Chess (43)

[Zadown]

The room was mostly empty. Dawn's light fingers were creeping up the tall, narrow windows on one side, brightening the comfortable dimness of the room slowly. Every other window was made out of colorless glass, so perfect it was hard to see it was there, the ones between made out of hues of green and brown and moonlight silver cleverly attached to each other with barely visible lines of lead, depicting scenes from forests and gardens. Off to the side stairs went both up to the roof and down to the levels where the elves lived, a few chairs on the other side. In the middle, nothing much: a small, round table, two chairs on both sides of it, all three made of dark polished wood. The mastery of craftsmen who live a millenia or two was evident in their every curve and gleaming surface.

 

On the table, a playing board of green-and-black stone, ten times ten squares. Most of the squares were empty but some of them held small wooden figurines carrying red or black flags, their weapons pointing to the direction they were attacking. On the right side of the playing field was a deck of Chárôt cards, a few of them in a haphazard stack, their face upwards. The Dreamer tapped the wooden table a few times, then took the topmost card of the deck and turned it face up, placed it on the stack. It showed a shadow of a person reaching towards a triangle of six chalices on a table clothed in purple, one overturned chalice off to the side pouring vile, caustic green liquid on the tablecloth and to the floor. In the darkness on the background, a vague shape of a huge grinning skull was suggested.

 

"The Seven of Grails, m'lady. It seems your earlier attack was A Grand Delusion, sister."

 

"Heii-i, that's good! Means I can keep on battering your feeble defenses a while longer, Wodzan."

 

Faaye took a discarded red piece from the other side of the board, reversed one of her black pieces three squares and placed the discarded piece back on the board. She grinned, showing her relaxed, natural smile.

 

"It is true I was hoping for a honorable way out at this stage, Arbitrator."

 

"Oh, it's Arbitrator now that you are losing so miserably! Will I be distanced all the way to Countess when I land the last blow, 'Duke'?"

 

The Dreamer's face first twitched in real annoyance, but her playful tone made mockery of the words and he laughed instead, waving his hand.

 

"Duke, yes? Only a Countess would so insult me, indeed. You even play with the structured approach of Law, attacking in rigid formation that minimizes the impact of the deck."

 

"Now, now you are just trying to distract me from your impending doom. You've used your draw - now make your futile move and witness the end."

 

"You are enjoying this far too much. Here's my move, then."

 

The Dreamer gently pushed his planewalker captain piece over with his index finger and spread his open hands, bowed his head.

 

"Chaos is crushed, yet again. Congratulations, sister."

 

"Yee-hay!"

 

She looked exultant for a short moment, then her face changed like she had removed one of her few masks, or perhaps donned one.

 

"Speaking of Chaos ... and now I am speaking as the Arbitrator of Balance. We need somebody who understands them and can infiltrate them, for their own good this once. I was hoping you would be inspired to shift the paths of the multiversum once again, my lord."

 

He narrowed his darkening eyes, not angry but getting far more serious, fast.

 

"You'd let me test myself by ... becoming a Duke again, after so short time?"

 

She smiled. It was a contrast to his growing gloom, her perfect teeth almost glowing in the growing light.

 

"I have the utmost faith in you, brother. You have been walking with the Lady Balance's blessing for a long time now, before I ever met you, through the conflicts the two of us have had. You've said so yourself - do you now doubt you would turn into that mockery of yourself you saw in Chaman?"

 

"Perhaps not. But I am nevertheless worried, and even if I can safely walk through the crucible of Chaos once again, it might sear one more scar into my spirit, twist the essence of what I am further away from what I'd prefer to be."

 

That stilled her smile. A silence descended on the room, both of them turning to watch the gradual victory of light over the last shadows of the passing night. The room was bathing in the strong light of early noon before either of them spoke again.

 

"I can ask somebody else, Wodzan. We are stretched thin, I will not lie to you, but miraculously there always seems to be somebody. The thin silver line never breaks."

 

He nodded, his eyes the deep, clear blue of Astral.

 

"After thinking about it, I've decided to do it after all. I have wasted enough time with the mortals."

 

He stood up and walked to the windows, looked down at the gardens and grinned.

 

"It might actually ... be amusing, yes."

