Transience (38)

[Zadown]

The big bedroom was barely lit, the four floating glass globes that acted as lamps all giving out light as faint as a candle's. Nothing much in the room: the lamps, a few pieces of white clothes strewn around the thick, monochrome carpet, another set of clothes made of coarse, cream-colored material in a pile next to the bed. And partly under the thin wine-red blanket coated in their own sweat and nothing else, not even wards, were two planewalkers, a beauty and a beast.

 

They were silent now. Immortals knew there would be always be time to talk later, that silence held no inherent faults. The Dreamer's eyes glowed with warm golden light that made his face almost look like that of an archon, his hideous scars stilled by his calm and shrouded by the dim lighting. There was a faint smile on his lips, tentative but true, dragged from the deepest, oldest depths of his muscle memory. Faaye Khantius had more experience at looking happy, and while her own solitary eye did not glow her face did. She shifted slightly at first, then sat up, letting the blanket fall from around her uncovering her naked form. None of the newly visible scars on her tanned body were as bad as the vertical one through her eye. She had taken off her eye patch and the dark hole where her eye should have been made her pleased look seem slightly odd, lopsided. In contrast the Dreamer's body was as badly scarred as his ruined face, marks of blades, bolts of hellfire and claws and jaws of demons covering almost every inch of his skin. His noble posture, the aura of self-righteous power he shared with almost all other planewalkers, mitigated the effect somewhat.

 

When Faaye spoke her voice was lower than usual. It lacked the undercurrent of world-weary sarcasm planewalkers most often spoke with, the endless layers that tended to convey more meaning than the words themselves. She also spoke in her own, pre-ascension language, the words thus left unmarred by the translation enchantments that infected the speech of every planewalker sooner or later. Some distant part of the Dreamer's vast mind noted down the language sounded like it was of an elven origin, a detail that was at odds with Faaye's obviously human body.

 

"I thought you said you were too old for this, Wodzan."

 

He replied in kind, using his own pre-ascension language. He knew languages which would have been better, in some abstract sense, at conveying his exact meaning. But he would have used them all with his snarling, broken dialect - language pure in meaning but tainted in execution.

 

"I said I was too old to be enticed by that trollop of Chaos. Did your spies err when writing down the words I used?"

 

"No, they are far too good for that."

 

She smiled at the Dreamer flashing her white, perfect teeth, before she stood up from the bed. Faaye showed no traces of self-consciousness when she padded around the room collecting her garments. She attached her shiny white eye patch with deft movements while she was at it, the diamonds sparkling even in the low light. The Dreamer watched her at first, then stood up as well and put on his trousers and robes. He had no boots, his old pair having been burned in his last confrontation. Despite the fact they were now clothed, an air of intimacy remained between the two. Clothes meant little to a planewalker - the real barriers between them were their wards, and neither made any gesture to raise them up yet.

 

He sat down on the edge of the bed, watched as she finished dressing up. Faaye fixed her crossbow to her right thigh, tugged at her sword to see if it was loose enough in its scabbard. She dragged her fingers through her long, black hair as the last touch before meeting the Dreamer's gaze.

 

"What are you going to do now? You know Evil struck again at that plane you visited, taking back the Fief of Decay."

 

"Yes. It's not really my concern, however. We pushed Evil, and now it pushed back there, but perhaps was foiled elsewhere. I do not bother trying to keep up with the grand strategy of Balance - it's far more inscrutable than the shifting maelstrom of Chaos ever was. Or are you saying you know she wants me to go back and keep on fighting for that easily forgettable, tiny plane for the greater cause?"

 

The golden glow was fading, his shifting eyes fading to metallic white. Faaye shrugged. She was shedding the illusion of youth she had worn without her leather armor, every serious word bringing her closer to her usual self, the Arbitrator of Balance, warleader of the Silver Chain.

 

"At times I feel like I can see what she is doing, her grand plan ... perhaps. Not details like what you should do, however. I know better than trying to predict my Lady of Scales or you."

 

He grinned.

 

"So you do not have any official orders for me, my lady?"

 

"Would you obey them if I had any?"

 

The Dreamer shook his head ever so slightly, still grinning.

[Zadown]

Stars twinkled in the black sky, real stars and not the unwavering pearly spheres of distant planes. The view was as through a window and it made the Void-fortress seem more human than the usual ascetic and wild fortresses defying whatever laws of physics their home plane tried to enforce upon them, or the heavy fortified castles many planewalker captains used to garrison their troops in. This was more like a house, complete with non-planar, elven servants. The Dreamer's musing gaze was colored deep, peaceful Astral blue. He had obtained worn sandals, undoubtedly fished from the Void, and when he stood there sipping a glass of elven wine he looked like an old patrician after a relaxing bath. Even his hair was clean and untangled, a grey wolf's mane reaching halfway through his back.

 

Faaye entered the room silently. She was not trying to obscure her presence, however, and the Dreamer had known for a while now where she was in the fortress. She laid down the heavy book and a number of missives she had been carrying to a small, round table made of marble and iron, then sat down in a large wicker chair. Faaye glanced at the immobile back of the Dreamer and let a fleeting smile grace her features before she opened the first of the long reports from the agents of Balance.

 

The creaking of parchment made the Dreamer turn away from the stars. His wards were back up, as were hers - it was not a sign of distrust. Having them between a planewalker and the rest of the hostile world was the invariable practice. There were those who lowered them the first and last time when they were struck down in battle, and even if many were not quite that paranoid, no planewalker getting used to the idea of walking around wardless seemed to have a long lifespan. Still, he spoke as he had spoken before, in ancient Aefian, one of his last remaining links to his pre-ascension self and a clear gesture of closeness.

 

"How is the front these days? If we have one, seeing how we hold no territories of note."

 

She gestured at the missives in exasperation.

 

"Our front is a bit more abstract than the bloody line between the white of Law and the red of Chaos tends to be, yes. Atyaer's clique is trying to open a gate with the Blue Flame, or trying to close a gate they have already open, or both. There is even more rumours about the Parallels as usual, and that is saying something. We both know there is a lot of truth in them right now."

 

The Dreamer nodded, a recollection of the meeting with his Chaos-twisted self bringing a feral glint into his eyes.

 

"Then there are the two Kings who have started appearing on the grand readings. It might have something to do why you were sent to that meaningless skirmish. Evil and Good hone their swords and claws, and many warmongers of ambiguous origins distance themselves from Chaos or Law in search of new opportunities."

