Excision

[Zadown]

The heavenly chariot carrying the Sun raced upwards spreading clear, strong light everywhere. Far below it spread a vast field of green, the details of the terrain impossible to see from as high up as the lone archangel gazing down was. He was sitting on the floor of a small floating hexagonal tower made of wood painted white, the glass in its every window glinting in the sunlight. The gleaming scalemail the archangel wore reflected light even more, seemingly golden. He absently touched the intricate crystal key that hung from his neck, then pushed himself backward from the drop, his armor jingling and sending small rays of sunlight to every direction. A pleasant, tranquil smile appeared on the archangel's beautiful face and he closed his eyes for a short moment, savouring the warm touch of the Sun.

 

After a while he opened his bright, blue eyes and reached backwards into the small structure, his searching fingers finding the book lying on the floor fairly quickly. His smile widened and he started dragging the heavy book towards him, still staring outwards at the scenery of wide blue sky, limitless green ground and the lone exception to these two featureless backgrounds, the brilliance of the Sun. Right then somebody stepped on the book, pinning his unprotected fingers under it. Startled, the archangel almost fell at first, then tried to turn around to see what was exactly happening.

 

"Say, aren't ya suppos'd t' guard this portal, ya?"

 

Obscuring his view to the portal itself, one wyrmskin boot firmly on his beloved book, a scarred face thrust towards his surprised visage, was the Dreamer. The planewalker looked half pleased with himself and half angry, his eyes dark, dim green.

 

"Master! Yes!"

 

"Quit daydreamin', then, soldier."

 

The planewalker released his boot from the book when he stepped forward. He dragged the planar soldier up, lifting him effortlessly until his white leather boots were at the same level as the tower's floor. The angel was almost as tall as his master was, clad in white and shining metal, even his hair white as snow. When he realized he was staring at the Dreamer's face, the angel lowered his gaze and bowed deep.

 

"I gather 's been peaceful 'ere, then. Who 'ave been th' last three t' use th' portal?"

 

"Um ... the demon Êzkhael Khâ, carrying a large stasis chamber was the last to pass, three days ago. Before that ... Jíanlael Alh, bringing in a crate full of weapons from Tultuul, twelwe days ago, and ... er. Óellaeh-Ân thirtyfive days ago, acting as the Herald's messenger. She just examined the fortress for the Herald and returned right afterwards, Master."

 

The Dreamer's eyes narrowed.

 

"Passable, soldier. Why didn't ya break th' key when I stepped on yer book, however? Ya know th' rules, yer main concern 's to not to let anybody claim th' portal intact."

 

The archangel allowed himself to show some indignation, stood up straighter.

 

"Master, no angel, even less a demon, could have snuck on me as you did. And no planewalker uses portals."

 

A grin appeared on the planewalker's face, the scars shifting across his torn face.

 

"So ya say, so ya say. I'll accept that answer for now, soldier. Carry on."

 

"Yes, Master."

 

The Dreamer walked to the edge of the tower and right over it, falling towards the distant ground. The archangel could not help himself and walked after him to glance over the edge. Far, far below, nearer the ground than the tower, a small white dot descended rapidly, then vanished from sight.

 

I let him off easy. This fortress is supposed to be my most heavily guarded one, the place that could in theory hold off an assault of a planewalker captain without me here defending it.

 

Ground surged upwards to meet him, the uniform green below starting to turn into detailed fields of stone covered in thick moss. He made a slight gesture, muttered a few words in the True Language, and his descend slowed down abruptly. When his feet touched on the surface of the plane it was a gentle landing, softer than stepping down the last step of a stairwell. This close the surface looked curious: the stone formed spirals and snake-shaped formations, the ground uneven and full of holes. Some parts were like remains of huge pipes, the surface of those pipes made of separate threads of stone, spiralling around an empty core. The stone was all different shades of grey, the moss vibrant, moist green - those colors and their limited hues the only ones present if you excluded the colors the Dreamer had brought with him: his cream-white robes and the white of his pale skin, the black scabbard on his back, the dark purple of his boots and the grey of his hair.

 

A look of mild concentration appeared on his face when he walked along the thick beam of stone he had landed on, but otherwise he didn't seem to care about the treacherousness of the surface, the various pitfalls and holes the uneven stone presented to the traveller. Rather it seemed to merely show his immortal grace. The beam of stone he walked on ended, the Dreamer standing at its very end with an unconcerned air, below him opening a deep fall into the skein of stone. He stood there a moment, watching the cavity below him. Then he leaped down, using his Art to land softly where a normal mortal would have had every bone in his legs crushed and cracked.

 

Up on the surface a fresh wind had swept over the moss and stone, making most odours dissipate. Down here the air was almost still, the layers of moss in the few places sunlight reached at all thin and sickly, a musty, organic smell in the air. Despite the walls of the cavity blocking the Sun, it was warmer here and there was a hint of vague scent of sulphur. With a wan smile the Dreamer snapped his fingers, using that loud noise to summon a small green mageflame to light his way. He glanced around. The stone down here was similiar to that on the surface, consisting of spiralling formations of stone forming empty pipes. It was easier to see their exact shape without the cover of moss, but the Dreamer didn't seem to be interested. His gaze swept across the large natural-seeming space before he found out what he had been looking for. On one edge of the space was a dark doorway leading out- and downwards.

 

A-ha.

 

He walked slowly to the doorway, paused at a certain point to send a certain arcane signal to the waiting traps before continuing onwards. The corridoor was tall and wide, big enough for a small army or a stunted giant, its floor gradually shifting from the porous mess of stone cables to a more solid, normal rock, its color darkening as well. The Dreamer blew towards the tiny mageflame and it burst into brighter flames, grew until it was the size of a fist and strong enough to fully illuminate the surroundings. Even reflected sunlight could not reach the swiftly walking Dreamer any more, leaving the mageflame a free reign to taint everything green.

 

The tunnel turned steeply downwards soon afterwards, making it only suitable for climbing or flying. The Dreamer leaped again, falling towards the depths with the green comet of his mageflame by his side. Even with the air rushing and the uneven stone walls whistling past him at alarming velocities, his face was impassive, his eyes dim. He held his arms stretched towards the far walls of the tunnel, but there were no conjured wings that would have slowed down his long fall, no outward reason for his odd pose. Then, reacting to some invisible mark, he muttered words that were lost in the roaring wind, made faint gestures with his outstretched hands. He landed softly, once again.

 

Now, the fun part.

 

Round tunnels lead to every direction, their surfaces crawling with garbled runes when examined with the magesight. The traps and mind-effecting enchantments all looked the same, the visible manifestations of the spells changing shape, altering a trap to a rune of bewilderment, a rune of misdirection to a rune of obtuseness. Every tunnel seemed covered with such a selection of magical hazards disarming or bypassing them would take ages. A wan, proud smile appeared on the planewalker's impassive face.

 

The Dreamer sidestepped into the Planar Astral. Everything took on a blue hue, the surroundings distorted, all other senses except vision shut off. To walk here was useless folly, given there was no way to find anything except the way out altogether, an exit to the Void. He took a careful step directly downwards, towards the fiery heart of the planet, ignoring the alarms such a move set off throughout his mind.

 

There, the buoy, right where it should be.

 

Below him, too far to be detected from the labyrinth above by any means, shone a bright azure light. Everything else was dark and gloomy blue, the color of sea down where the light at last gives in and darkness wins. When he concentrated on it, he could barely discern the sigils he had written on its surface. Another step down brought him right next to the buoy, deep enough to see through the confusing, mind-twisting layers of the Planar Astral into the well room below. Last step downwards and one sideways, and he exited the Astral in a small, crude room filled with poisonous gases and unbearable heat, the lava bubbling in the large well giving off red light.

