenly go dark. In the deep shadows beyond the thin door and flimsy walls the pinpoint of red light moved violently around, gained two larger companions, all three then rushing through the door. Once they hit the more illuminated area, the triangle of red stars resolved itself to a glowing crystal pendant and two blades of a fighting-staff, the former worn and the latter wielded by a young woman. The colored lights, blue, yellow and red, in the dark room made it seem like a surreal festival, a circus with carefully trained acrobatic clowns.

 

Mortals, I presume. Perhaps it is better not to kill them.

 

The young woman struck at the planewalker with her polearm using it as a spear. Her reckless blow was faster than the Dreamer's realization that he should lower his active wards. A thunderclap and a flash of light erupted from the point in empty air where the spear's blade had met his personal space, and the woman spun uncontrollably away through the air, miraculously missing the hulking piles of machinery and crashing violently into the sofa, raising up a huge cloud of dust.

 

“Shanna! NO!”

 

Blue rays of raw mana followed the frantic and angry shout, the mortal magic striking the impervious wards around the planewalker and bouncing away like so many raindrops hitting an umbrella. Instincts urged the Dreamer to draw his blade, and red swirled in the black pools of his eyes, but he ground his teeth and willed the red to fade, the black to lighten. That took a precious moment, during which the woman who had crashed on the sofa started to stir and the mage shielded in blue moved aside to let somebody past him. A loud boom and a jet of flame obscured the newest arrival and something hit the wards again, the projectile flying away with an angry sound, deflected.

 

“Hold!”

 

The force of the planewalker's will, fueled further by frustration, froze everyone in the room, even the young woman lying dazed on the sofa. Smoke cleared and revealed the fourth person, another young man but clad in dramatic red and black leather, his cape of some expensive cloth that shimmered luxuriously in the dim light. His hair was braided and there was a pair of goggles thrust up to his forehead, their lenses too dark to be used indoors. In his hands he carried a long rifle, still smoking, and the cape was open enough to reveal a pistol on his belt and several grenades on a bandoleer. Slowly, he lowered the rifle, the Dreamer let Pain's scabbard's end land on the floor and the blue glow around the mage dissipated. Behind the planewalker, the woman muttered dazedly to herself and staggered upright. The barked order did nothing to defuse the high tension in the air, though, and its potency to stave off further aggression faded by every moment ticking away.

 

“I say! Am I too late?”

[Zadown]

Before them opened a bottomless pit, above the opposite of it, a long chasm upwards fading towards blinding white in similar fashion as the pit dimmed to impenetrable dark. Between these two extremes was a dizzying vista of sheer walls riddled with windows and balconies, chimneys that belched jets of fire, smoke and steam. Around them the windows gave an impression of slightly derelict area, the few people on sight wearing mostly worn if colorful clothes and wary countenances. The sights and sounds of steam-powered machinery were all below them, towards the dark, and any human figures visible through the man-made clouds wore rags that camouflaged them, shades of black and brown and grey. Above the suns were visible, dancing their slow, precise minuet through the narrow canyon, gifting their golden rays mostly to the lavish upper areas. There, on one of the balconies far above them but distant enough horizontally to see more than the mere bottom of, the Dreamer could see rich and beautiful people wearing the colors of the suns: white, yellow, gold.

 

Next to him stood the young woman. She had a pleasing enough face to look at, even if her pointed ears were easily three times as large as was normal for a human and there were thick black veins on the sides of her face. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, tied to a pony-tail that didn't quite reach her hips. She wore clothes of Gothic hues – dim, shimmering purple, lustrous black satin, slightly faded dark grey and the deep, gloomy blue of twilight. The woman was not tall, but when she glanced upwards at the mercurial eyes of the Dreamer there was no clear fear in the look, no easy to see respect or submission. Instead, she seemed restless, annoyed with the whole situation, her body in constant slight motion. From her neck hung a globe of crystal on a leather thong, a red light glowing inside it, and while the planewalker surveyed the view she fingered it absently.

 

“Seen enough, old man?”

 

He could not help but grin at the words, the scars shifting across his ruined face to accommodate his new expression. The Dreamer leaned on the sturdy stone railing of the balcony and nodded, his eyes vividly green.

 

“Ya, indeed, half-demon. 'Tis a curious system o' th' world, if not even closely th' most unique I 'ave seen on my travels. What was it again ye an' yer mortal acquaintances did, miss?”

 

“Don't call me that. I'm Shanna, and we are shadow divers. I don't know how an old, scarred guy like you are supposed to help us, not even knowing anything.”

 

The green in the planewalker's eyes changed from the color of sun-lit leaves to the color of those same leaves during a stormy night.

 

“Lord Dreamer for ya, miss. Lord Dreamer.”

 

They locked eyes, sparks almost flying between them, and it was as if the already tall planewalker grew and his shadow broadened - he opened his emerald eyes tainted with shades wider and she narrowed her amber eyes in response. After a few tense moments, she turned away with a barely controlled shrug.

 

“Whatever.”

 

The Dreamer leaned again on the railing, this time with both hands, and gazed into the smoky depths below them. Shanna was too short to do the same, and so she stared forward where the view did not disappear into darkness or light, but into the mists and strands of smoke drifting from below. The silence between them stretched longer, but neither seemed to mind, both immersed in their own very different thoughts. In the end it was the planewalker who spoke first, something that he rarely needed to do with hasty mortals.

 

“So then, Shanna, shall ye tell me what I need t' know, ya?”

 

Below them, in the dark pit, something cried a long, wailing inhuman challenge.

 

“I don't really see why the Lady of Scales sends us somebody who doesn't know jack about what's our problem here, but guess we are stuck with you, for now, Lord Old Man.”

 

Shanna glanced downwards at the direction the inhuman cry had issued, but only after she had completed her sentence, her gestures signaling relaxed if somewhat forced nonchalance.

 

“Heard that, didn't you?”

 

She got a curt nod as a response, the planewalker still leaning on the rail and watching the view but also listening.

 

“That's not the root of our problems, no, but it is a symptom for sure. The dark rises, slowly yet surely, and so does the edge of the area where that scum can operate, the shadows we dive into when we ply our trade. The people upstairs claim the suns do not move, but that's sheer bullshit. There wouldn't be much work for us if they stayed stable.”