 

Another nod from the Dreamer, whose voice was slightly distant, prophetic.

 

"The grand wheel turns, then. Eternal War does not end, just puts on new masks."

 

"It might give us some breathing room at last. The Kings have vast armies, but they pale next to what Chaos and Law have accumulated over the aeons of warfare. If Fates do not intervene, I can't see another conflagration the size of the Grail Wars engulfing the multiversum any time soon."

 

"You could order me not to act on their behalf, then."

 

He smiled, but this time the smile was his usual guarded one, lacking in warmth.

 

"Just so you could amuse yourself by not obeying, hmm?"

 

"Quite so, m'lady."

 

She put down the report she had been holding and frowned at the Dreamer.

 

"You never really told me much about that, now that we are talking about Fates. How does the story of Wodzan Xe Chanima, the Pawn of Fates, go?"

 

He offered a shrug and a gesture to a nearby servant to bring him a chair as his only replies at first, descending deep into his own thoughts and memories as soon as he sat down. Faaye waited a while, then concentrated on reading the missives and making notes in the book, giving the inert Dreamer a sideways glance from time to time. Finally, when sunlight flooded the room through the portal and the cries of seagulls greeted it on the far-away world the portal lead to, he looked up. The background started to fade into darkness around the two at the same time sunlight grew stronger in the rest of the room, Wodzan's minute gestures creating a flickering illusionary canvas next to him.

 

"The tale I tell starts in the year 2451 after Anvil's drow exodus when there was a deceptive lull in the Eternal War. A naked planewalker woke up, confused and without his memories, parts of his essence walking the countless planes as separate entities ..."

 

*

 

"... and most of the rest you know, either through having been there, or having already heard those tales from me, or from the accounts of your impeccable spies."

 

He fell silent, and the canvas vanished. Sunlight surged in to dispel the darkness the Dreamer had conjured and they could again hear the desultory cries of birds. He had gone through his tale in detail, describing things so minor their importance was hard to see, leaving it to Faaye to determine what was relevant and what wasn't. Only in passing, through those details and through the overall arch of his travels and travails, did the long tale of his last decades touch the subject of Fates. But she understood that was as close a look at their work as she was going to get. Not much was directly known about the Fates in the first place. History, War and Love they were sometimes called, Calmness, Conflict and Capriciousness, or Destiny, Destruction and Desire. Some even referred them by the birds they carried, giving them the names of Owl, Raven and Dove. That and some other thin strands of knowledge there were, agreed to be more or less true by general consensus but obscure in origin. After that, nothing was certain.

 

Green was swirling now in his eyes, dyeing them first turquoise and then emerald. She could not read his look, various faint emotions worn by the endless years warring over the gouged and rent face with such subtlety. His voice was different when he spoke again, no cadence of a storyteller now.

 

"Well? It's the most complete accounting of my recent adventures. I hope it was not too boring a tale."

 

"Not at all, brother. It was fascinating! Will take a while to see past the obvious of course. I will have to meditate on this after you are gone."

 

"Casting me away so quickly, m'lady? I am hurt."

 

His mischievous grin and mocking tone undid his words. She grinned back, amused.

 

"Why, you coming to the next Council of the Scales with me then? I'm glad - our Mistress has been most anxious to hear your full debriefing of your most recent journeys."

 

"Ah, you win, sister. I will be long gone before she manages to assign me to another minor skirmish at the developing war front."

 

"But not quite yet?"

 

"But not quite yet."

 

When their eyes met they both rose together, leaving behind the missives and the books. On the way out of the room he told a quip that was very unlike him and she responded with an open, delighted laugh that was very like her, and the pair of their voices slowly turned softer as they walked deeper into the fortress.

[Zadown]

Owiric's fortress was the exact opposite of Faaye's fragile, ornamental house. Its ochre walls were thick enough to withstand planar siege magic, a vague hint of numerous traps making the local laylines vibrate where they drained mana. Tall and proud flagpoles held crimson banners that showed the sigils of Chaos and Owiric and demons scurried all around the fortress, armored and carrying tools of war. It was all built so it hugged the ground, or clawed its way through the crust, even the tallest central tower where they now stood merely six levels tall. It looked shorter, being squat - the roof was wide enough to host a full company of the sort of massive warrior-demons Owiric enjoyed employing to do his bidding.

 

The Dreamer was looking around, slightly more intrigued by the surroundings than his bored face gave away. There was nothing interesting in the fortress itself, but the place it had struck its pudgy claws into was peculiar, not the usual barren wasteland hosting most of Owiric's homes. Around them, in this demi-plane of Darkness, creatures curious even by planar standards skulked. Their motion was nigh invisible, dark against dark in the utter epitome of darkness, but any planewalker worth their rank could've sensed the disturbances in the ambivalent mana as the highly magical creatures ambled around, wading through pools of liquid unlight, passing under trees made of concentrated night. They kept their distance, of course. The eternal crackling flames of Chaos burning on top of every smaller tower were a deadly anathema to them. Nothing grew near the walls, giving the fortress a natural killing field on all sides. And anybody requiring light would show their position inside the swirling, polymorphous blackness as soon as they would light a fire or conjure a light. He nodded his approval.

 

"Ye like it, Dreamer? 'S one o' my better ones, knave, so ye'd better appriciate its wonders!"

 

"I've seen more flimsy fortresses, ya. I hope ye didn't call me 'ere so ye could bask in my adoration, dullard. I was on a errand, so cut th' pleasantries an' get t' th' core of things."

 

Owiric's full plate helm dipped down, not in a bow but like a precursor to a rhino's charge. He unlimbered his heavy sword and grunted something unintelligible.

 

"Dullard eh? I'll have ye spar with me for that, just t' the first blow on wards. I'll smack ye once for yer insolence an' then we can get t' the point."

 

A shrug marked the Dreamer's acquiescence. Instead of drawing Pain from its scabbard he reached into the Void and tugged a massive staff through the small, temporary portal. After giving the eight-foot long grey staff ornamented with black engravings a few one-handed spins he let it fall so it rested on his shoulder, perfectly horizontal for now.

 

"Fate-damn'd cheatin' blackguard! RAAAAAH!"