[Zadown]

The view before him was impressive, he had to grant them that. Impressive in a degenerate, gruesome and grim way, yes, but that was the way of Chaos: the wards and summoning runes were painted with fresh blood, the carcass of the hapless sacrifice cooling off to the side, her dim eyes staring at the stained roof. The summoner acolytes were wearing crimson stained with rusty red, the hems dirty from mud and grime, their faces tattooed with the arrows of Change, eyes blazing with power and fear of power. Overseeing them was a priest or magus, his ancient flesh shrunken to tightly embrace his bones. His sneering glare leaped from one acolyte to another, intense as a jet of hellfire.

 

Even with the grandieur of the ritual, the huge hall was too big for it. Most of it was filled with debris: old skeletons, dusty tomes, broken chairs and tables, weapon racks half-full with rusty weapons of intricate design favoured by wherever Chaos ruled with such supremacy it had veered away from practicality. They occupied merely one corner of this graveyard of dark glory, the stone floor scrubbed clear here to make it easier to paint the runes of blood.

 

They had some real power at their disposal, the Dreamer noted. It would have been inconvinient at least to be on the wrong side of the thrice-reinforced summoning circles. He shrugged, then took a step forward and coughed, loudly.

 

"An' what are we suppos'd t' be summonin', 'ere?"

 

The ritual wavered, the acolytes distracted by the surprise, but did not spiral out of control. Only the magus turned to regard him with speed born from endless years of living within the treacherous power structure of Chaos, some sort of massive pistol in his desiccated hand. The planewalker stepped out of the shadows he had been lurking in, sneering at the weapon. He had dressed for the occassion: his robes were far more blazing crimson than those of the mortals, not a spot of dirt on them, and he was wearing his iron crown. Pain's hilt was jutting from behind his left shoulder. He held no weapon in his hands but his eyes burned with flames no mortal could ever hope to challenge. He towered over the magus, exuding the absolute air of authority.

 

"Ye thought I'd appear inside yer ridiculous wards, puny mortals?"

 

He could feel an amusing ripple travel through the weave of the ritual again, some of the acolytes realizing the situation was changing rapidly but every one of them choosing to continue until told otherwise, trusting that whatever their magus would do to them if they would fail him to be less pleasant than the possible quick death at the hands of an Avatar of Chaos.

 

"You do not look like the Avatar of Khato Mua of Change."

 

The words were cold, angry. The magus gestured and the acolytes released the ritual, turned towards the Dreamer with wary, hostile looks on their faces. Several of them drew weapons, a mishmash of worn guns and gleaming blades emerging from beneath their robes. Another gesture and the planewalker felt a psychic presence trying to probe through his impervious shields, feather-light but hostile. His sneer turned into an easier grin.

 

Ah yes, the ways of Chaos. Power or nothing, packs of feral dogs respecting only savage strength.

 

Without a gesture or word the Dreamer channeled a fraction of his vast reserves of mana through his own crude psionic powers. One of the acolytes closest to the magus had his head explode in a cloud of expanding gore, smearing those nearby with a new layer of crimson. His face now half-white, half-red, the magus grinned like a skull.

 

"Maybe you'll do, master."

 

"Next time ye try somethin' this foolish, maggots, what I'll rend will not be limit'd t' mere flesh."

 

She had been right to send me.

 

They kneeled in front of him, a rapture of fear and ambition on their ugly faces.

 

"Now tell me how ye may serve th' Chaos an' me."

 

Another ripple travelling through the men in front of him, and for the first time he registered genuine uncertainity on the face of the magus.

 

"You should know ... master. Everybody does, down to the last rat that has slipped from the road of True Chaos. Even they know what is happening during their plummet into mediocrity and insignificance."

 

The thin fingers gripped the gun tighter, and the Dreamer had an impression that if the magus had had even the slightest suspicion that his corroded gun could harm the planewalker towering over him, he would have pulled the trigger. The Dreamer's scarred face twitched and he grew visibly taller, conjured bright blue sparks of lightning to dance over his robes. With a motion so fast it did not leave even a blur for the mortals to see, he grabbed the magus by his throat and lifted him up, sending a number of his new sparks to painfully jolt the old man. He growled, a new storm brewing in his expressive eyes.