 

He paused, nodded to the two bound earth elementals hiding in the stone on both sides and searched the surroundings for the telltale aura of some other planewalker or a planar creature of any kind, certain none could be near but paranoid as all of his kind. Satisfied that he was alone, the Dreamer took down some of the least useful of his wards and replaced them with enchantments that protected against fire and pressure, lava and stone. He took his time, going over the incantations and gestures he rarely used with meticulous care, casting the spells with a slowness that would have been impossible for a mortal mage. When at last he muttered aloud the word that activated his wards, they had a deep blazing purple color instead of the usual coruscating emerald green. A satisfied grin appeared on his face and turned his visage into a grinning demon, the purple of the wards and the red of the burning lava coloring it with their unnatural light.

 

Pausing no longer, the Dreamer leaped down to begin his swim through lava to the Fortress Syvkiv.

[Zadown]

"Aaaaaaahhh!"

 

Marchello shook his head and shuddered, a terrible weight crushing down his chest. He blinked rapidly a few times, trying to sense where he was and what was happening before he realized he had just woken up.

 

That gate spell, smashed circle of protection, the scarred, pale giant - all a dream? ... or just a déja vu?

 

The realization of where he was seeped into him slowly from the dark, dry air, easing the tight knots of panic, the sharp angst ameliorated into dull ache of worry. His body relaxed and he turned around, thinking for a short moment he might be able to regain the elusive sleep, then gave up and sat up.

 

The demon had better bed than this. I guess most beings kept in this quarantine cell have more acute worries than how soft or wide their bed is, though.

 

He rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation of blood in his numb fingers, yawned and raked his short hair once, absently. His latent magesense started probing at his surroundings and came to the same conclusion as always - this place was sealed and devoid of mana, a zone of dead magic. As always, that feeling hit him like a tall wave, gave him such a sense of claustrophobic terror he had to regulate his breathing to keep himself from hyperventilating. Marchello didn't care about the physical cage, but the absence of magic, an empty hole where his Art usually was, sent cold sweat trickling down his skin. He yawned again, found his candle, almost tried to ignite it by the magic he lacked before managing to drag his daydreaming mind back to his current space and time. It took a while, but in the end he got it lighted with the flint and steel he had been provided with. The wavering light of a beewax candle was enough to illuminate the pages of the one book he had been allowed, and he let his grip on his daydreaming mind loose, floated beyond this time and place to the world of theory of magic.

 

"... Marchello! Marchello!"

 

"Huh?"

 

"I'd pour a cup of water over your head as usual, Marc, but you are too far inside your snug cell! Now, stop daydreaming and come here, I doubt we'll get to visit you again any time soon after this."

 

"How are you, Marchello?"

 

"Quit worrying, Fionella, he has a book so he is alright, right Marc?"

 

Three familiar voices: his fellow students Ultar (Aefian oaf, people called him, and it was easy to see why with him being so loud and open, so tall and wide, his pale skin a rarity), Fionella (short and slim, possessing an inner fire that only manifested itself when she was working on the Art, made her beautiful during those moments when she bent the world to her will) and Alberto (tanned so dark the purple hue of Chaman was almost invisible, mercurial in nature - hovering between existential angst and sublime ecstasy, black brooding and bright mania). Sometimes he wondered why they chose to associate with him at all, what there was in his character that was worthy of such attention, or any attention for that matter, but mostly he just accepted them as one of the more positive aspects of his somewhat grey existence.

 

Marchello carefully marked down the page he had been reading, put the book away with quite a bit more tenderness than the heavy, reinforced tome really needed, and walked the short distance to the cell door. The lead bars were engraved with sigils, most of the door's strength in the enchantments cast on it instead of in the actual resilency of the lead bars and tcha-wood door. The gaps between the bars were rather wide, wide enough for him to clasp hands with all of his friends, one by one. If he had been a planar creature, the wards would have blocked him, but as he wasn't most of the enchantments, runes of warding and protection and sigils of containment actually did nothing to keep him in here.

 

"Your hand is ice cold, Marchello. Are you sure you are feeling well?"

 

"My hands are always cold, Fionella. And yes, I'm alright, just bored in here."

 

"His hands are for caressing the delicate pages of beautiful books, they do not need to be warm. You can give up on him Fion, he is already married to the library."

 

"Hey!"

 

He smiled, half embarassed, half pleased by Alberto's jest and Fionella's reaction to it, rubbed his hands together again. An old habit, that.

[Zadown]

The Dreamer stopped, tuned out the voice of the hound archon slightly ahead of him, the caretaker who was explaining the current state of this fortress. The two of them stood in the cavernous main hall of the stronghold, a massive room that had no practical purpose. Its far-away roof was filled with green crystals reaching downwards, delicate and transparent fingers of the earth, the bright light from the multitude of magical lanterns glinting and gleaming on their surfaces. The walls were rough, uneven, half of the lanterns fixed into the various niches and holes, their light reaching the room only in reflected form. The floor was even, mostly empty. There were some tables and chairs near the edges of the room, a few angels standing guard with a detached look on their perfect faces next to the few doorways out.

 

The hound archon, Muskhe Resharn, noticed that his words were being disregarded and fell silent, turned his grey wolf-like head towards the planewalker to see when his master would require his explanations again. The Dreamer was staring at the crystals above them, his eyes matching their dim green hue. After a while, something made him frown and blink, and when he turned to look at one of the doorways his eyes were the dark blue of nightly sea, black tendrils creeping through the already almost black background. A short moment later an angel flew through the doorway he was staring at, the mode of travel indicating utmost haste - angels did not enjoy flying in such cramped quarters even if it wasn't already strongly frowned upon by their masters. The planewalker strode forward, Pain appearing in his empty hand already moaning in anticipation.

 

The archangel landed ungainly in front of the Dreamer and bowed hastily, an uneasy look on his face. He was the one who had been guarding the portal, the crystal key was hanging from his neck, the intricate thing shining in the light of the constellations of magical lanterns.

 

"Ye call this guardin' th' portal, soldier?"

 

"Forgive me, Master - she convinced me her mission was urgent, and for better or worse, my lord, I believed her."

 

There had been a storm brewing in the narrowed eyes of the planewalker and now it broke out, red and yellow lightning flashing in the depth of darkness. He snarled and stepped forward, lifted the angel effortlessly up with his left hand.

 

"Ye were convinc'd t' leave yer post!? By whom, pray tell! I may be short on angels, fool, yet fail t' answer me properly this once an' I'll be one more archangel short."

 

"Lady Faaye Khantius, my lord. She was gravely wounded and in great haste, and ..."

 

He growled, but his wrath-filled eyes were lifted upwards and were not fixed on the shivering angel any more. Tearing a strip of the angel's enchanted scalemail with him, the Dreamer sidestepped away into planar Astral.

 

A few moments later he reappeared as close to the floating tower holding the portal to Syvkiv as he could, leaped through the Astral once or twice and eventually landed on the white floor of the flying structure. He quickly took in every detail, every shred of his attention in the present, his mind uncharacteristically focused. Below, the green ground was dark except near a wandering sun-strider, a skinny elemental giant of fire and sunlight, taller than ten men, who illuminated an area of the mossy stone around it. The sky was uniform and dark, no moon and no stars, the nights here absolute in their lack of heavenly lights.

 

Before him, her suit of white leather and plate smeared in planewalker blood, stood Faaye, turning towards him slowly. On the white floor of the tower were drops of the same blood, black against grey in the low illumination. Faaye's curly hair was matted with sweat and there was a determined, bitter look on her normally friendly and open face, her lips pressed into a line instead of the usual smile. She lowered the tip of her gleaming, clean longsword as she saw him, but her grim visage did not change as she kept on turning, finally showing the injury she had received.