 

Owiric charged, kicking up a small cloud of dust with his sabatons. He held his thickset sword with both hands, pointing at the sky with it. At first the Dreamer was content to study the approaching metalclad warrior, then when he judged the distance to be appropriate he took hold of the staff with both hands, rotated it above his head once to gain momentum and directed a jarring blow at Owiric's sword. What momentum the chaos knight retained after the parry was wasted when the Dreamer stepped aside, smashing the head of the staff on Owiric's wards with the same fluid move.

 

"How'd ya like th' taste o' Rod of Cosmic Redemption, Sir Owiric o' Chaos?"

 

Owiric snarled as he turned to face the other planewalker, then removed his helmet to glare. The revealed face was almost fully covered by a dark red moustache and beard, braids of his thick black hair spilling out of the helmet. His angry eyes were set deep into his craggy face, giving him an appearance not unlike some sort of titanic dwarf.

 

"That stick o' yers would not get through my wards in a year an' a day, an' ye know it!"

 

"It did allow me t' easily land a blow on them though. Right tools for th' trade an' all that, berserker. Now, tell me why I'm 'ere or I won't be, not much longer."

 

"Ach, ye tug me this way an' that for countless years o' war after first impersonatin' me and killin' off my 'prentice, an' now that I deign t' call ye t' give me a hand yer all high an' mighty? Forgettin' yer chaotic roots so quick, rogue?"

 

Owiric spat on the ground and frowned, a look for which his face was uniquely appropriate. The Dreamer narrowed his eyes in response, making it hard to see their shifting color.

 

"Ya, I'm tryin' to, Sir Owiric. Explain yer need, then, an' if it is not 'gainst my long-term goals I'll lend ye a sword. Not for long, ye rogue, so I hope a cut or three'll do whatever ye need done."

 

"'Tis 'bout th' Palgrave's band o' starch'd justiciars. A-ha, I see th' spark o' interest lit in yer rainbow eyes now, mortal-born rapscaillion! Ye'd love t' feed them their own sense o' justice as much as we do. They've tried t' get th' Blue Flame's last fragment back, but without Law's full backin' 's been a waste o' time for them, a buncha low-key skirmishes never penetratin' too deeply into our territories. Now, they've secured some more troops, an' they are tryin' to take out an outpost o' ours in Fhjool Thangeas."

 

The Dreamer nodded at empty air. Sir Owiric was kneeling down to doodle that particular area of the multiversum on the sandy roof of his tower, having limited success at conveying the three-dimensional network of Lost Paths and planes on the two-dimensional canvas. He glanced up at the Dreamer, face so serious it dispelled any notion of laughing at his work.

 

"Ye see? Outpost's not usually very important, there, but it's perfectly placed against 'xactly th' kind of incursions they are attemptin'. An' they are attackin' with several planewalker captains. Not so much with conventional armies, given how they do not want t' be limited by their speed. We know what they try, an' we could use ye there, as one o' our swords. Despite yer ignorant ways, ye still can swing a blade - an' if ye can't an' Law cuts ye down, well, that's not our loss, ya?"

 

"Very comfortin' t' know th' planewalker captains o' Chaos still think o' me so warmly. That aside, if this attack's anticipated t' occur shortly an' this is what ye ask, I suppose I can lend my blade t' this cause for old time's sake."

 

The craggy face Owiric had was unsuited for smiling, but it still managed to convey approval. He tried to slap the Dreamer's shoulder, but the strength of the blow was hard enough it was intercepted by the wards. Unruffled from slapping empty air, he bellowed something akin to a short laugh.

 

"Hah! We'll see then if th' womenfolk o' Balance have stolen yer balls, or if ye still can fight properly! I knew ye'd do this for us!"

 

"Naw, I'm doin' it for me."

 

There was no mirth in the Dreamer's widening grin.

[Zadown]

The outpost shook with thundering booms surging through its wide corridors, each one pushing a cloud of sawdust. Twisting branches turned to look at the direction the sounds were coming from, the outpost a living entity. Everything here was - the plane was pulsing with excess chaotic life, even the air so thick of it it concentrated around the thoughts of beings of power, manifesting the focii of any planewalker's ponderings behind him or her. Owiric was followed by both ghostly and real demonic lackeys, all of them armored and ready for war, behind them all a see-through Lady of Chaos changing her form constantly. That particular apparition was a common sight here, with a number of Chaos planewalker captains ready to clash against the hated knights of Law, most more than ready to submerge themselves in the disorder of war. Behind the Dreamer three spectral women stood watch, their forms less mutable than the dreams of Chaos but at the same time less distinct so that Owiric could not be sure which three they were. He had smirked, still, when he had first seen them, and made a poor jest about "womenfolk o' Balance" that was met with Dreamer's stoic silence.

 

Owiric stood here next to him. He had been near the Dreamer for the whole three days they had waited for Law to appear, deflecting the sneers and glares of those of pure Chaos who did not think they needed help from outside. The Dreamer noted there was a modicum of respect for him here, the voices of derision fading to mere mutters when Owiric made it clear the Dreamer was there at his sufferance, against the common enemy. His helmet was off, again, and he seemed happy at the noise, grinning briefly before yelling over the booms.

 

"This is it, then! Take yer positions, captains, an' show 'em HELL!"

 

Those few planewalkers in this larger space saluted with their massive weapons or waved with hands or claws, then scattered to the depths of the outpost with their demon guards and vanished from sight.

 

"Ye be alright here, knave!? I'd love t' see ye overran by some soldier o' Law but we 'ave only so many captains t' hold this place!"

 

The Dreamer shrugged, his eyes still grey with a hint of blue, Pain ready in his hand but pointing downward like he was taking a stroll through a park. His voice was a lot fainter than Owiric's but it cut through the booms better.

 

"I'll hold th' line 'gainst any one o' them, an' two if they 'ave younglings. Shoo, then."

 

Owiric's reply was a booming laugh, the approaching battle lifting his spirits continuously upwards. He unlimbered his heavy sword, slapped his plate helmet in place and marched away, a spring in his steps.