 

He turned and straightened up, his scarred face unreadable, his eyes the shallow blue of tropical seas.

 

“Wouldn't that be a cause fo' concern even for th' sun people, eventually?”

 

The amber eyes narrowed again as a mien of angry irritation appeared on Shanna's face.

 

“Ha! As if. If they would be concerned, this all would not be happening.”

 

The woman gestured encompassing everything that was visible, started pacing around on the balcony. She patted through her pockets, the frown that formed on her face melting when she found a small leather pouch and a tiny curved knife from two separate locations. After finding the items she was searching for, she leaned on door that lead back into the combined storage and living room and kept on talking, while her attention was held by an elaborate ritual involving a strip of bark she had dug from the pouch and the small knife.

 

“There's not much we can do, in any case. We are small fry in this game between the Abyss and the Heaven here. Even if you'd be able to help, any racket we would make would just bring the big guns to bear. And I really doubt you can do much against pure-blooded demons, scarred guy.”

 

Going through a series of motions with the efficiency of an addict indulging her habit, she had carved the softer inner part of the strip of bark clear of the outer layer and stopped talking for a short while as she maneuvered it into her mouth, nudging it firmly between her gums and upper lip. As soon as it was in place, she closed her eyes and shivered once, blinked a few times and wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. Shanna muttered something along the lines of “it helps me think” as she put her small knife away, blinked one more time and turned her now slightly larger eyes towards the Dreamer.

 

“So yeah, there's something fishy in the way the shadows creep upwards, and that progress has been accelerating lately, but I have no idea why the Lady thinks you can help us here. Why are you here, come to think of it? What's in it for you?”

 

The Dreamer smiled slowly, his eyes almost white.

 

“'S a test, miss. Let's hope ye fare better than th' ones I was judged by th' last time, neh?”

 

“Test, eh?”

 

She shrugged, the motion soft and truly relaxed now, and smiled to empty air as the first wave of mild euphoria hit her.

 

“If the Lady wants to test you, old man, we'll let you in on our next job, then. Hah, yes...”

 

Her fingers spent a long, unhurried moment getting the door open before she slipped back into the room, her motions graceful even in their dreamy slowness.

[Zadown]

In the middle of the combine storage room and a living room, before the staff he had came for, sat the Dreamer in a lotus position. One of the lower flying suns sent a ray of light that managed by some miracle to find a large gap in the boarded up windows and strike the planewalker. It drowned on the black fabric of his flimsy cloak, swept past his scarred, pale fingers lying on his lap and found a narrow strip of exposed, wine-red chaos armor before ending its travel on his ruined face, revealing there a rare peaceful, calm countenance. The Astral blue eyes closed just as the ray of light winked out and the Dreamer fell into a trance.

 

This should help me clear my thoughts, to see through the obstructions to the heart of this test. It feels like I'm needed here even less than I was at the pilgrimage. The locals certainly do not want my aid.

 

Slowly the cacophony of different ideas clamoring for his attention quieted down, the thoughts flickering and fading one by one. What was left was an empty, white canvas of mind, ready for any subject the planewalker himself chose. He stood before it, about to conjure those particular mind-threads that concerned his old memories of how Balance worked, the lore he had gathered about the subject, the recent information he had gotten from the locals and everything that had happened in the last few hours, when an outside distraction snuck through the walls of tranquility he had set around his temple of meditation. The Dreamer frowned at the crimson sound writing curved, looping letters on the white background.

 

Some part of me must think this is relevant. It would not distract me this easily, otherwise.

 

He sat down to a lotus position that mirrored perfectly the one his body was in outside this structure of the mind and concentrated on the distant voices drifting to him, too weak for any mortal to even notice, barely comprehensible for his magically augmented senses.

 

Crimson voice: “... In any case, we'll take him with us tomorrow night, for that Janger's Steamhouse gig.”

 

Red voice: “That's just peachy, Shanna. I mean, the old guy's gonna get us all killed. I say we go and off him now while he is asleep staring at his staff.”

 

Blue voice: “Doubt you'd have much luck with that, Manchev.”

 

Red voice: “Huh? Bullet to the head from ten feet, I don't need any luck for that.”

 

Blue voice: “You'd hit his passive wards, and ...”

 

Crimson voice: “Quiet! If I say we take him, then we take him – he might be stupid, old and a liability for us, but the Lady sent him. See, I don't like this any more than you do, but he'll join us tomorrow and and we'll see how it goes. Perhaps he manages to get himself killed, no loss there, or actually be helpful, even if I doubt that.”

 

Brown voice: “There must be a reason why he was sent here, people. Did he illuminate the subject at all, Shanna?”

 

Crimson voice: “Said it is a test. I think he is another half-demon, actually. He woke up my amulet.”

 

Red voice: “One more reason not to like the geezer! No offense, Shanna, but most half-demons are ...”

 

Crimson voice: “Violent and unpredictable brutes? Don't start that again, Manchev, or I will have to prove you true!”

 

Blue voice: “Calm down, Shanna.”

 

Red voice: “Hey, hey. Easy with the spear.”

 

The voices faded after a far-away crash, and deprived of his last, light anchor to the shores of reality the Dreamer fell deeper into his trance, away from the distractions.

[Zadown]

They had arrived into this small room by a meandering, maze-like route, through endless narrow indoor streets full of the twilight people in their colorful yet worn clothes. They had walked through a vast, quiet library, almost empty save two or three ancient monks and one serious young man, who had tracked their progress with sad curiosity before returning to his thick tomes. The journey had taken them down ladders of steel and wood and stone, up twisty stairways and slowly rising corridors. Everywhere the air of twilight could be felt, the mood that the end of the world was in the cellar, barely contained, delayed but inevitable – it showed in the rusty machinery, in the reckless revelry and in the still, calm sadness, in the jagged runes of street slang carved on the stone walls and in the hushed conversations that drifted through the air chutes like elegiac ghosts. Whenever they appeared the talk ceased. Some looked away, some glared at the group, some ignored them as they had been turned invisible by the dark grey shadow diver vests they all now wore over their other clothes, even the Dreamer.