 

"Ye will cease t' doubt, worm. Ye may be worm number one 'ere in this squalid nest o' filth, but if I step on ye th' smear will look like any other smear. If I ask ye what is a sphere or how t' walk, ye will torment yer decayin' brain how t' tell me just that, t' the best of yer ability. If ye fail t' grasp this, now, tell me an' I will grant ye a fast death before I go an' find a new magus of ants t' pester - if ye cannot act within these constraints, loose an' merciful as they are, I will do things t' yer soul over th' next thousand years yer limited imagination is unable t' comprehened."

 

Smoke was rising from the magus by then, a small flame flickering at his shoulder where one of the sparks had struck. He looked shaken by both the words and the manhandling, but anybody risen even as far as him in the confusing, cut-throat hierarchy of Chaos was a survivor. As soon as the Dreamer let him fall down to the floor, he staggered upright, slapped the fire out and regained his composure in a few blinks of an eye.

 

"As you wish, master. We have been praying fervently to the Change, sacrificing untold numbers of the lesser sex and slaves of labor, trying to call forth the power of Chaos against the next crusade from the Maelstorm of Rigidity. Even here at the edge of the Twisted Space, at the ancient warzone, the true powers have grown complacent, structured, monotonous. They argue upon points of theory ... of ecclesial LAW!"

 

The last word sent a wave of revulsion through the assembled cabal at the same time the Dreamer had trouble hiding his mirth at the everturning cycles of war. Only the names of the places changed, and the technology used, the scale of the conflict - the taste of the bilious froth spewed out remained the same. He hid his amusement and nodded, not too deeply.

 

"Save th' indignation for later, mortal. Let us leave this garbage dump an' discuss th' details elsewhere."

[Zadown]

The view of the city below reminded him of the summoning chamber, just in larger scale. Skeletons here were of gutted buildings, of destroyed and stripped vechiles lining the thus narrowed streets. Burning piles of rubbish spewed black smoke that did not rise to his height but was swept away by a moaning wind. Here and there small figures moved about or huddled around the fires - or fought like savage rats pushed into corner, his augmented vision picking up the muzzle flashes of one meaningless skirmish.

 

I've seen Hells more cheerful than this city. And they want to fight for this, with my supposed help.

 

The Dreamer sneered, thought ruefully that at this rate his face would be permanently set in that hostile, cynic look. He lifted his gaze higher, noted the red glows past the city's limit where foundries and factories worked to produce more things to destroy, and to destroy with. Past that there was darkness and then the stars, dim through the smoky atmosphere. There, looming huge near the middle of the inky sky, was the Maelstorm: a swirling coil of bright, painful white stars with a huge silver center.

 

For all I care, they could take this pestilent hellhole and cleanse it, if they can.

 

He heard the door to this apartment given to him open behind him and somebody enter, pushed into the room by the sounds of it, but feeling no aura of power of note he ignored it. The Maelstorm was far more fascinating than the corrupted locals and their crude customs. It radiated a noticeable amount of raw Order even at this distance of several lightyears, giving the Dreamer a rising feeling of giddy Balance, standing there above the roiling Chaos of the city in the light of Law. Then a noisy gunship flew past his field of vision, obscuring the Maelstorm and breaking his trance. He blinked and took a step back, sighing.

 

A shuddering intake of breath from behind him reminded him that there was somebody else in the room, had been there for Fates knew how long. Carefully arranging his face into a haughty, stern mien he turned around to confront whatever the newest challenge these degenerates had sent him was. Only to see that his Avatar of Chaos -disguise was quite wasted on a naked young girl, already terrified beyond her wits. Seeing him turn she looked down and curled up, trying to cover her dirty body with her limbs.

 

"An' I suppose yer their excuse o' a sacrifical maiden t' th' great an' powerful forces o' Chaos, ya?"

 

Not expecting a reply he strode forward and lifted the girl's chin up, forcing her to meet his emerald green gaze. What he saw in the upturned eyes was in some ways even more depressing than the misery outside the tower.

 

"They teach ye how t' speak, at least?"

 

"... yes, my lord."

 

She was trembling now, out of fear or cold or both. Glowing purple seeped into his eyes as he watched her struggle to retain her composure in face of what she must have thought as certain doom. Then an idea turned his growing anger into restrained amusement, scars dancing across his face as his mood shifted.

 

She did send me here - let her reap what she sowed.