 

Not long afterwards a crash even louder than the booms resounded through the outpost, then silence. Nothing much for mortal senses to see or hear, but the laylines of magic went wild, both sides drawing on the vibrant ambient magic of the plane with murderous thirst. Half-seen shapes floated in the air saturated with life, angelic forms of Law and shifting blood-red phantoms of Chaos, adding a ghostly background battle to the main event. First here and there, then all around him new sounds signaled the start of the real battle: metal on metal, incantations growled and yelled at full volume, elemental forces grinding against protective wards, the barking warcries of archdemon bodyguards, the whistling moans of the outpost itself as stray spells rent its living wood. And the trumpets of the Law, sounding cold and clear and absolute even this deep in Chaos space, even here on a plane inherently steeped in change.

 

Nobody attacked through the passage he was guarding, not at first. His eyes still shifted to a dark yellow, a gloomy but nervous color. He could feel how even the two fighting forces were, Law's strength slightly greater, Chaos having the advantage here in its own outpost. Then an approaching presence jarred him out of his reverie. It was not a skirmish moving around but a Law's planewalker, strong if what he felt was his true aura. The intruder did not seem to be in any hurry and when he finally did appear in a doorway, the Dreamer had time to take a good look at him. He recognized him by his wards, of course - Count Lwyfn was one of the greater war heroes of the Grail Wars, and of many a smaller and greater conflict of the Eternal Wars before that. Lwyfn was not very tall nor very muscular, his features somewhat elfin. He was beautiful in a way that would have made it easy for him to pass as a woman in other clothes, even if his hair and skin both had a bleached, washed out color to them. On his grey armor the motif of a red dragon repeated itself, every one of them glaring forward at the Dreamer from their two-dimensional prisons. Count Lwyfn wore a kite shield and a simple longsword, the runeword for 'dragon' engraved upon the slender blade. There was cool, deep assuredness in his pale, icy blue eyes, his whole presence radiating utmost confidence in himself.

 

Behind him stood the transparent form of Lady of Law, impressive even as a mere illusion: white, rigid platemail enceasing her with a cage of perfect geometric shapes, a straight staff in her hand. Her features were as breathtaking as those of both of her sisters even with their angular hardness, and her sky-blue eyes fixed the Dreamer with their piercing glare. She was not the only thought straining to be made real walking after the Count but her overpowering air of presence made it impossible to properly discern the other shades.

 

The Dreamer nodded to the Count as one does to an enemy of same stature, the yellow of his eyes vanishing and leaving only dark, swirling grey.

 

"Count Lwyfn, I presume, ya?"

 

"M'lord Dreamer."

 

Lwyfn nodded back while the dragons on his armor and shield gnashed their teeth and jetted narrow flames, some of them actually cutting through the air, manifested into real fire by the plane.

 

"T' th' sunderin' o' wards an' then some."

 

"That'd seem t' be th' case, m'lord."

 

Forms thus having been observed, Lwyfn charged forward with explosive speed. The Dreamer walked forward to meet the charge, his own tallness and Pain's length giving him the advantage in reach but Lwyfn holding clear advantage in speed. The closer the two combatants moved, the deeper they both sunk into the immortal time. To any outside observer their motions would have turned into blurry mist, the noise of blades meeting merging together into one continuous sound.

 

When that mist parted, it revealed them both far away from each other, their calm demeanor ruffled and their wards slightly frayed at the edges. No decisive blows had been struck, except those against the gigantic egoes both of them had. Neither was used to being foiled on an even battleground. There were no excuses here, no distractions, armies or followers, apprentices or objectives to defend or destroy. Both had failed to demonstrate their skill was superior and so both of them had lost the first round.

 

"I commend ye for yer skill with th' blade, m'lord Dreamer."

 

"Yer not bad yerself, Count, even with th' handicap o' Law's rigidity."

 

"'Tis perfection, an' there's no benefit in taintin' my style by introducin' flaws t' it."

 

The Dreamer grinned, even if his eyes remained black with chilly blue of the Void.

 

"So yer sayin' as a discipline o' Law, leavin' behind my flaw'd forms, my skills would be considerably better? Given how well match'd we are, wouldn't I crush ye then in single combat?"

 

Count Lwyfn sighed, shifted slightly in his armor.

 

"Yer not one o' these dogs o' Chaos anymore, I've heard. But in yer mockery I hear th' contempt only our old archenemies hold for us. Be true t' yer new callin' an' just go, an' let us carry this skirmish t' its inevitable conclusion without th' jinglin' of Balance's silver scales t' mix in with th' pure notes of Law versus Chaos, ya?"

 

"Now that 's a mockery. A knight o' Law askin' me t' break my oath t' lend a blade? I think not, Count."

 

Both of them had been ready to fight during the whole conversation, but now they visibly started settling back to their battletrances again. It did not take long, and when the Dreamer yelled his warcry and charged, Count Lwyfn had already set himself to a defensive position, shield ready, sword thirsty.

 

"Oblivion in bloodlust! RAAAAAAAAAH!"

 

*

 

The Dreamer stood straight with his arms akimbo, Pain on his back. His eyes blazed with violet fire as he stared at the direction Law had attacked from and retreated to, ignoring the approaching Owiric and his retinue at first. The shades following each of the planewalkers were almost invisible now, the wild ambient magic having been subdued by the strain warring planewalker captains had imposed upon it. The chamber the Dreamer had defended was filled with thin, quickly healing scars where stray blows had injured it. Other than that fading evidence, there was no sign of the fierce battle he had fought against the Count here.

 

"No bloodstains, eh? We were bettin' whether or not ye'd strive t' gain yet another scar, those bein' what yer famous of, Lord o' Stitches."

 

The tall planewalker shrugged, finally deigned to face the approaching force.

 

"'Twas just Count Lwyfn, ya. Takes more than him t' add a new scar t' my collection."

 

Owiric's pleased laugh boomed almost as loudly as the battle-magics of Law had earlier.

 

"Haha! Just Count Lwyfn, he says, just! That's him, boys, th' Knight o' Grail, no matter how low he has sunk lately!"

 

One of Owiric's crew spoke next with surprising amount of respect in his voice, clearly not long since Ascended. He was one of the usual kind of Owiric's followers, boisterous war heroes who had carved their way upwards adorned with endless magic items, armored in enchanted, rare metals and carrying weapons so engraved with runes it was a mircale their blades did not break. Slayers, tomb raiders and dragonstalkers, used to organizations and warbands, many of them lacked the fierce independence most planewalkers cherished.

 

"Did ya wound the Count, sir?"

 

The Dreamer sneered viciously at the planewalker captain, his eyes flaring. His right hand's fingers curled into a bird of prey's talon.