 

Shanna had the point, and they all followed her, pausing when she tilted her head and narrowed her amber eyes to stare at her inner maps. She carried her twin-bladed staff and was armored in form-hugging suit of supple black leather that had dozens of small pockets and pouches attached to it. She rarely spoke. When she did, they were terse, sharp words of command, same tone of voice used both for her team and for outsiders. After her came Manchev the grenadier in his black and red, carrying enough gunpowder to blow up a small village. He wore his goggles now and his attention seemed to be fully focused on the mission. None of the sights they passed made him turn – at best they made him mutter unintelligible words under his breath. Nobody tried to talk to him, either. Andrej and the Dreamer came last, the red-robed mage talking to the planewalker with a dry voice so soft it often vanished entirely under the background noise. The planewalker responded with nods and grins, sometimes muttering a few words back with his thick accent, his words nevertheless cutting through any interference without fail.

 

Bresohl had decided to stay at the base, as usual – the older man was their librarian and sage, not a warrior, and this was expected to be a clear-cut lesser demon removal. Or, failing that, a raid to get back Janger's personal stash of blessed bullets and his strongbox. People living so close to the Night couldn't expect to hold their claims forever, Andrej explained as he outlined the general plans for the raid to the nodding planewalker. Their intermittent conversation ceased once again when they walked through a door into somebody's house, Shanna apologizing with insincere voice, gesturing irritatedly for the rest of them to follow: over the dirty piles of dry moss some of the poorer locals used as their beds, past the huge samovar coughing scented steam at them, past the cage full of chittering rodents that were raised for food.

 

Down another steel ladder they went, into a small space that had open doorways to all four directions and a trapdoor downwards. On the wall somebody had painted with something organic, now rotting material the words: “Janger's Steamhouse”. Shadows had a restless quality here and they did not seem to let the light of Andrej's lantern to order them around. They stole and muffled any sounds they made, created a constant web of motion that made it hard to detect other movement. Shanna noticed the Dreamer staring at the shifting shadows and smiled without mirth, her voice again more relaxed.

 

“That's the edges of the Night, old man. It will be worse down here, you know – if that's too spooky, you can still turn back and go tell the Lady of Scales this test of hers didn't work out.”

 

The planewalker turned his eyes on the half-demon. They shone like two full moons, white spheres with silver veins, above the Dreamer's wide smile. He started to shake silently, then laugh in a way that resembled a cough attack more than anything else, finally hugging his own ribs to contain his violent, quiet laughter. When he managed to control himself, he coughed a few times, ignored the shocked looks of dismay all three of his companions were giving him and turned to examine the trapdoor.

 

“So, we go down next, neh?”

 

-

 

Shanna paused with her hand at the thick wire loop that acted as a handle for the metal trapdoor.

 

“Alright, this is it, then. Manchev, Andrej, you both know what to do. Old man, follow Andrej and try to stay away from trouble. Remember that my word is the law, down there. Ready, then.”

 

Her last words were not a question but a statement, and right after she said them she pulled the heavy trapdoor open with little effort. A cursory glance inside and she was gone, her lithe form dropping through the swirling shadows without a sound. Manchev muttered more unintelligible words and counted to five with the help of his fingers, then leaped down with similar disregard of personal safety, a pistol held ready in his right hand. Andrej's blue ward bloomed into existence around him and he started climbing down, giving the Dreamer a nod that indicated he should follow as well. The planewalker grinned back but stayed behind, staring through the moving web of gloom with more curiosity than anxiety. Once he saw the way was clear, he leaped down with immortal grace, his smile growing wider at Andrej's perplexed face when the mage saw his method of descent. The others missed the show, their attention on the possible dangers lurking in the surrounding area.

 

The mage's lantern and the faint light his blue wards radiated did not illuminate much down in the Night that had claimed the steamhouse as its territory. Both Shanna's amber eyes and the goggled gaze of the grenadier seemed to cut through most of the inky strands of darkness that swirled and wriggled all around them, the living tissue of Evil miasma, weak as a taint but strong foe against all light. Andrej, on the other hand, seemed to be really hindered by it and walked slowly. He pointed his lantern, which had been changed to bull's-eye mode with shutters and a lens, carefully to whatever direction he tried to observe. The Dreamer's magically augmented senses had no trouble with the shadows, but he stayed near Andrej.

 

Around them, the steamhouse was empty, showing signs of having been abandoned in haste. A few of the big braziers were knocked down, their metal covers that kept the coals and the herbs inside the only reason the place had not burned down. One pillow that had been right underneath a falling brazier had turned into a pile of ash, but it had been too far from other flammables to start a real fire. Here and there on the low tables were slowly spoiling meals, and in the air hung a sickening, sweet smell composed of herbs, decaying food and the smell of winter, oddly out of place here. Underneath the three stronger smells lay the faint stench of death, barely detectable. The walls were covered in gaudy, cheap gobelins, similar to the carpets that hid most of the ugly and cold stone floor from sight. Andrej's glowing wards gave the place an unreal blue hue, made it hard to see the place as something that had been full of living, laughing, eating people a few days ago, before the Night had surged upwards and ended the perpentual party prematurely.

 

A shrill, haunting cry made them all turn. Two gaunt forms detached themselves from the deeper shadows and spread their wings as they glid swiftly towards them, like huge hawks or buzzards. Shanna did not hesistate but leaped towards the closest one, her polearm leaving twin trails of discarded red light behind from its glowing blades. Andrej fired scintillating rays of raw mana at the other one, but missed in the dim light and punched half a dozen holes in an innocent gobelin. The woman and the demon met briefly in a blur of red light and shadowy talons, before the experienced shadow diver threw her prey away with a fluid motion of her staff. The demon stumbling through the air was an easy target for Manchev – a jet of flame shot from his pistol unerringly towards the ugly head. The holy bullet punched through the dark flesh and bone, breaking the flailing creature's head apart. It flopped once, weakly, before staying still and disappearing into the darker shadows. The other demon cried again, this time with a note of dismay, dodged a new barrage of magic from Andrej, and fled deeper into the steamhouse.

 

Satisfied that the first demon was truly down, Shanna twirled her spear like it had been a slender stick, set it to a ready position and leaped after the escaping creature. Manchev deposited his thickly smoking pistol to his wide belt and reached for his rifle while trying to keep up with the quick and nimble woman. The mage followed the two fighters at a far more relaxed pace, trying to avoid colliding with the furniture and debris strewn around, the Dreamer walking with a relaxed air right behind him. His eyes glowed light blue now, like two perfect mirrors reflecting the light of Andrej's wards.