 

The girl cowered as he moved back but did not try to run or scream, both actions futile in this world held firmly in the tentacled grip of Chaos. His attention moved away from her, curling inward, as he started muttering words of the First True Language. A few complex gestures later a portal sprung into existence showing a world of lush greens.

 

"Repeat this message after me, girl: 'I think I see a way t' retain balance 'ere, as distasteful protectin' this nest o' vermin is. Ye were right t' choose me.'"

 

She just stared at him, not quite comprehending what was expected of her.

 

"Yer not a dimwit, are ye mortal? Repeat after me - 'I think I see a way t' retain balance 'ere, as distasteful protectin' this nest o' vermin is. Ye were right t' choose me.', ya?"

 

"I t-think I see ... a way, to r-retain balance h-here, as dis... distasteful protecting th-this nest o-of vermin ... is. You were right ... to choose me, yes."

 

"Ye can retain that much in yer tiny memory, neh?"

 

She nodded, still shuddering but standing slightly more upright now.

 

"Tell th' message t' the lady with just one eye, or whoever she has left in charge. Assumin' ye'd rather live, that is. If it is yer fervent wish, endin' yer short life 'ere would be trivial favor, ya."

 

She first shook her head, her tangled hair swinging from one side to the other, so grimy it was impossible to tell what color it really was. Then she stuttered an audible "No, my lord." and looked questioningly at the glimmering portal.

 

"Shoo, then! But mind th' edges, they are sharper than anythin' can be."

 

The girl took one last timid look at him, then hobbled through the portal, her bare feet leaving a trail of blood on the rubbish-strewn floor. The Dreamer snapped his finger and the portal to the elven gardens vanished, leaving the room looking even more dismal than it had felt when he had first stepped in.

 

"An' this is what I'm protectin', in th' name o' th' Lady Balance ..."

 

He muttered the last words almost silently, not really caring if some spy or sensor would catch them.

[Zadown]

At street level he could not see quite as large amount of misery with one glance than from the tower, but he was not sure if seeing the details up close was any better. He stopped and looked upwards, towards his room and the red glow seeping out of its windows that showed his demonic proxy to still be there in all its fiery majesty.

 

Can't let them assume I've gone missing. Better for them to think I've changed into my true form.

 

Already he could feel the city constricting itself around him like a huge octopus, the creatures forced to live down at this level seeing even in this gloom of night that he was not part of their caste of rejects. Anybody not one of them was either an enemy or a victim, or both. The first one to try something was now a cooling corpse behind him - the next try would be more coordinated, more powerful ... but equally pointless against him. His face twisted in distate and he walked on, crushing the more fragile rubbish under his boots, skirting around the larger piles of waste. A crude feeler of psychic power brushed against his outter defenses at the same time a red dot of a laser targetting system skittered over his crimson robes. The Dreamer uncoiled his senses, slowed down the flow of time around him.

 

Vermin ... pointless to kill, futile to let live. Except ...

 

In that painfully sharp state where air itself swirled like liquid and the voices of the mortals sounded low and meaningless like the bellowing of bulls he watched the ambush unfold all around him with detached scorn. The attack against his mind came first, giving him an open channel to the psyker's own mind. With absurd ease he sent a psionic lance through the link, felt distantly how the brains at the receiving end exploded violently. At the same time people in urban camouflage suits were rising from behind cover all around him, slow as plants reaching for sunlight. He sidestepped into the planar Astral and came out behind one of the street warriors. Pain flew out of its scabbard, not caring that this prey was mere scum. It cut down two before the rest opened fire on the empty space the Dreamer had just been in.

 

He grabbed a large piece of junk with his left hand, leaped forward to eviscerate a third mortal and then threw the chunk of concrete with bone-crunching force at a fourth before the psyker he had killed first had even fallen down. The Dreamer's eyes blazed with the same red as the probing fingers of the laser sights as he jumped up to stand on top of a destroyed land vechile. Before the pulsing laser fire and barking projectile guns could focus on his newest location he bellowed out a roar of purest fury, channeling power into the yell like it would have been heavy speech.

 

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

 

Air and earth trembled, a wall of dust expanding to every direction from the angry planewalker, blinding the troops.

 

"Cease fire!"

 

Some of them tried to resist him, trained to focus their thoughts against the psykers this plane of existence had, but the shooting stopped at least for a moment. He dropped down from his podium, his crimson robes billowing around him, and rushed to grab one of the attackers. Lifting the man high from his lapels, his growled words faded back to normal.