 

"Did I? Unlike ye whelps, th' best o' Law actually have some wards t' protect themselves."

 

The captain flinched back as if he'd been backhanded. Owiric's complacent face turned into his typical frown.

 

"'ey! Ye were a whelp too, way back. Don't ye go insultin' my fellow warriors o' Chaos, just because ye can cross swords with a nancyboy o' Law without gettin' yer pretty face scarr'd again."

 

"Yer th' one t' talk about facial scars, Sir 'Ye were supposed to use yer sword!' Owiric. Have ye ever ask'd him why he wears a full helm with a visor most of th' time, captains?"

 

That insult hit, the difference between their normal meaningless slander and this vast. Owiric's face turned red, almost purple, making the scar the Dreamer was alluding to stand out clearly.

 

"THAT DOES IT! Ye scale-burden'd bastid, get out!"

 

Owiric drew his heavy blade and pointed it at the Dreamer, who seemed to calm down in the face of this unleashed rage.

 

"Ye an' yer more-lawful-than-thou Herald are both bann'd from th' area I hold! Get out before I sic my hounds o' Chaos on ye!"

 

"As ye wish, m'lord. Fare thee well."

 

With meticulous slowness, the Dreamer sidestepped out of the fortress into the Void.

[Zadown]

Impressive. That word rose to the mind of anybody seeing the Siege-Towers of Abyss the first time, and while the Dreamer had seen them several times before, they still impressed him unlike most things mortals managed to build. They were very solid, conforming to the ancient Chamanian philosophy of first creating something perfect and beautiful that would endure even without magic and then, only then reinforcing it with enchantments so it would be resilient beyond enduring. Only a few towers were visible from the grassy hill where he stood. The towers were thick at the base, made of crimson tiles darkened by the weather, slowly thinning as they rose upwards where their impossibly high tops were lost in clouds and the everpresent mist rising from chasm to the Abyss nearby. The sight was imposing for second sight as well, the enchantments and runes entwined so deep into the buildings even a planewalker would've been hard-pressed to damage them without slowly cracking the wards first.

 

He looked around. He could see a few locals in the distance, not near the tower he was closest to. A number of roads and paths cut through the green grass, well-maintained but mostly empty. Wildlife did not like to venture this close to the chasm and he did not blame them - whenever wind swept upwards and inwards from the precipice, it brought with it the smell of brimstone and sparks of bright hellfire. For a moment he wondered why the grass did not suffer or burn, then he shrugged. Chamanians controlled everything they could. Obviously one of the multitude of spells they had woven here protected the grass.

 

The Dreamer walked briskly over the grass, chose a path that went to the right direction and eventually reached the tower. He glanced at the massive front doors, used mostly for ceremonial purposes and for huge things, then went around to one of the back doors. Somewhere else he might have made them acknowledge him by opening the double doors for him, a proclamation of power. Here ... here he felt almost like home. The locals already worshipped power to such extent any theatrics would've been excessive, embarassing. To him at least, if not to the Chamanians. He paused at the door before walking, slower than normal, to the very edge of the chasm. There had been talk about building a fence here, he remembered. The suggestion had failed, of course. This was the end of the world. A fence would have been inane.

 

Below him raged the flames of the Abyss, far, far down but still with enough force to warm his face like a distant sun. No demons liked to lurk this close to Chaman, unless already bound to service. The risk of getting caught by a demonologist of sufficient skill and power was far too great, or ending up as target practice for some sorcerer. This land was ruled by mortals, or at least all the parts they had not managed to blow up with the meddling into powers greater than their wielders. A genuine grin tugged the Dreamer's scars into new order, the faint silver and white glow of his eyes visible in the mist.

 

"No gods, an' even we thread with caution."

 

The words were muttered, almost inaudible, but he still had the sudden impression somebody had heard them. He didn't mind. One of the several things he liked about Chaman was the irreverence they showed to the gods, though they struck against the worshippers instead of against the gods themselves. At least these days did, lacking the strength and sheer insanity of DeMorneer and his followers. He gave the Abyss one last glance, staring at the fires and at the boiling sea of fire-aspected mana at the same time with both of his sights, then turned around and walked to the backdoor.

 

*

 

He couldn't help himself. Usually he only dipped into immortal time in the direst of fights, to match the speed of other planewalkers or other beings of power. Seeing the look of mixed fear, surprise and anger spread its way slowly across Marchello's face as the occultist saw him was well worth the strain, however. The Dreamer dropped back to real time and grinned widely in response, his eyes two silver mirrors.

 

"Long time no see, m'lord! How do ye like my new robes? I 'ad t' ask one o' th' really old archivist liches down in a university's library basement for th' design, not many are willin' t' proclaim themselves as a Master o' th' Arts."

 

The robes in question were dark but not quite black, giving hints of all the possible colors mixed into one. On the high collar were embroidered all the various symbols of the official schools of magic, each in the color associated with it. The Dreamer's threadbare sandals were barely visible under the hem, but what little showed clashed badly with the grandiose design of the robes. He carried no weapon besides his infuriating grin, had no illusion to cover his torn skin this time.

 

"Bu.. ! Wha.. why are you here?"

 

Marchello had been sitting behind a desk in a combined library and study, most of the chairs here occupied by piles of heavyset tomes. A narrow window let in reddish afternoon light, shrouding the mess the room was in into merciful gloom, a sturdy lantern giving the young man enough light to read by. He was now standing and staring at the Dreamer with disbelief, still did not look very dangerous after all these years of arcane studies, the scruffy home robes he was wearing not helping.

 

"What a cold way t' greet an ol' friend, ya."

 

Still wearing his wide grin, the planewalker took a long step forward and lifted one of the heavy books on the desk with two fingers, tilting his head to look at the title.

 

"Ah, Rechmontoa's 'Th' Vortixes an' Flows o' th' Ambient Magic Field'. Advanc'd theories, even if not entirely applicable t' every situation. That's the fault o' a many good ..."

 

Marchello regained his voice.

 

"Friend!? FRIEND! You!?"

 

The Dreamer frowned and dropped the book which made a dull thud as it rejoined its brethen on the table. Verdigris sped across his mirror-eyes and turned them dull green.

 

"Ya?"

 

Marchello sighed and clearly concentrated to calm down.

 

"Can you drop the pretense and tell me what is it you want this time?"

 

The planewalker shrugged.