 

They all reached the main room of the steamhouse at almost the same time, the two at the point slowing down, uncertain and nervous. It was twice as tall as the outer rooms, and a third of it was taken by an open stage where the dancers, magicians and poets had entertained the customers. Here the tables were higher and surrounded by sofas and divans instead of just pillows, and the braziers were fancier, more ornamental. The smells were stronger here, especially those of winter and death, and some of the carpets near them were soaked in old, rusty blood. The shadows were thicker here as well, and the far corners of the room were more like blurred sketches of black on black. Even the Dreamer's augmented senses did not give him a clear picture of the whole room. Shanna, who had seemed completely relaxed even during the brief fight just before, was now strained and in a half-crouch, her head tilted and an animal glint in her amber eyes. The grenadier muttered so loudly some of his words were almost recognizable, his thumb playing compulsively on the hammer of the rifle. The air here was colder, its touch somehow disgusting as if the Night had altered it so much it was something far more sinister, now. Shanna turned towards the point she had last seen the escaping demon and narrowed her eyes.

 

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

Right after her words the air in the chamber rushed inwards, streaming past the alarmed shadow divers as a steady gale.

[Zadown]

“Watch out!”

 

Shanna's words were soft and piercing at the same time, between a whisper and a shout. As if her warning had been a word of command, an order to start the deadly show, the shadows near the walls rippled with activity. A swarm of minor demons detached themselves from their hiding places and leaped to flight, their wings making leathery noises. They were not the reason for the wind whistling through the room, however. Something big and dark moved behind the curtains that separated the stage and the backstage, something massive and smelling of winter. It sucked in the air and opened its own wings, far too enormous to be used for flight in this chamber, big as it was. The half-demon made two rapid gestures with her fingers and glanced at Manchev, who in response drew his holy shell away from his rifle and loaded another shell in with quick, practiced motions. Soon after his rifle roared and spat forth a spark of bright light, the manufactured star drifting slowly through the cold air cutting remorselessly through the shadows, stabbing at the minor demons with such brilliance they cried and faltered. The thing standing on the stage, a great demon made of shadows and freezing dark, its eyes two rippling pools of murky gloom, its claws pointing at the shadow divers, did not cower under the light. It hissed and glared, its belly full of air. Then it opened its wide maw.

 

Manchev leaped behind a table and Shanna dodged out of the room altogether, both of them moving with adrenalin-enhanced agility. They were fighters, warriors, used to eluding attacks. Andrej wasn't, and he had barely time to twitch to the direction of nearest shelter when the wave of intense cold struck his and the Dreamer's wards. Planewalker's spells of protection shrugged the attack aside with trivial ease, the spells emerging from the brief clash unscathed, their normally invisible sigils only glimmering with his signature emerald green a fleeting moment before they faded. The mortal mage was not warded with spells of similar magnitude, not even nearly, and his blue wards crumpled under the assault, winked out of existence with barely slowing down the freezing wrath. He was thrust backwards, the immense frigid wind battering his soft body before bashing it against the wall. The mage had the luck to hit a thick gobelin, but nevertheless he fell down unconscious or dead, his lantern broken and dark.

 

“Andrej!”

 

The shout was almost crushed under the weight of the demon's triumphant laughter. As the woman dashed through the room to the mage's side, the shadows around the massive figure standing on the ruined stage swirled and solidified into a tall battlestaff that formed directly into the demon's grasp. It swung its new weapon a few times experimentally, then pointed it at Shanna and rumbled with an icy, hissing sound, speaking in a chilly dialect of an abyssal language.

 

“<Do not worry, mortal, for your sorrow will be brief. Prepare to die!>”

 

Before it had time to lumber forward, the Dreamer barked a short laugh and drew Pain, stared at the approaching behemoth with amusement glinting in his pale red eyes.

 

“<Th' most mortal creature in this room is ye, shadowlin'. I claim yer doom, wintry spirit.>”

 

Shanna cradled Andrej in her arms and was forcing some liquid through his frozen lips. Manchev had moved close to the two and was rapidly shooting at the minor demons, taking some down and making the rest think twice before attacking. The Dreamer ignored his mortal companions and strode forward, Pain held steady in front of him. The demon mockingly saluted the planewalker with his staff, spoke with words that formed of notes of crackling ice and whistling blizzard.

 

“<The knowledge of our language will not save you, sage, but if you insist you can die first.>”

 

It beat once with its vast wings, creating a cold wind that surged through the whole steamhouse, and leaped forward using its wings for balance. It was deceptively nimble and surprisingly fast, its huge body consisting of shadows that did not hinder its movements with too much mass. The demon whirled its conjured staff around once, so fast it seemed like a dark disc, and then thrust the semi-real weapon down towards the Dreamer like a trident. It flashed forward and smashed through the place where he had been, striking a table with a blow that broke it completely asunder. With his immortal alacrity, the Dreamer had leaped upwards and landed on the thick staff, running over it with dexterity that clashed with his scarred, old looks. The demon howled in puzzlement and frustration. It shook the staff to dislocate the agile planewalker, but he merely leaped down and landed softly, still rushing towards the demon with a frightening inevitability. Now bellowing with rage, the spirit of winter lifted its staff and struck almost directly downwards, trying to squish the Dreamer like a bug. The blow broke through the stage and cracked the stone beneath, but failed to find its target who had sidestepped the attack gracefully. Only the demon saw the look of careful concentration on its adversary's face when the Dreamer swung Pain in a perfect arc that was directly from the page of some book on theory of swordplay.

 

The spectral nodachi moaned softly before biting the hulking form of the demon in two.

[Zadown]

When they had reached the relative safety of the room directly above the steamhouse, Shanna whirled around and stabbed her forefinger at the Dreamer's direction like it had been a rapier. Nervous anger radiated from her and she almost hissed when she spoke.

 

“You! By the Dark Night, what was that you just did?”

 

The planewalker let his left eyebrown rise above his lightless, deep green eyes, his many facial scars dancing to accommodate the motion.

 

“Ya? Th' thing attack'd me, so I slew it. What 'bout it, miss?”

 

“You killed a pureblood demon, you moron! You brainless old derelict, useless waste of life! You have any idea what will happen next, old man, do you?”

 

He glared at the trembling finger, crimson color streaming into his eyes and filling them.