 

A vertical cut had cleft the left side of her face in two, the wound geometrical and exact in form, reaching from her eyebrown to her jaw, the eye underneath the slash milky and dead. The stillness she saw in the Dreamer when he saw the injury made her face tighten, the bitter grimness deepen, but she remained silent for a moment longer. Then she sheathed her blade and grimaced, the pain that movement of facial muscles inflicted showing in her single remaining eye.

 

"This is th' mercy of th' Law ye see, m'lord Dreamer. Th' mercy ... of th' Law."

 

"An' just who of them 's capable of such mercy, m'lady? Unless ye've managed t' wake up th' champions of yore, those of th' Zealots who sleep waitin' for Law's last triumph or loss, I know of no single planewalker who'd be able t' cut such a blow against ya in fair combat."

 

"Tchaa, th' Zealots? We may yet see them, aye, but this was no planewalker. A runelord, rather. An' a merciful one at that."

 

She laughed without humor, angry.

 

"'Tis a story that can wait - what can't wait, m'lord, 's reclaimin' th' other pieces of th' Blue Flame. Ye 'ave no idea what ye've set in motion this time, Scourge o' th' Planes - nobody has, I'd wager."

 

"Urgent or not, I can't let ye in this fortress, m'lady."

 

"Unless ye hold any more pieces of th' Flame there, neither o' us need t' go there. If yer willin', I can show all I've seen regardin' this matter, given my psionic skills aren't as lacklustre as yers. Open yer mind, Wodzan Xe Chanima. See what a mess ye've created."

 

He lowered the wards that protected him against psionic assaults. And the images flooded in.

[Zadown]

Palgrave Atyaer's voice, dry and dead, exact and crystal clear, cut through the silence.

 

"As you all are aware, our loss in the last great war was merely the result of Grail's meddling. What is not in the general knowledge, however, is that even that vessel of Fate requires time to recuperate - that it's reserves of golden fire are not endless."

 

The auras of so many powerful planewalker captains made the atmosphere oppressive, their combined presence creating an area of concentrated Law. It turned the air in the room dry and silent, muted all unnecessary movement. Atyaer's gaze swept through his twelve elite followers, seemed to tarry on Faaye's apparently innocent visage.

 

"Thus, now is our time to truly strike against the twisting, vile Chaos. Now as they argue about the last war and believe themselves safe, now that their Scourge of Planes has turned to Balance. Now that we finally are beginning to reclaim what was ours."

 

He showed a vial of Blue Flame to the planewalkers, who roared their approval in flat, monotonous voice.

 

*

 

She appeared high above the perfectly level plane, ready to discern her position by observing the ground from far away, to see which rune she had landed on. As soon as she had sidestepped into the Prime, a faint shock rippled through her body. A frown of uncertainity and disbelief shadowed her beautiful, open face.

 

A taint of ... Law?

 

Down below thin lines of smoke were rising directly upwards, unnaturally rigid.

 

*

 

A switch from magesight to normal vision showed a bright cloud of brilliant auras marching on ahead, not very far. Faaye shaded her eyes with her hand from old habit and surveyed the force.

 

That's quite an army. One ... two ... five ... eight ... eleven planewalker captains? And over a thousand archangels. Just what target they are going to hit in Midthgelmërch? First will-o-the-wisps, now devils?

 

She dashed forward, quickly accelerating to a speed only a handful of known powers could match.

 

*

 

The vision was half drenched in red and pain, the form of an armored giant a vague silhouette ahead. Sparkling, gleaming runes danced around the edges of the armor, golden eyes burned in the shadows of the helmet, a long blade dripping planewalker blood was pointed towards her.

 

"This is the mercy of Law, Countess Faaye Khantius of Law. Examine your actions and repent while you can, walker of the paths."

 

She grimaced and backed off, lifted her own bright sword between her and the runelord. The runelord ignored her and turned away.

 

*

 

The images faded and the Dreamer opened his purple eyes.

 

"Th' fools. Dangerous, deadly, insane fools."

 

He growled, too angry for words.

Edited December 30, 2005 by Zadown

[Zadown]

"You seem pretty calm about this."

 

"I've already faced death, this can't be much worse."

 

The guard who had talked turned his gaze forward again, chuckling at his comment. There was two of them, both wearing crimson loose clothing with golden ornaments, the uniform of the university guard. Both had heavy, fingerless leather gloves as well, old weapons that had been crafted ages ago during the age of magic, now tarnished almost black. They demonstrated their effect to each new age group. He could still remember the look of pained shock on the face of Ultar just before he passed out - he had volunteered without really knowing what would happen. Most of the locals had heard the stories from their relatives and were snickering covertly even before the actual blows landed.

 

They reached the gates leading out of the quarantine ward, the heavy grinding sound of massive block of stone moving sideways bringing Marchello out of his reverie. Security was something that was taken seriously everywhere magic was being taught, a hundred true horror stories illustrating what happened if magic got out of hand. Several of them were parts of the history of this particular university. Even enchantments, steel and tcha-wood weren't always enough to contain the most spectacular failures ... and the most spectacular successes.

 

"Well, good luck, boy."

 

The same guard who had talked to him earlier finished his comment with an encouraging hand gesture miming the flipping of the Fate's coin that meant wishing good luck, then opened the heavy, reinforced door and stepped aside to let him pass. Marchello rubbed his hands together and smiled nervously, suddenly not so sure if this was easier than being yanked through a gate by a scarred demi-god. He straightened his robes and walked in, right into the crossfire of the Magical Incident Containment Committee member's glares.

 

*

 

First thing he saw when his eyes worked again after entering the bright daylight outside was an exaggarated look of mock surprise on Alberto's face.

 

"Oh look, they let the demon loose!"

 

A few of the more elder occultists passing by gave them a cursory glance, then dismissed the shout as a youthful joke and ignored them. Marchello looked faintly embarassed even after nobody stared at them any more.

 

"Better not cry wolf too many times, Alberto. Some day you'll summon a demon sorceress of the seventh circle by accident and when you will cry for help, everybody will think you are joking."

 

"Oh, pff, I can handle those things. Only fair maidens akin to our dear friend Fion have anything to fear from their tentacles."

 

"You've been listening to Yamir's or Berthelloe's stories again, haven't you? I swear, their brains are getting moldy already."

 

"Very nicely said, that. I'll remember to tell that to them next time I visit the library, I'm sure they'll be delighted to hear it."

 

"Um no, don't bother."

 

"Haha! So, how does it feel to be free, now? Ultar and Fion had important classes, they couldn't come, but we'll have to celebrate this tonight, properly. That doesn't mean reading books or calculating magical matrix interaction coeffecients, if you catch my drift dear friend."

 

"Yes, well, I was able to read the Theory of Magical Matrixes during my quarantine quite enough. I guess I could be convinced to do something else, this one night."

 

"Splendid! We shall come drag you out of your room around eighth bell, then. Be prepared!"

 

A wide grin appeared on Alberto's face and he waved melodramatically before hurrying off towards one of the various buildings that the university consisted of. Marchello paused to watch him run ungainly in his robes, several other occultsist and students also giving Alberto various looks of amusement or disapproval, depending mostly on their age.

 

It was a great day, warm and bright, as it always was - the weather rituals took care of it, allowing rain only during the night, regulating wind and sunlight. People walked around in robes that declared their rank and school of magic, in small groups and alone, some discussing what they just had learned, some talking about their research or the news from abroad. Most were Chamanians, their skin tainted purple by some event so deep in the mists of history nobody knew the story any more, some students from the other countries - Aef, Red Theocracies, Tyourun, Ghamaast, Lam-Roo. He even spotted a lich deep in discussion with a student and a small group of Wanderer elves sitting on the grass in the shadow of a tree, their multi-colored clothes very different from the robes almost everybody else wore. Air was full of the heady perfumes of flowers, the gentle breeze bringing hints of the familiar, dry smell of old tomes, the exotic fragrances the elves used and other smells, harder to identify.