 

"If that's th' way ye want this conversation t' go, sure. I'm 'ere t' offer ye a job."

 

"A job? What could you possibly need me for that you can't do yourself?"

 

"I need ye t' teach my grandchildren magic."

 

A horrified fascination crept into Marchello's voice.

 

"You have grandchildren?"

 

"In a manner, ya - they are th' children o' my foster daughter. Fully mortal, if ye were wonderin', an' fully human. Now, before I have t' listen t' a dozen more pointless questions - I've chosen ye because I know ye well enough an' ye know what I'm capable of if ye make me angry, th' pay is a long loan of a portion o' my grimoire collection, th' job's going t' take several years an' yes, yer wife can come too."

 

"You .. honestly think I want to go."

 

"Do ye honestly think ye don't?"

 

"Of course we want to go!"

 

The third voice cutting in belong to Fionella Opulanti, appearing from a doorway behind Marchello. She was wearing only slightly more presentable robes, ink-stains darkening her fingers and an eager smile brightening her face. She rubbed her hands on her robes without achieving much while looking around with an apologetic look.

 

"Ah .. I am sorry about this mess, we do not usually get visitors of your rank. You are Marc's old sorcery teacher, I presume? What was the course again ..."

 

"Advanc'd Applied Sorcery In Extended Context, ye mean?"

 

"Yes. Quite a controversial course that was! So, this is you without your illusion, then?"

 

"Fion ..."

 

"Ya. Ye can't blame me for hidin' th' scars, ya?"

 

The Dreamer grinned again at both Fionella's enthusiasm and Marcello's helpless discomfort, his eyes gleaming like twin emeralds.

Edited December 12, 2007 by Zadown

[Zadown]

*

 

It wasn't until the planewalker had left Marchello realized Fionella was pale under the light purple tone of a Chamanian. She slumped down on one of the rare unoccupied chairs trembling slightly and spoke softly.

 

"Why didn't you ever tell me he was your teacher?"

 

He suddenly realized what she meant, the dangerous moments in the tavern Burning Times when the Dreamer had come back for what he had hidden inside Marchello. He had consolidated that into the more complex persona of the planewalker, accepted as time passed the Dreamer might not be evil, just reckless and beyond mortal humanity. The whole story had been his secret, something that was easy to keep as soon as the Dreamer had finished teaching and left. For her that single moment in history had been a close brush with death, a clash with a scar-faced, inhuman danger. And now she had had to re-arrange history as she had seen it, connect the killer and the teacher, the former far more vivid to her, without showing anything to their guest. The self-discipline of a mage, yes, but not inhuman - and now, when it was safe, it was breaking.

 

"Ah. Um. I didn't want you to get involved .. after I confronted him. Alberto said ..."

 

"You told him and not me!?"

 

It was going to be a long day.

[Zadown]

It had been a long time since he had last examined his own reflection closely. There he stood now, captured in one of the perfect mirrors of a grand hall inside the Siege-Tower of Abyss without any illusions to shield himself from his own gaze. The new robes of a Master of the Arts looked good over his thin and tall body, but he still managed to give the air of some old derelict who had merely found the robes in a ditch. His hair, beard and moustache were all faded grey with unkempt look, the hair reaching almost to his shoulders. Wherever his skin showed it was covered with an endless map of various injuries, no two marks of shame the same. They shifted when he flexed his fingers or when a new look dawned over his torn face, as if the scars did not quite remember their exact home on his hide. Right now his eyes looked somewhat normal even if their hue was unearthly vivid, the deep turquoise color contained within the iris. He rarely saw his own face when deep emotions surged through him, but he knew during those times the colors spilled out, sometimes not even content to stay trapped within the two-dimensional surface of his eyes.

 

The Dreamer glanced down to his scruffy sandals and felt a gossamer-light touch of embarrassment at their poor quality, at his misshapen toes poking out from under the hem of the robes. Even his feet had not escaped injuries during the long years of strife he had existed through. That martial aspect of his history was absent from the attire today, however. The spectral no-dachi Pain was not strapped to his back inside its shade-black scabbard, Misery and Benefical Dragon were both far away waiting for his call. One could argue that the small, innocent-looking symbols on the collar of the robes encircling his neck were his weapons here, signalling to everybody present his skill in Sorcery, Demonology, Telekinesis, Cryonology and various other deadly schools of magic. Deep in such thoughts, he snapped his fingers when he turned away from the mirror, creating a small flickering emerald mage-flame.

 

"Finding the illumination here too low to your tastes, Lord Dreamer?"

 

His eyes narrowed for a moment. Some part of him had been aware of the approaching archmage, of course - to be oblivious was to court with final death, but those parts of him taking care of his defence had not registered the archmage as a real threat. Most mortals weren't, at least not alone. For a short moment he indulged in devising a battle plan for eliminating the room full of Chaman's thaumatocracy, realizing the biggest challenge would be to prevent the last targets from escaping. That fleeting moment of calculation did not make him pause. He smiled a wan smile and shook his head.

 

"Naw, 's sufficient. 'Twas just a thought, given form. I'm 'fraid my self-discipline can be rather poor when th' effects o' a lapse are insignificant, m'lord Rhovanni."

 

The Dreamer snapped his deformed fingers again and the small flame winked out. Gardian Rhovanni, the host and Fionella's father, nodded slowly as if giving the matter the serious consideration it was due. Gardian was a portly figure, shorter than the average Chamanian but compensating his lack of stature with the aura of power most archmages wore as their uncontested right. There were beings on this plane who could clash with an archmage, but with a few exceptions only the most insane of those would do it without a second thought. Even gods had long since given up on trying to exert their influence here, in the heart of the occultist power. Gardian gestured at the nearest balcony door.

 

"May I loan a moment of your time, lord? I'd like to discuss the matter of my daughter's and her husband's employment, if possible."

 

The smile on the scarred face tilted the other way, sending a number of scars drifting.

 

"Certainly. My kind 'ave all th' time in th' worlds."

 

The two of them made an uneven pair as they moved across the floor to the door, but none watching were fooled by such outward appearances. Archmages holding glasses of local or elven wine, those of their relatives who had enough raw talent to not be embarrassments for their illustrious families, a few wives or husbands with less magical aptitude but lucky or charming enough to marry above their station - they all watched the two walk together, and they all saw raw power move. Gardian was a known playing piece, orthodox and well adjusted to his place in the great hierarchy, in a position either classified as lower true thaumatocracy or high middle-class, depending of your point of view.