 

“Have care, miss. I 'end to regard words as grave assaults as icy winds an' shadowy weapons.”

 

“You already killed us back there, idiot! You don't see it, of course, of course not.”

 

Her shoulders slumped down and she lowered her finger a fraction. Fumbling through her clothes for her bark and her knife, she muttered half to herself.

 

“What evil have we done to get you as our burden? How have we offended the Lady of Scales, how?”

 

She sighed. Manchev had been hovering nearby, unsure if he should keep his attention on the still dazed but alive Andrej or if he should aim his loaded rifle at the Dreamer. He decided that the sigh had marked the planewalker as a potential ally, if an ally who had been stupid and reckless, but somebody who might deserve to live and turned to tend the recovering mage. The Dreamer stood still and silent, watched as Shanna went through her efficient and fast rituals that ended with a strip of the bark she used in her mouth. She closed her eyes and shivered once, blinked a few times and wiped her mouth with the back of a hand, sat down on the elevated trapdoor.

 

“Ahh, abyss, I already told you we don't want to kill any of the purebloods. Now they get really mad down there. You see, there's been this unwritten document between us and those of the Night – as long as we only deal with the small thugs, the minor demons, they don't mind us doing our business. They don't hunt us and we don't go after their purebloods, that's the deal. Now ... now, all bets are off. They can surge the Night up, send in assassins, raids ... and what's worst, they can blame us for it all. We'll be lucky not to be attacked by our people as well, and we can pretty much forget about getting work.”

 

Already towards the end of that short speech her words slowed down and gained a dreamlike quality. She blinked a few times, long, luxurious blinks that could have made any observer to think she saw something interesting in the darkness beneath her own eyelids. The words drained the most striking red away from the Dreamer's eyes, and when they slowed down and turned dreamy, his eyecolor matched the change, finally ceasing when it reached a light shade of turquoise.

 

“So, 's war now, that's what ye mean?”

 

He smiled, the scars writhing across his face. A smile Shanna did not see, for the dreamworld had gained her full attention and she sat down, eyes closed. Her voice was soft and low as she spoke, face turned downwards in sleepy ecstacy.

 

“Yes, a war, and we have no cards, no army, against their troops of cold and ice and gloom. Those above will only say we brought this upon ourselves, and perhaps we did. Perhaps the ire of Zadown is what we ...”

 

“Zadown!?”

 

Well, that does explain why I was sent here of all the places.

 

The name was loud and heavy, demanded explanation with such an invasive force the half-demon jerked and blinked, opened her amber eyes. Manchev glared at the planewalker and even Andrej turned to look, his eyes still glazed over with pain. Shanna frowned at what she saw on this side, clearly preferring her dream-visions to the scarred face of the Dreamer looming right above her, the ancient marks of old battles writhing across his ruined face, his eyes burning with searing yellow.

 

“Zadown, ye say? Tall, thin ghoul, enceas'd in platemail, wearin' a helm with wings, a mix'd scent o' embalmin' herbs an' rot followin' him around? Carries a broadsword an' practices necromancy, that Zadown?”

 

“Why are you asking me if you know so much better what he looks like? But yes, that sounds about right description of the Nightbringer, the Deathdealer, the Lich Below, the Lord of the Dark. Why, you met him before he ascended to godhood?”

 

There was more irritation than curiosity in the questions, but the most severe spike of dreamyness seemed to have passed her and she did not close her eyes again.

 

“Now, answer me this, miss – 'ow many ... long cycles 't has been since he arrived 'ere?”

 

The planewalker grit his teeth when he realized the local language had no words for years. Shanna did not notice his pause, however, but her frown deepened as she tried to recall.

 

“Arrived? I'm not that well versed in the lore of the Night, despite my blood – perhaps Bresohl would know better. I'd say he has been here at least half of my life, nearly 40 long cycles. Perhaps he is Manchev's long lost baby twin, eh?”

 

She grinned at the fuming grenadier.

 

“We figured he spawned from the darkness itself, or that the demons created him, or that he had been there all the time but only then gained enough power to rise up the Winter Throne. So, you are saying he came from elsewhere?”

 

The Dreamer narrowed his eyes, the yellow in them diluting and making way to a dark, dull purple.

 

“Ya, I am. He is an errant dream o' mine, Zadown is.”

 

The dry words created an absolute silence.

[Zadown]

The five of them sat around the messy table: Manchev looking bored and occassionally either mumbled unintelligbly or played with his empty pistol, Bresohl with his serene countenance listening attentively to every word spoken, anxious Andrej casting sideways glances at the Dreamer, going through various nervous motions that showed his unease of being in the presence of a master of the Art, Shanna irritated and relaxed at the same time, angry at the circumstances. And the Dreamer, sitting on a shabby armchair like it was a throne, his eyes the color of grey steel. The mortals sipped tea or mixed wine, but none of them had enough appetite to touch the small basket of fruits laid haphazardly to the corner of the table. The half-demon played with a small dagger before stabbing one of the fruits with it with a force that startled Andrej before leaving the blade there. Her eyes moved from the planewalker to one of the two female knights standing behind him in the posture of a bodyguard, the knight's face somewhat too perfect to be real.

 

“I still don't like this at all, Lord Old Man. You might be more powerful than we first thought, but I doubt there is a solution to this that even you can achieve with force, and these henchmen of yours will just make it all worse.”

 

The Dreamer's face remained impassive when he turned it a fraction to stare directly at Shanna.

 

“'Tis war now, neh? Ye said all bets are off, ya. So, unless ye were gravely mistaken, me bringin' 'ere a small force of my angels is perhaps too weak a gesture, an' I should've simply call'd all of my servants. Ye think we can reach this Zadown by other means, then?”

 

Andrej and Shanna both reacted to the word “we”, Shanna with a vicious scowl and Andrej by freezing completely, his fingers that had been tapping the table softly pausing in mid-air. She grabbed her small dagger and waved it in the air to underline her words.

 

“We? What we? You have already ruined our trade, and even if you have brought food and money to compensate, there's no amount of money in the whole world that'd make us follow you past the Shallow Night into the Winter.”

 

A grin appeared on the planewalker's face, and Shanna's scowl deeped in response.