 

Marchello breathed in deeply, happy to be out of the boring cell, then shivered without knowing why.

[Zadown]

"An' what are ye going t' do now, m'lady?"

 

He lowered his eyes from her ruined face, then turned their gaze past the rim of the floating structure, watched the distant giant of light wander seemingly aimlessly over the monotonous surface. His face hardened, the scars freezing into rigid positions - lines of cold, set anger, creating something akin to a series of rough lightning tattoos in a row, all pointing from the back of his head towards his face.

 

"My course 's clear. They are actin' both against Balance an' against Chaos, an' in their hunger for power they are aimin' to 'ave an age where no planewalker shall roam free, unfetter'd by th' chains of Law. But ye?"

 

"Do ye think I would ask after yer remainin' pieces o' th' Flame to turn them over to Palgrave Atyaer, ya?"

 

Faaye was silent before speaking again.

 

"I do not want 'nother Grail War, m'lord."

 

She dropped her wards, their powerful weaves of magic dissolving, the local leylines of ambient magic shining faintly for a passing moment when they had to accommodate the excess mana. It was a gesture more absolute than a knight taking off his plate helm or a wolf baring its throat, a sign of high trust - or black desperation. Purple haze faded from the Dreamer's hooded eyes at the same rate as Faaye's magical protection dissipated, left them colorless and transparent, utterly inhuman and devoid of expression. She offered her hand, the white leather gauntlet smeared with her own blood.

 

The Dreamer laughed. It was open and loud sound, abrupt in both its start and subsequent end. His eyes sparkled and turned white, and his wards designed to withstand the blows of angry gods and strikes that could devastate small towns flickered once, twice, and were gone. He almost leaped forward and shook Faaye's hand a grin on his face.

 

"Welcome t' th' side o' Balance, sister - we 'ave much work to do, then."

 

Faaye's answering smile was lopsided and did not quite reach her eyes. The two planewalkers withdrew their hands and started reweaving their powerful protection spells, both quietly concentrating on the task. Once the wards were again securily in place, the two planewalkers again separated by the invisible spheres of force, they nodded to each other and sat down.

 

"So, ya think he'll figure out where th' last fragment o' th' Flame is, m'lady?"

 

"Th' wisps brought their doom on themselves, given they were th' ones that told us about th' Blue Flame's return. But what of Midthgelmërch? There was a part o' th' Flame in that direction, ya?"

 

"Aye. Secure 'gainst any normal assault, ya, but even th' devils can't withstand th' rage of such a large part of Law's judgin' fist. Ah, I wish I'd been there t' see th' devastation."

 

"So, do they hold all parts o' th' Flame now?"

 

He blinked slowly, stared through her, then shrugged and refocused his blue gaze.

 

"I can't say, this way or that - I 'ave no way of knowin' whether or not they 'ave reached th' part guarded by th' Devourer or th' last, tiniest an' hardest t' find piece. Goin' to get th' piece from DeMorneer's maze would be a fool's errand - th' forces of Law would track me an' pin me down, then overpower th' Lord o' Abyss and get th' piece, easily. They can do their own work, as far as that part o' th' Flame's concerned."

 

Her voice was softer than normal, tentative.

 

"An' th' last piece, then?"

 

The Dreamer grinned and tilted his head, gave her a sharp and amused look.

 

"Ya, th' last piece, aye ... I could get it. But where can one store it against th' wrath o' half th' Law's forces?"

 

"Why store it?"

 

He frowned, his scars dancing across his face.

 

"Ya?"

 

"Why store it, m'lord? As ye said, there is no place we can go that has walls thick enough to hold 'gainst th' storm of Law's fanatics. We should douse it, not store."

 

"Ye know a way t' destroy one o' th' keys to th' Parallels? An' ye think we should?"

 

"It is a Flame, neh? Do ye think it can survive in Wesmual?"

 

"Assumin' it does survive th' primal waters, th' freezin' cold and crushin' pressure of Wesmual, an' that ye watch it burn merrily in th' dark depths as th' vanguard of Law closes in - what would ye do, m'lady Faaye Khantius of Law?"

 

Her smile still had no joy to it, the movement of her facial muscles tugging at the drying blood. She rubbed her cheek and winced, then let the rest of the blood be.

 

"Why, I'd take it again an' run with it, an' none of those sluggards would catch me. They have nobody quicker than me, m'lord, as ye well know."

 

"Ya, I can see from yer un-marr'd face ye've never been caught on th' Lost Paths, Faaye th' Swift."

 

She glared at him, but his face held an amused, superior look that was saying more than any few words could convey. It together with the dry, almost sardonic tone he had used told her this was the price she would have to pay for his trust - that he was mocking them both with his comment, aware that he was overextending his trust, consicious at the risk they'd both be taking. A mask, an illusion of amused nonchalance, underneath which lurked the threat of the last, final and utter Death for them. All that and more she could see in that one fleeting moment when her angry glare was dismissed, and she conceded the point to him with a thoughtful nod.

 

"Ye know of a better way t' stop this, Scourge o' th' Planes?"

 

"Naw, I don't."

 

Or perhaps I do. Perhaps...

[Zadown]

The glazed, dim eyes of the angel stared into the depths of the Void, their unfocused stare turning and turning at the same rate as the dead piece of celestial flesh they were affixed into spun around. Small frozen globes of bright blood drifted along with the remains of upper body like marbles surrounding a broken doll.

 

Maiden of Dagger's bright red lips parted in a wide grin, revealing shining sharp blades instead of teeth. There was elemental hunger in her radiant visage, bloodlust glinting inside her narrowed eyes. She shreddered the stained parchment she had been holding with her sharp nails and hissed happily.

 

"A pawn of the Fates pleads? Runelords and keys, oh my. Oh ... my."

 

Her voice was a honed blade wiped with silk, sharp and soft, deadly and thrilling. She hissed again as she stretched her naked body luxuriously, a well-fed cat ready to play with her next prey. Two thin daggers appeared into her hands that the stretching had left extended and she spun around once, the blades cutting the emptiness of the Void.

 

With a metallic laugh she ran forward, leaping and spinning, three vast haloes of flying daggers crowning her as she went.

 

*

 

A field of dull grey surrounding the massive sword faded with a soft sigh, revealing the long, thick blade. Sir Owiric of Chaos lifted his weapon effortlessly and placed it on his well-armored shoulder, surveyed his handiwork before turning around, in no hurry. Around him lying on the sand surface of the arena were a full dozen of demons from the inner circles of various hells and abysses, stunned, incapacited or just injured, victims of the burly warrior's passion for warfare. He eschewed training static forms to keep his martial skills honed, preferred instead to go against his own soldiers in various mock battles.

 

Finally, he struck the blade downwards and leaned on the tool of war, glared at the majestetic angel before him.

 

"Yer th' last planar creature I was expectin' around 'ere, Herald. What are ye doin' so far from yer master, slave?"

 

"Conveying my master's message to m'lord Owiric of Chaos, if you wish."

 

Herald's handsome face was impassive, his words as well modulated and polite as ever. On his back was a short pole bearing two long banners, the first silver, the second red with the Dreamer's mage sigil: two arrows of Chaos attached to the broken triangle of Law, a bowl-shaped flame with a brighter centre burning inside the triangle.

 

"He dares t' use th' red of Chaos, still! Th' cur! Does he think that'll make me more amiable t' his impossible, ludicrous requests, hmm?"

 

"I cannot say, m'lord."

 

Owiric grabbed the forehead of his heavyset helmet and tore it off, something he rarely did. The revealed face was almost fully covered by a dark red moustache and beard, sweaty braids of his thick black hair spilling out of the removed helmet. His eyes were set deep into his craggy face, giving him an appearance not unlike some of the dwarven races. Owiric shook his mane and tossed his helmet aside, made a grunt that seemed to convey no real message.