 

The Dreamer was an unknown. Many still thought he was a lich, but his apparent stability had made the speculators wonder. Most occultists, no matter how disciplined, could not sustain sanity indefinitely past their own death or were not sane to begin with. Magic was chaos, and the more you used it the more it tainted you, even the most altruistic and pure forms of it. Using magic to tranquil and productive ends did slow down the descent and made the slope shallower - the Green Lich of Lam-Roo, a figure shrouded in well-known secrets, was very old and still mostly coherent, at least as long as nobody harmed his precious plants when he was present. The Dreamer had not given any sort of illusions of being an altruistic pacifist when he had lectured on how to best apply destructive magic in actual combat, however. Yet there he walked, wearing a scarred body that seemed to be neither dead nor an illusion, radiating a muted halo of power that made it impossible to ascertain his true strength in an indisputable manner. Apparently sane, words less alarming (even if snarled with an odd accent, impossible to place) than his odd, ruined countenance.

 

A waiting tension breezed through the grand hall. These locals had read their history, knew how Mileatas DeMorneer had challenged the gods and traded at least blows with them if not won, knew the scars it had left on both sides. Past that, deeper in the mists of history, there were other names, most of them appearing suddenly, unexplainably into the society of occultists. The Chamans had learned to be wary, and when the door to the balcony clicked shut, they turned their barely concealed attention to Fionella and Marchello, the pair guilty of unfathomable conspiracies with greater powers until proven innocent.

 

The balcony was on the side of the drop, and the view was magnificent and terrifying, red flames dancing in the depths of an infinite chasm. Gardian Rhovanni ignored it and leaned on the railing to stare straight forward at the starry night sky. The Dreamer took a position next to him and cocked an eyebrow.

 

"A worried father, ya?"

 

Gardian turned his gaze at the Dreamer's scarred face, a broken and shifting surface almost as complex and fascinating as a burning fireplace or a seashore hammered by waves.

 

"You can hardly blame me, or do I presume too much when I assume you know what it is like?"

 

In the low light, the Dreamer's eyes gleamed green with their own illumination, not even nearly human any more. He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth.

 

"As a matter o' fact, ya - they will be teachin' th' progeny o' my foster daughter. I'll 'ave t' assume they can be trust'd, an' ye 'ave t' assume Jankiize an' her household are safe. I have th' upper hand in retaliation if somethin' goes wrong, but in such case that will hardly matter. Me threatenin' with dire consequences should yer daughter or her husband err will be almost as irrelevant as if ye should issue such a declaration, ya?"

 

"The theory of mutually assured destruction is not really something a parent would like to think about in such a situation, true. What about the ... locals?"

 

The Dreamer noted the pause. Chamanians were powerful even on multiversum level in magic, but for a number of reasons they rarely ventured into the Void and onward to other planes. Gardian was clearly uneasy about the whole affair, but the inbred reaction for any true Chamanian in the face of such adventure, especially when there was magical knowledge at stage, was to accept first and think of risks later. A culture also encouraging large families: despite excellent health care only so many of them reached marriage age. The rest got blown up by magical backlashes or eaten by demons - if they were lucky.

 

The planewalker shrugged.

 

"Slightly lower ambient magic than 'ere, an' not much talent around. So, no other mages. Not sure why, but th' locals are surprisin'ly tolerant o' strangers an' their weird habits. Magic's still scorned upon, but ... as long as they refrain from overt acts o' magic in th' town they'll be safe 'nough."

 

He gestured, waving all these minor issues away.

 

"I'll go through all this with them, an' if they've gotten through th' university, they 'ave learnt t' follow th' safety instructions."

 

"Of course, of course."

 

The archmage sounded relieved, once again gazing into the starry sky that was similar to the vistas of the Void.

 

"After they've settl'd in, I wouldn't be surprised if one o' their main concerns will be how t' avoid boredom."

 

"Now that is a danger I can accept on their behalf."

 

Gardian's sideways glance showed a twinkle in his eye and a content expression on his face.

[Zadown]

The mortals were arguing on the other side of the wall. About what to take and what to leave, it sounded like - not that he was paying much attention.

 

The Kings are now in play, so tightly woven into the cetral spiral of any greater reading they will always show up. The twin lords of war, as bad monomaniacs both as the sisters who last laid claim to the throne of conflict.

 

The Dreamer growled and drew another Chárôt card, flipping it over to the floor of the guest room. Upon seeing it, he grew absolutely still.

 

*

 

Much later, there was a knock at the door.

 

"Um, Lord Dreamer? M'lord? We forgot to ask you something ..."

 

Marchello opened the door walking straight into the line of fire of the meditating Dreamer's intense purple gaze. The movement jarred the inert planewalker out of his furious reverie. He picked the card lying on the floor, off to the side of the central spiral of the Grand Reading, and flung it forward with such force it ended up partially sinking in the wall next to Marchello's paling face. When it ceased its vibrating the young occultist couldn't help himself from seeing the picture on it.

 

On the card, labeled simply "0", the Dreamer was standing on a pillar in the middle of the card. He was wearing torn silver robes drenched in blood and carrying a pair of scales dripping gore over his left shoulder, holding the clean blade of Pain in his right hand. He had a deranged expression on his scarred face and a garish jester's cap on his head, a crude iron crown haphazardly balanced on top of it. On every corner of the card a different lord or lady was depicted, the ones on left wearing shining white, the lord on right wearing black and the lady red. They all jeered at the figure in the middle, the lady in chaotic red armor at top right corner reaching towards the iron crown as if she had just put it there or was about to take it back.

 

Without thinking about it, entranced by the immense detail crammed into the small picture, Marchello had removed the card from the wall and was studying it. The Dreamer snatched it back, kicked the Grand Reading to a meaningless mess of cards.

 

"Don't touch th' cards, novice. Yer not ready t' read them by far."

 

"And .. and what did that card mean?"

 

"Th' Fool, revers'd?"

 

The Dreamer narrowed his purple eyes, snarled his reply.

 

"Same idiots, different turn o' th' Great Wheel."

[Zadown]

"Can you understand me now, mortals?"

 

"Of course ... oh."

 

"A masterful enchantment! How does it alter our speech to correspond with the language you just used?"