 

"Ye 'ave th' wrong target, rats, unless 'tis death ye seek."

 

"You looked like searching for death yourself, wearing those robes in this part of the town. But ..."

 

"But now that we 'ave establish'd that I can kill yet not be kill'd, perhaps ye'd lower yer useless toys before I 'ave t' make a few more points, ya?"

 

The man in his grip made pacifying motions with his free hands. The Dreamer noticed with approval that his face did not portray fear, only grim anger. The planewalker leaned forward, aware that his body radiated unnatural heat so close. He whispered right into the man's ear.

 

"I know who ye serve, mortal. Yer lucky we share th' mistress."

 

That made him pale under the grime that covered his face, a camouflage born out of necessity. His whispered words were no louder.

 

"Not all of these ... would follow her."

 

The Dreamer nodded and leaned back, grinned in a way that made his scars dance across his face.

 

"'Twasn't entirely miserable ambush, littl' mortals. There are certain matters o' ... politics I'd discuss with yer tiny band, a pact, ya?"

 

Weapons aimed at the two of them wavered. This was language those of Chaos understood - violent, whimsical powers beyond the mortal ken, killing with one blood-drenched hand and offering power with the other. His mortal, unassuming shape still confused them, but one by one the large muzzles were lowered to point at the rubble-strewn ground instead of him.

 

"Now, don't vanish, littl' mortals. We'll be right back, me an' yer spokesperson 'ere."

 

The Dreamer sidestepped into the Astral and was gone.

 

*

 

"Yer aware o' th' crusade approachin', ya?"

 

"Yes. I have some contacts ... "

 

The planewalker frowned, his glare cutting the sentence short. They stood in an obviously fake room made of raw mana, floating in the swirling, chaotic turbulences of planetary Astral. The floor and walls were all the same grainy off-white color, the open ceiling showing a direct view into the local Astral - a view that could break the mind of a lesser mortal. This one had retained a respectable control over himself, even though he now wisely kept his eyes downcast.

 

"Th' Chaos needs t' win this one."

 

"What!? But ..."

 

The man tried to splutter a denial, but the Dreamer's tone only turned more stern.

 

"But under their rule this is a Hell on earth, ya. Th' question is - do ye try t' work within my requirements an' alongside my considerable power t' change as much as ye can, in th' short time I'm here, or do ye run away or oppose me an' die forgotten? Ye've chosen t' follow th' Lady o' Scales, an' this is how those scales are tippin'."

 

"You would ..."

 

The man paused, trying to think it all through.

 

"You'd lift us into power?"

 

"If there's a structure an' a force ye could muster t' lift into power. If there's just this littl' band then yer useless t' me."

 

"I ... I don't think you can shape us into a force that could control the whole Light's Gate, my lord."

 

"But?"

 

"Any of the three powerful factions will try to tell you as little as possible. I ... we could at the very least provide you with information, and, maybe ... you, my lord, could give us some slight assistance when the invasion has been stopped."

 

"Bargainin' with an Ascendant? At least ye 'ave some guts, mortal. We'll see how we'll be able t' manage this to th' benefit o' us both, then."

[Harmonious_Echos]

Amazing! please continue, I am enjoying story greatly.

[Zadown]

The tunnel was high enough to have its ceiling fade into shadows, even with powerful lamps flooding the room with bright, yellow light. The light glinted on the metal floor and on the polished engravings on the walls that depicted what Chaos did to those who opposed it in great detail. There was a smell of rust in the air that contrasted with the uniform dark blue gleam of the steel surfaces all around. The Dreamer let his gaze wander a while before focusing on their grandiose entourage of acolytes, psykers and magi, demons he had personally bound to his service and a number of Chaos soldiers in crimson military armor. A small army, but looking more like a lost detachment in these vast tunnels deep inside Light's Gate.

 

"Ye sure 'tis enough t' impress these ... 'recidivists', ya?"

 

"They'd prefer to be called 'reconstructors', my lord."

 

"Structures within th' all-fluid aegis o' Chaos, wasn't it?"

 

"Yes."

 

Extreme distaste contorted Magus Goultja's skull-like face into a mockery of itself as he forced the word out. The planewalker's grin was far more loose, tinged with amusement.