 

“Ye could stay 'ere, if ye want, but I doubt this peace'll last much more – 'tis a miracle o' sorts we've gotten this many calm days, an' most likely 't merely shows they are gatherin' a bigger force than we are expectin', or that they are plannin' somethin' else drastic. An' when th' Night surges upwards, why, ye'll be inside it either way, with or without me, ya?”

 

A fraction of a moment before Shanna had time to start an angry retort, Breshol cut in with a calm gesture and mellow voice. He was a short, older man, his hair and beard a rich silver color, the small round glasses he used for reading lying on his chest from a leather braid. There was a sense of orderly neatness to him and his drab clothes, and he carried himself in a way that made him seem taller than he was. On his hands, which he used a lot when he spoke, you could see savage but old burn scars, and three of the fingers were slightly mishapen and without their nails.

 

“You have seen the Night's edge, master Dreamer, but with respect that does not give an accurate picture of what the enviroment is like in the heart of the Winter, nor does it show the great numbers of demons living there. That was one pureblood, and by all accounts you conducted yourself well, but how would you fare against ten? Or a hundred?”

 

“Ten I'd slay alone, m'lord Breshol. A hundred, an' I might call whatever forces I still command to assist me. Ye think in terms of men an' demons, an' so ye think a man will lose. A man would, aye, but a man I'm not.”

 

He frowned, his scars drifting across his ruined face, but said no more, cocked his head as if listening.

 

“A man, a half-demon or an angel, it just doesn't matter! Even if you are not a man, you are not a god either.”

 

The Dreamer's eyes closed for a moment, and when he opened them, they were radiant, deep blue, the color of Astral. He stared at Shanna and smiled.

 

“Naw, never a god, yet a godslayer ya. An' a godslayer ye'll need, for I can 'ear th' tides of th' Dark risin' towards us.”

[Zadown]

Ice glittered all around the tall form of the Dreamer. His scarred fingers slowly traced crude runes etched on a stone wall that barely showed from under the frost, a look of absentminded concentration on his face, his eyes light blue as if they were reflecting the color of ice. Once he had finished reading the old writing, he turned around.

 

“'The Winter is coming!', they say, neh? People 'ave liv'd this deep then at some point?”

 

Shanna, leading the small group of mortals, merely shivered and shrugged, but Breshol looked interested and walked past the planewalker to examine the writing. The shadow divers were all wearing several layers of clothing, none of it meant for such temperatures, trying to substitute quality by quantity. Their faces seemed pale in the flickering magelight, the sources of the illumination small shiny globes circling both the Dreamer and Andrej. The mortals had their breath steam in the freezing air and they moved with clumsiness, worn down both by the cold and lack of sleep. The Dreamer seemed energized in contrast, more animated and focused than normal, the cold meaning nothing to him. As the human scholar moved closer to examine the runes, his companions sat down and leaned on the frosty walls. Shanna shivered again, shifted her body as if trying to in vain find a spot from the wall that was not quite that cold, and turned her amber eyes towards the standing Dreamer.

 

“Can't you make it warmer, Godslayer? This cold hasn't been meant for living beings at all – it's a deadly thing, designed to rob the strength and will to live of anybody foolish enough to get this far.”

 

The planewalker frowned and the color of his eyes darkened to deeper blue. He waved his scarred, pale hand around in a gesture that encompassed all the ice around them.

 

“Ya, I could, easily. But 'twould melt th' ice an' soak ye with water vapours, an' th' blow 'gainst th' maintain'd blanket o' coldness would easily be felt an' tracked by th' demons. Not t' mention I've seen whole civilizations of yer kind live in far colder areas than this, without magic.”

 

“Fine, then. Freezing to death might be preferrable to whatever the demons have in store for us at any rate.”

 

“I wouldn't worry 'bout th' demons if I were ya, miss. Ye saw how I dealt with their kind, neh?”

 

She glared at him, but it was Andrej who spoke.

 

“It was hard to see much in that chaos, but it is clear we are not even pawns in this game. Why are we here with you, master? Protecting us must be at best a distraction to you.”

 

The Dreamer smiled, the scars drifting across his ruined face. His eyes turned almost white as he nodded and replied with a curiously soft voice.

 

“Ya, that ye are, a distraction, a test. Alone, with no considerations for anythin' b'sides my own survival, I am a Terror o' th' Astral, a Scourge o' th' Planes, th' Grail Marauder – most walls on th' paths I choose, I bend or break. With ye, 'tis far harder. We may yet lose.”

 

Shanna's voice dripped with sarcasm.

 

“Thanks for the reassurance, Lord Godslayer. I feel much better now knowing all that.”

 

“Yer welcome. If ye'd want faery tales instead, I'd say ye t' be on th' wrong trade, miss. An' we both know there 's no way 'xcept forward, now.”

 

A sullen silence fell, for a moment. It broke when Breshol rubbed his hands together to keep them warm and turned away from the text, nodded to the planewalker.

 

“Yes, you were right – a commendable expertise you have in the ancient runes, for it took even me a moment to decipher these. I'd estimate they are at least 1200 long cycles old, if not slightly older. This means the Night has crept upwards far longer than I thought.”

 

“Perhaps, but not this quickly. Without this Zadown, we would get our meager yet safe pay from the rare upward surges. One thing I don't get – how are we going to find him here, in his own territory? Do you really think he'll show himself?”

 

Everybody turned to watch the usually silent Manchev. He spoke to his rifle he was lovingly cleaning, but the words carried. After a short pause, he continued speaking but paused his cleaning and looked around.

 

“The way I see it, he has nothing to win and perhaps, if our scarred comrade here is speaking the truth about his power, everything to lose.”

 

Manchev reassembled the rifle with a few swift moves and returned to his inaudible muttering. The Dreamer shrugged and turned to look forward, a frown rearranging his scars to a new order.

 

“Ya, 'tis a good question. Th' way I see it, if he 's who he was when I dreamt of 'im, he'll confront me after I've shown myself. If he has changed, 'ere, who knows?”

 

“So, if you want to show yourself, can't you make it warm? Warm enough to dry off those water vapours you spoke of?”

 

Shanna's words were spoken in irritation, the questions rhetorical, an empty complaint against the bitter cold. However, they awoke a yellow and red spark in the dark blue eyes of the planewalker, made a grin appear on his ravaged face. The sparks grew into flames, making his eyes burn with light bright enough to alert the mortals, and the grin widened.