 

"So, crane, what is he after this time, aye? An army o' thousand archdemons, per'aps? Forgiveness from th' Lady Chaos, hah!? How's he goin' t' make me look bad, this time 'round?"

 

Silent, Herald offered Owiric a sealed parchment adorned with the seal of the Dreamer.

 

*

 

A perfectly white, perfectly round table stood in the middle of a white room with four Chárôt decks, four planewalkers in gleaming white robes seated around it. Palgrave Atyaer Ra Jahl's form, standing nearby and clad in black silk created such a stark contrast against the absence of color you could have gotten a headache from watching the scene - or perhaps the dry, cold, unnaturaly calm air permeated with the thick taint of Law would been enough to create such pain for any mortal. The motions of the four oracles were almost mechanic, the strong presence of Law influencing every action, every aspect in the room.

 

One of the four was finishing his (or hers, it was hard to tell with the loose robes and the featureless faces) reading and drew the last card but paused with it in hand instead of completing the pattern, turned around on the chair towards Atyaer. The sexless voice was carefully modulated, and while the words were not in Old Planewalker Prime, both the influence of Order present and the speaker's sheer will kept the planewalker accent almost completely away.

 

"Your Exactness. Sir."

 

"Yes, what is it, oracle? Something that requires my attention?"

 

"Th' .. the crystal clear certainity of the plans is wavering to mere strong possibilities, Palgrave. Chaos and Balance are ascending, and while Law still reigns supreme in the spread of possible futures, the probability edges are losing the sharp focus. And the latest reading, sir, provided this as the focus card, your Exactness."

 

The revealed card showed a robed figure grasping the stem of the Grail, golden fire blazing forth in a wide cone that disappeared upwards to the darkened heavens, gold the only bright color present amidst the dim, nocturnal general tone. His forehead rested on a white pillar, a thoughtful look on his downturned, horribly scarred face. Wind blew ashes and burnt remains of bigger objects past him, made his robes billow.

 

"The Hermit. Well, well. I doubt he has the will to oppose us again, as demonstrated by our latest meeting."

 

Atyaer removed his hands from behind his back, his right hand holding a thick, long ivory sceptre. A thin smile appeared on his face.

 

"This time, we shall crush him."

[Zadown]

He could hear the rustle of his deck of Chárôt cards, their blurred pictures gaining focus and shifting, flickering between different possibilities.

 

Fate is present. All these different paths - like gazing into the eyes of Lady Chaos, only less wild, less disruptive.

 

The Dreamer gave the Lost Paths behind him a cursory glance, even though he knew what he would see. Bright sparks of Law's hounds all but covered the darkness of Void, some of them forces that weren't actually on Atyaer's side. Knowing where to look and what to look for, he could sense a far-away cloud of Chaos, a strong regiment of demons most likely. And one or two auras so obscure and atypical it was hard to tell who they belong to. Vultures, inquisitive creatures, gods or other things, nobody claimed to know every kind of creature capable of travelling through the Void. None of those entities were close - the Dreamer stood alone next to a globe of planar crystal, the pearly sheen of the planar shell illuminating his pale face.

 

Now, this is something I could not have done with Melyme's essence still tainting me. Should help with the various defenses they have, accursed paranoid occultists...

 

He smiled wanly before beginning a long chant, wrote a series of runes on the empty canvas of the Void. One by one, transparent copies of him appeared, clad in the same way, carrying ghostly copies of the spectral blade Pain. Their eyes were dead, unfocused as they stared at him, their bodies silent and still. The Dreamer finished the chant and grinned again without humor at his ten new brothers. He walked to the closest one and touched its forehead almost gently, blinked once as a tiny memory left him and entered the clone, lost forever. The touched clone replicated the blink, closing dead eyes but opening its eyelids to reveal a living if grey gaze. It winced as the poisonous, discarded memory suffused it, then nodded to its creator before running to the planar crystal, its structure growing opaque and solid during the few steps it was in sight. The mirror image entered the plane and was gone.

 

The best way to counter Law is to create Chaos, ha!

 

*

 

"Kâpp!"

 

They all lifted their cups to the archaic call for drink and drank deep draughts of Tyurunian rice wine, some deeper than others. Marchello placed his almost full cup on the table and blinked a few times, trying to feel if the state of nausea he was prone of was getting too close.

 

"So, just how was it to be the summoned instead of the summoner, Marc? You still haven't told us. Did you wet your pants?"

 

"I was in too much pain to notice such little details, Alberto. I'll take notes next time."

 

Fionella placed her cup on the table as well, frowning in concern at his direction.

 

"Pain? But there weren't any visible injuries on you when you were returned."

 

Marchello grimaced, not sure if he had made a mistake in mentioning it. Now they all were watching him closely, and he knew they were better at detecting his lies than he was at lying, even if they were more drunk than him.

 

"Well, yes, no visible injuries. I think he was a powerful mentalist, however. He tried some mind control experiments on me."

 

"Yet the archmages let you go. They usually are suspicious of embedded enchantments and such, good luck they didn't keep you locked up longer. To good luck! Kâpp!"

 

Ultar raised his own cup to his words first, openly satisfied at finding an excuse to have another drink. The others followed suit with Marchello lifting his own cup last, uneasiness tugging at the edges of his mind.

 

I got away too easily, didn't I?

 

*

 

Images flooded his mind, each of the clones sending him all they saw and heard - a stream of sensations that taxed his mind and made him irritated. They copied the yellow flare of his eyes, eleven pairs of eyes turning into little suns in the darkness of local night.

 

He may be untrackable, now, but he will not be invisible. Now, to give my searching minions some time to find him ...

 

The Dreamer removed the shutters he was accustomed of keeping around the inner blaze of his spirit and drank in the rich ambient magic deeply, without restraint. To a naked, untrained eye, the only effect was the emerald translucent glimmer of his wards manifesting itself around him, his blade coming into clearer focus, the yellow glare of his eyes burning with actual little flames - an aura of intimidating power bringing him into greater focus. For those using the magesight he went off like a sudden supernova, nearly blinding dozens of students who stared at his revealed might with open, unshielded eyes. He sent thin, immaterial tendrils to every direction, grimaced as they added to the already wide flow of information he was receiving.

 

Ah, yes - a fire-aspected hell, so close, so easy to tap into. They will see me all way in the Void, soon.

 

He ran away from the university in a semi-circle that would bring him back towards the campus in a few minutes, small embers and growing flames dancing around his swift form. A strong spark of elemental fire appeared in his free hand and Pain's blade caught fire, the deluge of brilliance his aura was sending into every direction gaining a fiery hue as he aligned his spirit with the local hell. Behind him, the brave and those fleet of mind had already started pursuing him using various magic means, their protective spells like spheres of delicate gossamer to the Dreamer's eye.

 

I will have to discharge some of this fire before long.

 

In the glow of the burning Pain the Dreamer's expression twisted into a feral grin, shadows and scars dancing across his ruined face.

[Zadown]

The Burning Times was full of students and younger professors, so when the first shockwave of the planewalker's revealed aura hit, most of the patrons turned towards the university as one, their faces showing a mixture of surprise, alarm and excitement. Soon after, a clamour of loud voices arose:

 

"Ritual breakage spike!?"

 

"No, no, that's too controlled. It's a lich, channeling above its skill as a challenge."

 

"Yet another mad one?"

 

"Could be Green Witch of Lam-Roo, possibly ... no, it's getting fire-aspected."

 

"Eight Circle breakthrough, then. I knew demonologists were up to something mad again, one would think they'd learn!"

 

"SILENCE!"

 

They all turned to look. It was one of the university's archmages, who had been sitting incognito in one of the darker corners of the room. Now he had taken off his big, floppy hat leaving his stern, concerned face to be illuminated by the warm light of the fireplace.