 

"Let's show these heretics how far they've stray'd from th' multi-directional path o' Chaos, then."

 

He gestured and the massive metal doors groaned open. They were warded against magic and heavy as houses, straining him, draining power he could ill affoard to lose right now, but he maintained his amused grin and kept his hand gestures to the minimum. From ahead similiar yellow light spilled out, but the immense hall they were about to enter was dimmer than the tunnels, full of shadows. The Dreamer sensed vaguely that the space ahead was a toroid of sorts, so huge that even with all the wonders of the multiversum he had seen he had rarely witnessed its equal. There were a vast number of the head-sized light globes, and if the space had been empty it would have been brightly lit. The light was blocked by a forest of metal however, leaving everything into a distracting mix of brightness and dark.

 

He paused there, both for the effect they might have on those watching them, and for the effect what he saw had on him. The trees, if they could be called that, were made out of the same gleaming, well-cleaned steel the floor and the walls were also made of. But whereas the floor was even with grooves and grilles for disposal of water (or other fluids) and the walls engraved with complex shapes, the trees were sharp and murderous, all edges and spikes. The forest exhaled a tangible wave of murderous bloodthirst. It barely caressed the well-protected mind of the planewalker, more a suggestion than a compulsion, but he could feel how the shackles he had forged around the true names of his demon guards rattled and groaned under its savage call, straining yet holding. None of the more intellectual men accompanying them succumbed, their training giving them all the needed tools to resist. For the soldiers, already on the edge this deep inside enemy territory, the allure was a magnitude harder to ignore.

 

It spoke volumes of how elite a guard these were for only one of them to break. The Dreamer sighed inwardly, muttered a hasty incantation and gestured at the same time the afflicted soldier was just about to open fire. The soldier shuddered, shot a short burst of bullets in the air as he convulsed and fell finally limp, staying upright only because a thorn of steel had grown from the floor and impaled him where he had stood.

 

"Ah - you ruin the beautiful symmetry of our forest, Duke."

 

A bigger lamp straight ahead of them flickered into life, showing the speaker and his court more clearly. From where the Dreamer and his troop were, a wide path cut through the wicked metal woods to a impossibly tall but very narrow throne, its sides sparkling with deadly keen edges and sharp spikes, a skull inside the symbol of Chaos embossed on the back over the headrest. On the steel throne sat the speaker, a heavy-set imposing man wearing black and red ceremonial armor, far more austere than usual for Chaos commanders - Duke Thalpar Yzir. His senior officers, bodyguards and other court members, all male, stood all around the throne, wearing clothes akin to Thalpar's.

 

In the woods other things moved with grace and speed no human could aspire to copy, staying in the shadows so none of them ever was in clear sight. Their presence was a counterpoint, a contrast to the court, their dance empowering the thrumming air of savagery that was now all around them.

 

"Ye'd truly complain' o' ruin'd symmetry, m'lord?"

 

Thalpar laughed and stood up, nodded to the Dreamer as to a colleague. The planewalker grinned back, his scars drifting across his face.

 

"You do know who I am, I presume, and thus have my advantage, lord ... ?"

 

"Ya. Ye may call me Duke, an' since there's only two o' us 'ere, there'll be no mistakes."

 

"Duke Nameless it will be, then. How may I be of service for you and your ... acquintances?"

 

Thalpar did not mask his distaste much better than Goultja had done, even if his manners were far smoother otherwise. The Dreamer shrugged, felt how his own eyes darkened.

 

"Ye know what 's 'appenin' as well as I know yer name. An' as th' only true Ascendant power 'ere, an' a champion for one o' th' Three Ladies, I am orderin' ye an' yer lackeys t' succumb t' mine an' Magus Goultja's rule at least for th' duration of th' upcomin' invasion."

 

"A true power, in such a modest shell? Allow me to be skeptic, Duke Nameless. As for the only one ... you should be able to sense your kind a bit better if you would truly be Ascendant, m'lord."

 

The planewalker shivered and sensed the threat as the words were pronounced, felt the aura that had been lurking beneath the boiling miasma of bloodlust inside the unnatural forest.

 

"With regret I and the God of Blood reject your offer."

 

The dance grew frantic, the buffetting wind of frenzy blowing from the forest of thorns and blades quieting at the same time, turning inwards to feed the power arising within. The Dreamer's eyes flared yellow and he let the time slow down around him, drew his ghost of a blade from its Void-black scabbard on his back. Pain trembled in his hands, at home in this atmosphere.