 

The Dreamer shrugged. All three of them, him, Marchello and Fionella, had spoken in Ancient Aefian leaving Gardian who had come to see them off with a slightly puzzled look. They were standing in the guest room the Dreamer had occupied during the last few days, three big travelling trunks serving as the only sign of what they were about to do. When the planewalker spoke again, it was in modern Chamanian.

 

"'Tis a mystery even t' us planewalkers, an' believe me there have been a great number o' studies into it. Mostly t' remove th' way it ends up corruptin' our speech, ya. Ye shouldn't need t' worry 'bout it, though - it takes a few hundred years generally, an' it leaves th' languages ye actually know intact."

 

"So you knew Classic Chaman before you ... used this enchantment?"

 

He nodded at Marchello, something like grimace twisting his face for a moment.

 

"Enough of that. 'Tis confirm'd it works. Ye ready t' depart, ya?"

 

Fionella turned to look at her father, who placed his hand on her shoulder and smiled.

 

"Do us proud, my daughter. And stay safe."

 

The latter was aimed at both of the youngsters. They both muttered their assent. The Dreamer was staring at the empty space in the middle of the room, some hasty chalk marks showing the spot where he was going to conjure the portal. Not runes, just a visual aid so the mortals knew to stay away from the portal when it would spring into existence. He had prepared the spell earlier and unlocked it now with a minute gesture and intense gaze - a two-dimensional doorway rose from the floor, showing a star-lit garden.

 

"Ye remember what I said 'bout public magic, I presume. I'd rather not keep this portal open for long for th' exact same reasons. I'll be there later on, in roughly two weeks if nothin' hinders my trip through th' Void. Ye should not need me, o' course."

 

Marchello and Fionella looked through the portal, then at each other. With an unvoiced agreement Marchello stepped through first, dragging two heavy trunks, Fionella hurrying after him with the last one. The Dreamer glanced at the portal once, nodded with satisfaction when he saw that the two had reached their destination and closed it with a snap of his fingers.

 

"Hope th' li'tl' mortals all get along, now."

 

*

 

"Now what?"

 

Marchello was not sure if he was afraid or excited. Everything was already subtly different - the coldness, of which he had been warned about but which still was different to feel now, the smell of wet decaying plants all around him, the peculiar white light of the moon - and he had not even taken a single step on this strange new world.

 

"Let's leave these here for now, the Dreamer said she has servants. I'm sure they can take care of them once we've talked with the mistress of the house."

 

At least the house had a comforting, familiar shape, that of a tower. It was dark and silent now as were most of the other houses, a single moving light visible far away barely visible through the thin leafless branches of a bush. The lantern of a late returning reveller, most likely. He hesitated, not sure how to proceed, but Fionella started walking towards the ornamental door on their side of the tower that lead directly into the little garden.

 

"Come! We can't stand here all night, two strangers with three heavy travelling trunks in the middle of a noblewoman's garden. Do you have any idea how peculiar this looks right now?"

 

"Yes, yes."

 

Just as they were about to reach the door, a light the size of a candle flame was lit in the room just in front of them. Its weak light shone through the door's glass panels and through the coloured windows on both sides of it, moving closer. They froze, uncertain again. The door opened, revealing a woman in simple evening robes, looking both sleepy and wary at the same time. It was suddenly easy to see the local ambient magic swirl around her, like she was a queen spider in a vast web empty of rivals. From her sash hung a sheathed blade, adding its own wintry breeze to the gales of magic. The candle was in her left hand, while her right rested on the pommel of her sword. When she spoke, it was in Classic Chaman, a language Marchello was proficient enough in without the Bel'ab enchantment the Dreamer had cast on him and Fionella.

 

"You came through the portal? Who sent you?"

 

"Ah, you must be Lady Jankiize. Um. Lord Dreamer sent us. I am Marchello Opulanti and this is my wife Fionella."

 

Jankiize relaxed slightly.

 

"The teachers, already? He did say there would be two of you. But he also said he'd be here too."

 

"He doesn't like travelling through portals, m'lady. He said he'd be here in two weeks, if nothing came up during his travels through the Void."

 

Jankiize sighed and let go of the pommel, gestured at the darkness of the silent house.

 

"That's him all right. Something always comes up, of course. Come in, it's cold outside. I'll wake up Rakmont to take care of your luggage and then we'll have a good long talk - it's so late it is almost early, no point in going to sleep any more, our cook is already baking today's first batch of bread ..."

 

Filling the silence as the two strangers gawked at her house, she lead them to the warm kitchen.

 

Purple-skinned teachers, and so young ones too? Melenar is going to have a fit when he wakes up in the morning. I guess I should be thankful they seem to be humans, at least ...

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

The Lost Paths were almost empty, now. He looked around, remembered the occasion when Law and Chaos had clashed here and Runelord and Maiden of Daggers had fought nearby. Now, there was just his reflection on the nearby planar crystal, a few auras of travellers far away, not coming this way ... and one familiar, approaching. The Dreamer was not in a hurry. Even though he could see it would take several hours for the messenger to reach him, he was content to wait there, floating in the peaceful Void, in his own element.

 

Eventually, Suentalv slowed down and waved like a mortal meeting another. The Dreamer shrugged and nodded, inclined his head the precise amount an elder planewalker should to a brash young whelp.

 

"M'lord."

 

"Hey Dreamer! The Arbitrator said you might be this way."

 

"An' she sent ya t' check it? I'd guess that'd make this location fairly low on 'er list o' places I might lurk at."

 

"Yeah, yeah, have some fun at my expense. Look, can we cut that? She said it's urgent."

 

"As ye wish. What is it, then?"

 

"This whole parallel mess has blown out of proportion near the Bull's Horns. Unclear how bad it is yet but there's more than just you around, if you get what I mean."

 

"Ah."

 

"Yes, ah indeed. You coming, old man? I'm not going to tell her I didn't find you, if that's what your cagey look tries to convey."

 

"I 'ad some affairs t' arrange with th' mortals ... but 't can wait, ya. Let's go, 'prentice."

 

"What did I tell you about calling me that? Is this the thanks I get for not only escorting Clarian to her home as you requested, but also having to endure the scorn, I could go as far as say almost wrath! ... of our lovely Lady Balance because I returned alone ... Dreamer? Hey, wait for me, you got longer legs, old man!"