 

"Every occultist to the defense of the Alma Mater! All students are to remain here, with the exception of those capable of significant healing magic. These are not suggestions, fellow practitioners of the Art - they are orders!"

 

The muttering and grumbling was fairly muted, so commanding had been his voice. Slightly less than half of the customers left, Ultar leaving with them as his secondary studies had been about emergency field medicine and the relevant magic. He waved as he joined the group of mostly older occultist, a big grin on his open face - he had never shied away from danger, the Aefian ideals of courage and valor etched deeply into his nature. They were barely out of the door when the windows facing the university turned bright with yellow and red light. Marchello felt detached from his body when he realized he was grabbing Fionella's arm and trying to force her to duck, his mind hopelessly slowed down by the rice wine. Then the real shockwave hit, rattling the windows and shaking the building but doing nothing deadlier than that.

 

"Oh, um. I'm sorry Fion, I was thinking it might've been a bigger explosion."

 

She smiled at him and moved as to remove his hand, but her expression froze and she gripped him instead, staring past him. With a hollow feeling Marchello turned around, the same detachment he had felt earlier descending over him like a heavy veil, the world slowing down more this time. He saw Alberto launching a quickened ice spell at whatever stood in the doorway, the frown that appeared on his friends face at the same time he heard the obscure but to him unmistakable sound of two spells conflicting, forced himself to turn faster in the syrup air had suddenly become. The explosion had receded, but flames still burned at where it had happened. In the far-away light of that conflagration and in the light of the smaller but closer flames in lanterns and candles, the robes the creature wore seemed almost red and yellow, his skin less pale than he knew it would be. Grey orbs filled with mist were its eyes, a shimmering, ghostly blade pointed at him its weapon. Small shards of broken ice were scattered over the floor in front of it in a semi-circular formation, showing where the invisible boundary of its wards were. It grinned, the scars dancing across its hideous visage.

 

"I've found ya, neh? Stay put, mortal."

 

But ... it doesn't radiate power, not as much as it should.

 

Next to him, Alberto started weaving another, greater spell. He wasn't the only one. Those still remaining quickly realized the stranger was not wearing the robes of the university, that his aura of power was strange, nebulous, and that he was pointing a sword at their fellow student. Unforgivable faux pas, that, especially here in the Burning Times with the history this tavern carried. Men had died for less, died burning or crushed, slashed by conjured beings, died when their mind was torn apart or their blood transmutated into something burning or acidic.

 

Lances of unreal material appeared and tore through the air, only to shatter themselves on the same wards that had so easily repelled Alberto's icy missile. The creature glanced to the side the attack had originated from and leaped forward with unnatural speed, its long-limbed form fading into blurred lines. The spectral blade it swung was even faster, invisible in its speed. The creature was back at threatening Marchello with the weapon when the fountain of blood it had just opened was still bursting upwards, when some life still sparkled in the surprised eyes of the dead student. It did not look around, but spoke as if the words had been meant only to him.

 

"Ye'd do well, m'lord Marchello, t' keep yer fellow practitioners o' th' Art in check, as well as ye can. That'd diminish th' amount o' coffins needed, afterwards."

 

The words pried at the cold fingers of fear paralyzing him, releasing his tongue.

 

"Stop! You heard it! It isn't a man or a demon, let it be!"

 

Alberto's fingers held a shimmering sphere of concentrated cold that radiated chill to every direction, but he did not release it. Fionella ceased to mutter whatever spell she had been whispering even if her face kept the guarded, hostile look that had appeared on it. All around the tavern spells were left on hold, staves lowered, hands that had crept towards a wand stopped. Occultists could govern the world and twist the Fate itself to new shapes, but underneath their bravado and contempt for those not of the Art, most of them feared physical violence. A naked blade or a gleaming axe were an anathema to them to the same decree they was cherished by the Aefian knights and the hunters of Phoenix Isle. And this one had been so fast, so blindingly fast...

 

"What is it, then?"

 

Fionella's whisper was loud in the tense silence, making a few of the closeby students to turn their stares from the immobile stranger to the three of them. She did not look at Marchello when she spoke, but he knew the words were adressed to him.

 

"I ... don't know, Fion. But that thing out there is no Eight Circle breakthrough, no lich or elementalist."

 

He spoke softer than she had done, but a wide grin appeared on the mirror image's face the moment he had finished his sentence.

 

"Aye, yer quite bright for a mortal, ya. That thin' out there 's th' same thin' as me 'ere, ye might say, neh? An' th' thin' out there that's th' same as me, well, he'll be 'ere soon enough t' end this little incident. We do apologize for any an' all inconvinience caused, mortals."

 

It executed a neat little half-bow, keeping its sword pointed unwaveringly at Marchello.

[Zadown]

Found him!

 

The Dreamer grinned, then let the exultant expression fade as he surveyed the constellation of bright auras between him and his target. They were all mortals, more or less, their wards paper-thin, their attacks feeble, but there were so many of them. He had never enjoyed killing those who practiced the Art, either. They were comrades in some way, on the right side of the gods against the users of magic divide.

 

A few whispered commands passed to those seven of his mirror images he did not need for the search any more, the resourceful locals having actually managed to destroy two of them already. He glanced quickly at the still burning patch of the gardens he had blown up, the roaring fire painting his pale face with warm hues. Then he lowered the shutters around his spirit again, dimming the supernova that had signalled his presence to any mage within miles, the brightness of it visible all the way to the dark recesses of the Void to those who had the skill and power to see through the planar crystal. He waved to the closest mirror image as it appeared from the gloom to his right, the blaze and the university being to his left. For a moment they both had the same sort of dim, nebulous aura of indeterminable power, then his own faded to mere embers and the aura of his mirror image flared up. His bright copy veered away again, disappearing to the right with a tail of mortal followers, and he muttered words of night and invisibility, shrouded himself with a cloak of shadows and veered left, towards the tavern he knew Marchello was in.

 

They aren't all this stupid, of course.

 

He accelerated, knowing the speed would create its own problems with maintaining his cloak of shadows. Time wasn't really on his side, however, and he hurried on at a speed that created his own wind. The fastest route forced him to go straight through most of the campus, muted and wavering auras of mortal mages flashing past him on both sides.

 

Lichs, too. Vampire or two. Remarkable tolerability - most mortals hate and fear those who have travelled past death's door.

 

The Dreamer's hooded eyes cleared and gained the beautiful, deep blue color of the depths of the Void. Then he blinked and that immortal gaze was gone, replaced with muted, dim green eyes that would have fit any mortal face, the tamed color remaining neatly inside iris as it should have.

 

... of course, they tolerate anybody who wields the fire stolen from the gods here in Chaman, as they've done for thousands of years. I knew that, already.

 

His step faltered and he slipped on the smooth stone he was running over, falling down. He rolled forward, losing his concentration on the cloak of stealth but managing to regain his footing with his unnatural swiftness and nimbleness as soon as he regained his inner focus. When he continued his running, aware of the amount of attention his tiny lapse in self-control had caused, feeling the majority of the puny mortals once again shift tracking the correct one of the eight planewalker images, he couldn't help cursing aloud.

 

Well, too late now to act in diplomatic manner and declare myself a Master of the Art.

 

A featureless mental fog cleared his mind of further thoughts for the short remaining time before he reached the door of the Burning Times, crashing in with such inertia the heavy-set door that had survived many a brawl, demons and rogue magics, was torn off its hinges and thrown to the floor. A short nod and a minute gesture were enough to convey the order of guarding his back to the mirror image who had found his target.

 

"Ah, here ye are, mortal. Now, do stand still - this won't 'urt, much."

 

All vestiges of the brief lapse of concentration gone, the Dreamer's eyes shimmered in blue and yellow colors as he extended his right hand towards Marchello.

 

"Only over my dead body, fiend!"