 

Mortals begun to draw away from him at slowed-down speeds like ants mired in syrup. The demon guard looked restless, their huge, ungainly weapons a forest of blades of his own, a feeble shadow of the magnificience all around them. A moment of balance, there - whatever the forest contained finished its inhaling, the air pausing for a fleeting moment, the dance frozen. No exhaled breeze of blood frenzy, this time, but a screamed challenge, the resonating hunting cry of a god. Every mortal in his entourage shook with violent, unresistable terror, the fringes of that aimed cry shaking those of Duke Yzir's distant court. A finger of frost crept all the way past the Dreamer's defenses and touched his core, making him feel cold and angry at the same time. He bellowed his own defiance back.

 

"RAAAAAAAAH!"

 

The God of the Forest flung itself out of its barbed nest, moving with impossible speed even in the distorted time. The Dreamer swung his long blade at it and missed, growled as his wards were struck by sharp claws. His active wards crackled and shot citrine lightning at the attacker, discharging all their energy, but he could not discern if the blast even touched the blurred form of the Blood God. He spun around towards the part of the forest his adversary had vanished into, standing in a defensive, ready stance with Pain raised high.

 

Another moment of silence. Then a sudden grin flashed on his scarred face, the fiery yellow of his eyes abating to more placid colors as the Blood God walked out of his forest, patting on a smoking patch on his left arm where he had been hit by the lightning. He was a pale man, blessed with the soul-wrenching androgynous beauty of vampires taken to the extreme by his Ascension, his swaying walk and long, dark hair blurring the certainity of his sex even more. The Blood God was wearing a form-hugging set of leather armor, a pair of sheathed long daggers hanging from his belt. The large rubies embedded in their hilts were the only spots of color on him besides his bright red eyes, fixed on the smiling Dreamer.

 

"Lord Sangar Vral! I knew there was somethin' familiar in th' aura o' power, ya."

 

"M'lord Dreamer. I should've realized sooner, but wasn't really expecting a former High Commander of the Chaos armies down here."

 

That got the attention of all the mortals.

[Zadown]

"Almost like things were back in the real war, is it not, m'lord?"

 

"Th' Eternal War? This is yet 'nother fraction, 'nother reflection o' it, so ya. We are still walkin' a tributary o' that road."

 

Sangar Vral turned his excuriatingly beautiful face downwards to observe the mortals locked in ritual combat far below on the snow-covered arena grounds. The Dreamer took a step forward and leaned on the stone rail, glanced down as well with almost blank, uninterested look.

 

"These are far cry from the armies ye used to command, lord. The best of these would barely be foot soldiers in the planar troops, if that. I was a minor captain in that war, and I must admit I'm surprised ye even remembered my name, so it's not quite the same kind of fall in ... grace."

 

He grinned at the last word and looked sideways at the scarred planewalker.

 

"Glory, ya. 'Tis not my callin', even if I 'ave gathered an aura o' notoriety durin' my wanderings. I'd rather just get things done, an' sometimes that calls somethin' like this. Gettin' yer hands dirty, neh? But then, Chaos has always lov'd t' waste its resources ..."

 

The Dreamer glared meaningfully at the growing bloodstains steaming on the thin layer of white snow, some fighting pairs leaving the arena with both combatants alive, most leaving their sparring parter's prone body behind when they left.

 

"In the infinite potential of the worlds there are countless souls willing to fight against the rigid oppression of the Law, hee hee!"

 

Sangar's smile was wide, his laughter carefree. The Dreamer answered with a thin smile, shrugged to show he did not care all that much either way when it was about mere mortals and released his grip on the rail.

 

"Ye've been 'ere longer. Do ye think this'll be enough?"

 

The vampire's shrug was an elaborate, courtly affair.

 

"This is what we have, and it is far more what we had before you managed to unify all three of them - the Orthodox, the Reconstructors and the Ragnarokians. I have seen your disapproval at the state of our cities, but rest assured, when there's a fight to be had the rats will scurry from their holes to our side."

 

"I know what we 'ave, assumin' no elaborate betrayals. But them?"