 

“Very well. Let there be fire, then.”

[Zadown]

The great chamber lacked the layers of ice that obscured most walls, ceilings and floors this deep in the realm of the Night. The smell of winter, likewise, was fainter here, barely discernible from under the thick odor of decay and embalming herbs, a sickeningly sweet and corrupted smell. Their escort faded into the twisting shadows, leaving the five of them to marvel at the size of the room and stare at the massive throne on the other edge of the vast space. It was not really a chair anymore, as no being big enough to sit on it would have fit even this room, but it had the shape of one if not the dimensions. This far it was hard to see if it was made of blackened bones, or perhaps some less ghastly material painted black, but the overall expression was a giant throne made of bones and skulls, the skulls each exhaling a misty breath of putrid cold. That mist swirled under its legs, concealing what lay underneath its massive bulk with a greenish haze. The walls were likewise black, but not the even black of paint – it was rather as if the room had been some other color and then the countless evils that had originated here had tainted it with grime. At even intervals, there was a pillar half submerged in the wall, vines and angels worked into the stone, all black now and disgusting to look at, even though it was barely possible to see the pleasing outlines of the original art under all the disfiguring filth. At the corners the pillars were of blackened metal, and unlike the ones supporting the ceiling these were clearly not part of the original construction. They depicted various twisted demonic shapes tormenting humans, gleeful malice on their black metal faces, horror and despair etched into the faces of the poor mortals getting trampled under their hooves and crushed under their quarterstaffs. The metal pillars did not reach the ceiling at all, but each of them ended in a thin, ghoulish figure in armor perched over a mountain of human bones, pointing a worn broadsword upwards, its gaze following the point of its own sword. Across the room there was another double-door similar to the one they had entered through, but the room itself seemed empty. It was hard to see if anything stood in the shifting shadows that made the abyssal figures wrought into the pillars seem like they moved, or if there were demons or men under the colossal Winter Throne.

 

The Dreamer digested the scenery with one quick glance, then dismissed most of it as irrelevant and strode towards the throne with long steps. His mortal followers turned their gazes away from the ruined, corrupted beauty of the big room and walked after him one by one in a disorderly procession. When he was halfway through the room, the giant chair already looming threateningly over him, the mists ahead parted as if they had been controlled. The demons seemed first as silhouettes, darker shadows in the swirling haze, before the last of it cleared away to show the Court of Winter clearly, in all of their unholy glory. The planewalker stopped and smiled slightly at the deadly lords of this particular abyss, an unimpressed expression on his face. The last of the noxious green mist swirled and shifted, then vanished as if a veil had been torn, showing exactly who he had been waiting to see – Zadown of Worms standing behind his six lords. He was much like he had been in his dream, so long ago: blackened, tainted platemail protected his desiccated, rotten body, a winged full helm showing two burning eyes but hiding the rest of the ghoul's face, a broadsword in a mundane, battered scabbard hanging from his belt. Now, however, there was an aura of power surrounding him. His decayed form did not feel like a weakness, a degradiation from some higher state of old, but a statement, a declaration of the power of corruption over the strength of immaculate, pure things. Even stronger than the vividness of his form was the sheer force of the smell that surrounded him, a cloying odour of corruption that was merely underlined by the strong fragrance of embalming herbs in the air.

 

Zadown of Worms, the Nightbringer, nodded to the Dreamer as to an equal and the planewalker nodded back, declining his head the exact same amount. A little white worm fell from inside Zadown's helmet, wriggling on the dirty stone floor. The two paid as much attention to the worm as they did to the lords of the abyss between them and the mortals standing uncertainly well behind the Dreamer, their gazes locked into a wordless contest. Zadown spoke first, but did not turn his gaze. His voice was dry and thin, the sort of sandy whisper a mummy might use, but it carried in this room well enough with power entwined with every word.

 

“So, m'lord, ye have decay'd as much as I have ascended if not more, if ye have to rely on mortals these days.”

 

There was laughter and sarcasm in the words that conveyed the mocking smile the helmet hid. The planewalker's answer in turn was tired, disappointed, like a father despairing over his failed son.

 

“Ye know as well as I do they are 'ere t' observe, nothin' more. I shall erase ye myself, my errant dream, without th' help of demons or angels, mortals or immortals.”

 

The full helm of the Zadown of Worms tilted to one side, dislocating another tiny white worm.

 

“Ye can try, father. But why now, Grail Marauder? Why wait until yer at the nadir and I'm at the zenith of our respective powers?”

 

A terrible smile twisted the Dreamer's face into a mask of gleeful malice, the scars writhing almost akin to the white worms that infested the decaying Zadown. His formerly Astral blue eyes gleamed suddenly with pale white fire and his scarred hand moved up, to the hilt of Pain.

 

“In this, I am but a puppet followin' th' orders of th' puppeteer. As she is not 'ere, ye'll never get an answer t' that question, I'm 'fraid. Ready t' cease bein', m'lord?”

 

“I was created ready, m'lord.”

 

The sound of Zadown's worn blade leaving its battered scabbard was surprisingly loud in the still room. It was answered by the soft, hungry moan of unsheathed Pain.

[Zadown]

“So, what happens now?”

 

They were at the same balcony they had been back then, when she first told him how this world worked. She looked almost the same, still clothed in the dark, shimmering colors, but there was something subdued in her motions, a softness in her voice that had been mocking sharpness when they first spoke. Her amulet glowed faintly red and there was vivid tones of amber in her eyes – those were the only lighter hues on her. The Dreamer, his flimsy black cloak wrapped around him, leaned on the railing, this time staring ahead at the opposing wall with a distant and serene look on his ruined face, his eyes the deep blue of Astral.

 

“Now, mortal? Things'll go as they've always gone, I'd surmise – th' Court o' Winter'll clash 'gainst each other an' a new Nightbringer will arise, an' the Night'll surge upwards slowly, with measured waves, givin' ye enough work an' excitement an' somethin' to complain about.”

 

While he spoke, he turned his gaze downwards, to the shadowy depths were people still worked and lived and beyond, where the Night was slowly receding downwards. Even his sharp eyes saw no omnious creatures flying in the endless chasm between the stone walls, no inhuman cries reached his immortal ears, and after a while a weak smile appeared on his pale face.

 

“And what happened down there, old man? Did you really kill him, this dream of yours?”