 

The young man next to his target stepped forward and wove a spell of planar protection between the three mortals and him. He noted its crude structure, the weakness in both the execution and sheer power, and could not help the wan smile that appeared on his face. Unbidden, last traces of the fire-aspected mana he had been drawing gave birth to a small, bright flame in his right hand, ready to be thrown. In the harsh light the tavern looked old, dirty and ugly, its every shadow exposed, the light giving similiar unfriendly treatment to the Dreamer's visage, bringing the cold and cruel face into far too clear view.

 

"If that's yer wish..."

 

"NO!"

 

Marchello shouted and pushed his friend aside, coming out of the area the feeble spell of protection.

 

"Then do not move, mortals!"

 

The flame disappeared, the planewalker channeling its full power into his heavy speech, his words burning into the minds of everybody within hearing range. Knowing the command would hold the trained minds of students of the Art only a fleeting instant, the Dreamer reached towards Marchello with his again empty right hand, it disappearing in mid-motion. It was gone only a blink of an eye before it reappeared, holding a small glass vial with a flickering, tiny Blue Flame burning inside it. Both the vial and the Dreamer's right hand were dripping blood, same blood that Marchello coughed out as he dropped to his knees, a bewildered look of unexpected pain on his ordinary, unremarkable face.

[Zadown]

The view had changed while he had been inside the plane. Most of the forces of Chaos had exposed themselves and were skirmish with various Law's troops, white and red stars twinkling between the pearly moons of the planes. Just beyond easy detection range two powerful beings seemed to be fighting, their raw auras circling and clashing - a sight that elicted a genuine smile from the tired planewalker. Even nearer was the unmistakable presence of Atyaer Ra Jahl, the purity of Law he radiated impossible to fake. The smile the Dreamer wore turned into a frown and he drew Pain, placing the vial of Blue Flame he had held in his left hand inside his white robes. Palgrave Atyaer did not reduce his considerable speed before he was very near, coming to an abrupt halt with a look of annoyance ruffling his calm countenance. The Herald of Law did not like to rush into anything.

 

"Evenin', Palgrave. I hope yer retinue wasn't unduly hindered by th' turbulent situation on th' local Lost Paths, ya? I 'eard that th' Maiden o' Daggers 'erself was around."

 

"Very amusing, m'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima. Now that you have shown what a droll fellow you can be I hope we can cut to the heart of the matter, as it may be."

 

"Ya? Forgot somethin' th' last time yer honor'd Exactness chose t' illuminate my poor fortress with his presence, neh?"

 

"Yes. The rest of the Blue Flame, if you may. Now."

 

Atyaer drew his long ivory sceptre from the nothingness of the Void and shifted his stance minutely, a hint of a ghost of a smile appearing on his dry face. The Dreamer did not waste any more words and rushed forward, holding Pain with two hands. Atyaer gripped his sceptre like it had been a katana and cut downwards at the charging Dreamer, a clean, swift but predictable attack. The Dreamer parried out of old habit, not giving the matter much thought - and was shocked out of his battlestance by the mournful, shrill cry of the spectral blade as the two weapons met. The crashing contact pushed both combatants back, the weapons deflecting each other just before the Pain shrieked again, flickered once and faded out, leaving only the long handle in the Dreamer's hands. The sceptre Atyaer held grew longer and turned into a staff at the same time the Dreamer abandoned the useless hilt.

 

"I will ask again, m'lord, only this once. The Blue Flame?"

 

As a response, the Dreamer released a spell he had been weaving from the moment he saw Atyaer's approaching form, anticipating this moment. The enchantment suffused him, opened a wide channel to the hell of the the nearby plane allowing him to channel fire-aspected mana. The scarred planewalker opened his mouth and breathed hellfire on Atyaer, coloring the flames blue to add insult to the injury.

 

Atyaer made a circular parry with his long staff, rotating it in front of him so fast it seemed like a vast round shield protecting him from the flames. Only one or two errant embers of the caustic, deadly hellfire managed to land on his wards, barely scratching them. After the jet of flame was extinguished, the Elder pointed at the Dreamer with his staff that grew again, turned into long lance. He barely dodged the attack, snarled a spell that conjured a pair of unreal daggers into his waiting hands. Atyaer handled his ridiculously long weapon with a terrifying ease, aiming a new blow at the Dreamer. His dodge was not quite enough this time, the staff smashing against the edge of his wards and dispelling a number of them.

 

They did not choose him as an Elder by chance. There is nothing even in this fight.

 

He blocked the next blow with his daggers, which promptly vanished.

 

Uh oh.

 

*

 

"Marchello!"

 

Fionella's cry was almost shrill, the iron self-discipline all students of the occult had wavering. She didn't see the two scarred beings disappear, her focus on the kneeling young man. Marchello coughed again and wiped at the blood on his lips, smearing it feebly over his face but staying upright despite wavering slightly.

 

"It looks worse than it is, Fion. He just removed something I had been carrying around."

 

"In your body!?"

 

This time Alberto's surprised expression was not a fake. Instead of anger, which might have been the expected emotion, part of it was hinting at a sudden insight - a revelation illuminating the world Alberto saw through his eyes. The tanned student stared reflectively at the spot the planewalker and his mirror image had stood but a moment ago, an amount of respect in his voice when he next spoke.

 

"Cruel ... but clever, I must admit."

 

Marchello coughed again, curling around the ebbing agony. Fionella's supporting arm around him made the pain suddenly seem a very distant thing.

 

*

 

Atyaer's swift blow crushed yet another temporary conjured shield. He drew his white staff back and readied himself for the next attack, fury slowly gaining foothold on his impassive face.

 

"You cannot evade me forever, m'lord Wodzan!"

 

I hardly need forever, if the Fates have not completely abandoned me.

 

The Dreamer did not waste time answering, using every sliver of it to drain more ambient mana and whispering cajoiling words to the spirits of protection and warding, weaving fragile, wavering extra wards to block the crushing blows of Atyaer's ivory sceptre. The Elder of Law, having been content to stand still and use the reach of his extended weapon, rushed forward unexpectedly and tore the newest shield apart with a quick slash. When he thrust the staff against the Dreamer's remaining regular wards they gave in like a soap bubble. That left nothing between the subsequential attack and his white robes, a fact that brought a grim smile on the Elder's dry face. Atyaer stepped forward once more and handled his staff like it was a whip, its tip blurring into invisible, wavering line.

 

That ... can't be dodged ...

 

The Dreamer tried, nevertheless. He managed to twist himself slightly from the path of the blow aimed at his scarred face. It landed on his shoulder instead, the impact sending his long-limbed body careering backwards in an uncontrolled tangle. Atyaer drew his weapon back, then sent it after the tumbling Dreamer, the staff extending from his hands like a thin moonbeam. It crashed on a golden cocoon of solid fire that enceased the shaken planewalker a fraction of a moment before the weapon would have struck home.

 

...

 

Dimly the Dreamer heard a loud boisterous voice shout the warcry of Chaos, muffled by the distance and the heavy blanket of crippling pain. It gave him something to focus on and he blinked the agony away, felt the first hints of brown retreat away from his eyes. He opened his eyelids to see a wall of golden fire slowly fade away and reveal Palgrave Atyaer's new enemies.

[Zadown]

"Hey, knave! We found ye a souvenier, ya."

 

The Dreamer paused his effort at bringing his wards back up and turned to look. It was Sir Owiric, hidden under his usual heavy armor, waving a helmet around in his left hand before tossing it towards him. It spun around as it sailed through the Void - a horned helmet adorned with countless runes, too large for a human to wear, thick and cubersome. He caught it and turned it around to examine the helmet. It was full of small nicks and grooves as if it had been slashed at a thousand times by blades sharp enough to cut the rune-enforced steel armor of a Runelord. One of the horns was missing its tip and some of the blows had cut through the metal, giving the ruined armor a haggard, torn look. The Dreamer waved the helmet at the direction of Owiric and nodded, grinning.

 

"Thank ye, m'lord. I'll find a suitable place for 't, indeed."

 

He looked around the Void. Things had calmed down, and where there had been a strong presence of Law here previously, now this particular tiny crossroad on the Lost Paths was firmly in the hands of Chaos. The familiar auras of demon armies filled the sky, with a brighter red flame here and there marking the presence of a Chaos planewalker captain. Near him besides his old enemy and ally Sir Owiric of Chaos were Yhelmiel and two scores of Owiric's demon guard. Yhelmiel had a lost look on his illusionary face and a thin sword in a scabbard hanging from his belt, a rare sight when he was concerned. Towards the direction of Law's domains shone the white spark of Palgrave Atyaer moving with a speed that was almost impossible to overtake. Coming back from that direction were two renowned troublemakers of Chaos, Sir Golden and Koto Mi, the pair obviously just having abandoned all hope of catching the Elder of Law - a hulking demon in beautiful white and gold platemail shrouded in transparent flames and a little, scarred girl dragging behind her a two-handed sword most grown men would have had trouble using in a battle. A frown appeared on the Dreamers face as he watched the two approach, his blue eyes darkening into dim purple. Owiric, who had walked as close to him as wards allowed, noted the change on his face and grunted, getting his attention.

 

"Those two fought th' Herald o' Law, ya know. An' they are of th' Chaos an' yer not, so don't start on old grievances, neh?"

 

The Dreamer narrowed his eyes but gave Owiric a tiny nod to show he had heard the words and would decide himself how to act on them. Sir Golden waved a gauntleted hand at them when still quite far, then shouted with his booming voice as soon as he got within hearing range.

 

"Hooii, traitor! Next time yer fightin' this guy remember to bring a proper weapon, not a ghost o' a one!"

 

The Dreamer's reply was muttered, barely discernible even for Owiric.

 

"We all don't 'ave weapons made o' planar crystal an' adamantium, or be weapons that use a wielder instead of th' other way 'round."

 

The two of them stopped some distance away. Koto Mi gave the Dreamer an empty, challenging look while Sir Golden seemed to be getting bored. It was hard to tell with the helmet of the armor he had given his name from covering everything except his demonic maw and horns, even his eyes. The girl raised her sword and the two spoke in unision, the girl's lips moving but the sound fitting the blade's look far better - it was cold and metallic, inhuman and old.

 

"Ye 'ave th' price, scale-carrier? Ye'll be soon hopin' we didn't come at all, otherwise."

 

An impassive, frozen look overran the frown the Dreamer had been wearing. He put the massive helmet he was still holding on to inside his robes, a magic trick that would surely have amused any mortal observer, and withdraw the glass vial of Blue Flame. It colored everything nearby with azure hues as always, turning the four into blue-tinted mockeries of their original appearances. He offered it to Owiric, who took it slowly, stared into its depth for a moment and then put it inside his bulky armor.

 

"That's unlike of ya. Usually I get nothin' but grief from givin' ye a hand, Dreamer."

 

"That small vial's concentrated grief, Sir Owiric. Do what ye will with it as long as th' Law doesn't get it - I'm done with it."

 

Sir Golden pointed towards the depths of the Void with his mace where a single spark of white moved with grace and swiftness and shouted with his battlefield voice, unnecessarily loud when he was so close.

 

"Hoi! What 'bout 'er, traitor?"

 

"Let 'er be, brute. She's not one of th' fanatics."

 

"If ya say so, sage. We are done, aye? Let's get goin' then, there's no fight left in these dismal corners o' multiversum an' that means 'tis a wrong place for me."

 

When the four planewalker captains of Chaos left, one after another, the two troublemakers first, then Owiric and his guard, Yhelmiel lingered slightly longer. He had been silent and did not say a word now, but draw a Cháröt card from his deck and flung it towards the waiting Dreamer before making haste to catch up with his companions.

 

The Dreamer caught the card and gave it a long look before crushing it, the card's remains exploding into flames inside his whitened fist.

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

"If you aren't just another dream, buy me a drink."

 

She muttered the words so softly they almost vanished in the muted background noise of the smoke-filled steamhouse. Shanna leaned on the low table in the pose of a drunk in the last stages of activity, just before the fall into blackness. She was wearing a highly ornamental white shirt and trousers of black satin, a rapier and a dagger lying on the pillows near her, within easy reach. Her crystal pendant woke up and pulsed red on the table next to her narrow amber eyes in response to his presence.

 

The Dreamer came back a moment later, deposited a large bottle of oddly organic, soft shapes on the table, and sat down in a lotus position on the pillows opposite of Shanna. The noise the bottle made against the table was faint, but the effect the sound had on the half-demonic woman was immediate. She sat up and brushed some of her hair from her eyes, produced a dark blue ceramic cup, low and wide, from somewhere and poured some of the dark, viscous liquid on it greedily. She paused bringing it to her lips, an intense look of exaggarated concentration on her dreamy face, and examined the gleaming liquid in the diffuse light the lamps provided in the misty air of the steamhouse with a critical eye. Shanna placed the cup back on the table and seemed to really see the Dreamer for the first time.

 

"So, it's you for real - no ghost would've bought me undiluted, first-grade nightoil. Why?"

 

"There's not many others t' drink a glass with, t' be 'onest."

 

Her short laughter was bitter. This time she did not pause when she lifted the cup to her lips and drank it empty in one go. At the same time the scarred planewalker produced another bottle from his robes, this one tall, narrow and straight, glowing with the warm red light of its contents. He placed a glass similiar to the bottle next to it and poured it almost full. She poured herself another one and coughed, once.

 

"You and me both, then. You and me both."

 

"Ya?"

 

"Shadowdiving was never safe, you know. We aren't all demigods and juggernauts of unstoppable power, Lord Old Man. I'm not sure if they were still angry of what you did and took their anger out on us, planned on ambush, or if it was just bad luck. Bad luck ... hey, can I have a glass of whatever it is you are drinking, or would it kill me?"

 

His answer was a wan smile and another tall, narrow glass miraculously appearing in his hands. He poured it half-full and offered it to Shanna, holding the stem of the glass. She took it and sniffed the angel blood, the dreamy slackness fading from her round face, her long ears perking up a bit. She swallowed empty air once and glanced at the unreadable face of the Dreamer before taking a sip. A shiver ran through Shanna and she closed her amber eyes, placed the glass on the table very carefully before opening them again.

 

"Mmm, yes, bad luck. Manchev died, Andrej injured so badly he'll never walk again. Breshol was shocked by it all and withdrew from the business, went as high, as far from the Night as he could ... and he could, he had the connections."

 

The Dreamer nodded and took a sip from his own glass. Shanna took a look at the two bottles, at the glass and the cup, moved her hand towards the glass but then clasped her hands together instead. She didn't look at him when she continued, her words soft, self-pity bleached out of the old memories - only washed out sorrow and watery bitterness left in them.

 

"No other shadowdivers wanted me, as I knew. They didn't want me even before you came here. Why take a halfdemon to fight demons, of course."

 

Shanna brushed hair away from her face and leaned backwards, stared at the ceiling.

 

"There's work for old shadowdivers however, some merchants and such want bodyguards. And I'm ... exotic, always some work for me with rich men who ... nevermind. So, there's my sad tale, more than that you won't get even with that bottle, Old Man. How's your own tale of woe, then?"

 

"Ah, ya. This'll ... take a while."

 

Shanna took a more comfortable position on the pillows and opened her amber eyes wider. The background started to fade into darkness around the two, the minute gestures of the planewalker creating a flickering illusionary canvas next to him.

 

"Th' tale I tell happen'd in th' year 2476 after Anvil's drow exodus, when 't look'd like th' disorder followin' th' Grail Wars would finally subside..."