 

The planewalker stood up and the faint smile disappeared as he turned the strength of his gaze on the half-demon. Shanna stared back, her amber eyes narrowing but not blinking, until it was clear that the Dreamer was staring through her, into some memory or thought of his own. He blinked and refocused his now dark grey eyes, made an empty gesture.

 

“No, not really. Even his short tenure as the sovereign of th' Night granted him powers that surpass what any o' my dreams could attain by th' virtue of bein' shards of mine. He is not dead, merely banish'd from 'ere, an' I doubt he'll return to pester ye in yer lifetime. Those demons respect only power, so they will not suffer a loser to lead them.”

 

She nodded and walked to the railing to look down into the swirling Night far below the balcony, her slender hands grasping the vertical bars.

 

“Life goes on then, eh?”

 

He leaned on the railing again to follow her look and nodded to the abyss, eyes cloudy.

 

“Ya, for those o' ye who live. For me, th' existence goes on, as it 'as always done.”

 

Shanna shrugged and started to pat her clothes to find her knife and pouch of bark.

 

“Say, did you pass your test, then?”

 

Comfortable silence stretched between them, Shanna going through the ritualistic motions of her drug habit, the Dreamer staring into the depths of the Night and his thoughts, his gaze unfocused. After she had descended into her own bark-induced visions and closed her eyes, he finally muttered something softly in a low voice.

 

“Who knows?”

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

All around him was pure whiteness, a canvas for his thoughts. The Dreamer floated in the empty space as he always did at the beginning of his meditation before the visions he conjured woke up. He pointed at a point in the nothingness and a memory sprung to life, clear and three-dimensional.

 

Pain surged forward hungry to kill and skewered Zadown of Worms with little effort. That did not slow down the armored ghoul, however, and an instant later Zadown's nicked, dull broadsword clanged against his wards, the impact injecting a destructive degenerating poison into them. The Dreamer danced backwards, surprise written on the face for those who knew how to read the map of scars. His adversary cackled and did not press his advantage at once.

 

“Ye really thought Pain would hurt me? That blade of decay and sufferin'?”

 

With disgust he threw his spectral nodachi away. In the same instant it vanished into the Astral he drew Benefical Dragon out of thin air and wordlessly pointed its green blade at Zadown.

 

The scene froze and he frowned, pointed at another empty spot to conjure another vivid memory.

 

His jade katana and the nameless, worn blade of his shard struck each other, iridescent sparks flying when the enchantments on the blades fought for supremacy. Both immortals launched a whirlwind of attacks and parries, counterattacks and feints at each other, the air between them full of blurred, sharp shapes and floating embers, the movements far too fast for a mortal eye to follow. The Dreamer's face was almost blank with a hint of anger in the set of his mouth, his eyes two endless black pits on his pale face – Zadown's full helm did not show even that much emotion, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. Somewhere in the background, utterly forgotten, were the mortals and demon lords captivated by the battle of the titans.

 

The planewalker was the first to break the dazzling monotony, striking a powerful blow that sent Zadown backwards, the ghoul's parry perfect but his armored boots lacking the needed friction to stay still. He followed up with a hastily conjured ward which blocked Zadown's counterattack, his other hand already going through the motions of another spell. Zadown's next blow met Benefical Dragon's thin green blade again, the katana held in one hand. A writhing stream of tiny blades appeared entwined around the Dreamer's left arm. They had time to make a short sound like a metal snake slithering over stone floor, then the planewalker lashed with the living whip at his opponent. The keen blades plunged forward, most of them deflected by Zadown's circular parry but some gouging and cutting the already torn platemail the ghoul wore.

 

Zadown laughed and rushed forward.

 

The Dreamer let that memory halt as well and studied the inexpressive mask of his opponent's helmet in silence. He lifted his hand towards the still vision very slowly, lost in his thoughts, then abruptly made a gesture of dismissal and the vision vanished, leaving a white canvas ready to be filled by another fragment of the memory of the battle. Another gesture, another recalled vision.

 

Both combatants aimed devastating blows at each other, the swords meeting in the middle with a thundering crack. Both of them took a step back, created a lull in the long battle. They lowered their blades.

 

“Yer strong, I 'ave t' grant ye that, Zadown o' Worms. But yer strength isn't temper'd by the passin' of years – at best ye can defend yerself, but ye can't win 'gainst me, shard.”

 

The ghoul picked a worm that had burrowed through the grey flesh of his neck and flicked it away, contemptuously turning his gaze away from the planewalker while he did so.

 

“Yer wasting yer breath, dreamer. Words can't erase me – I'm too strong to be torn away from this existence by a simple word of power the way ye got rid of some of my brothers. Show me what that pretty blade of yers can do, instead!”

 

Zadown snarled the last few words as he charged forward, his nondescript blade held securily in both hands. The Dreamer had been ready, had been muttering a long spell under his breath even as they spoke, and roared now the last rune of sealing that conjured and shaped the raw mana he had been working with in one instant. His katana held in his left hand, he pointed with his right and unleashed a bolt of searing blue manafire. When he could see again after the brilliance of the explosion, nothing remained where Zadown of the Worms had been.

 

The Dreamer frowned, his dim grey eyes searching the shifting shadows for his opponent in vain.

 

Frustration written on his face, the planewalker waved impatiently and the image vanished. Silence and stillness stretched, time forgotten. He stared at the whitness with Astral blue eyes and did not move, not even here inside his own mind.

 

When he stirred, he moved from total stillness to jerky, rapid movements with no pause in between. His clumsy gesture conjured new images on the white canvas, but these weren't moving memories any more. They were pictures of his endless shards, powerful and weak, vivid and fading, the least important of them barely sketches in the background. Nearest and most colorful, most lifelike were the images of those who had stolen enough to be independent, perhaps even to move between planes.

 

His gaze travelled over a lynx, almost completely white with scarce spots of black where needed: nose, eyes, the tips of his ears. The whiteness of the creature was natural, the dirty white of snow and ice, of wintry rabbits and drifting clouds. The Dreamer's eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and turned his attention to the next shard.

 

A vision of Zadown of Old stared back at him, his hand grasping the hilt of his metalium katana so hard it was almost white, a striking contrast against the simple green robes he wore. His eyes were green as well, though not as dark as the robe.

 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the Dreamer's eyes turned bright yellow.