 

He pointed a scarred, misshaped finger upwards where a brightening spot marked the approaching navy, next to the searing silver light of Maelstorm of Rigidity. Sangar narrowed his eyes, visibly disliking the bright lights ruling that part of the sky. His voice was nonchalant.

 

"They? Machines of war, armored troops, psykers and untold numbers of gunfodder, same as we do."

 

The finger turned to point at the Ascendant vampire.

 

"Do not try t' misdirect me, acolyte. Divided or not ye'd shatter a feeble blow like that - I am sure they 'ave all o' those, but what sort o' drivin' force they have behind th' troops?"

 

Bared fangs showed how much Sangar liked the Dreamer's words. Without realizing it, the vampire crouched slightly, its instincts telling it to get ready to pounce.

 

"Watssssch that tone, Duke of Chaos. You know what they say of lairs and dragons, m'lord."

 

The Dreamer's body language did not give him away. One moment he was glaring at the vampire lord, then without a warning he released the power stored into his topmost wards in one thundering strike of lightning. Several jagged bolts struck the surprised Sangar, a few missing their target and sinking into the stone railing and the stone benches with explosive, destructive force. Smoke and dust blew in every direction while the whole arena shook, mortals down below dropping to their knees as the sonic boom of the explosions hammared into them. Despite the immense force of the spell, Sangar seemed unharmed inside his battered rust-tinted wards, kneeling as much from the surprise as from the impact of the blow.

 

"Remember yer place, whelp! I'll break any lair ye can device, scar ye through any armor, win any fight ye'd pick with me!"

 

Sangar sneered as he stood, spat out dust and grime. He looked angry, a dagger in his left hand, his stance wound up. Then he tossed his magnificient mane backwards and let loose a howling laugh.

 

"Ah hah ha! Destruction, the true language of Chaos! Ye can't have strayed too far, m'lord, if at all."

 

He made a great show of sheathing his dagger and dusting off his black leather armor.

 

"Who knows what whips the dogs of Order forward, Duke. They lash out and we will cut them down, as is the way."

 

A wan smile on the Dreamer's scarred face, impossible to read. The older planewalker shook his head and left the scene of devastation, not looking backwards.

 

*

 

The shattered room was dark and mostly filled with rubble. It had been large, once, but with the state it was in it felt like an oversized closet or a dark cave, a lair of some unsavoury beast. The Dreamer's outstretched hand held a mage-flame of his customary emerald green color, the hued light making everything seem moss-covered, softening the harsh atmosphere of the wrecked surroundings slightly. He was utterly still, waiting or thinking, better than any fake statue begging for money on busy streets. Or perhaps he was listening to the far-away sounds echoing through the ruined structure, sounds so muffled and distorted even his super-human senses could not make sense out of their origin.

 

Time passed.

 

Eventually some of the sounds grew louder and clearer, resolving to be the footsteps of two men, the reflected light of their lanterns spilling in from one of the remaining intact doorways heralding them long before they entered the room. The planewalker stirred from his state of absolute stillness with fluidity that belied the duration he'd stayed motionless - one moment he was an odd statue, then his gestures sent his mage-flame to circle around his striding form.

 

The first of the two approaching men was the one that had lead the ambush against him back when he had just entered this Prime. The second one he did not know, a fact that did not worry him in any way. No weapon the locals had could touch his soul - no magic, no psykers strong enough, no technological wonders powerful enough to bend reality itself. Both of them were utterly mundane in their appearances, wearing a combination of street clothes and hi-tech armor meant to be lived in, carrying the assortment of blades and guns deemed usual for the rougher parts of the city. What was not usual in these parts was the sign of the scales both of them made as they approached, the Dreamer nodding in response.

 

"Shockwaves o' what I did ripplin' all th' way t' yer streets yet, pilgrims?"

 

"Some, yes. He was not an open figure before you stirred things up, so not many think of the vampire as 'our Ascendant'. Discussion's not as heated as it could be."

 

"Ah, ya. Cults o' idolation, veneratin' their chosen avatar o' Chaos. Sangar's got better looks for that sort o' thing, I'd imagine."

 

"He practically kneeled before you, twice, if my sources are correct. That counts for far more than looks around these parts."

 

The other man remained silent and turned around to watch the doorways gaping open and black, took a few steps away and touched one of his guns like it had been a religious icon.

 

"I'm not worried 'bout my popularity, ya. There's somethin' rotten in th' core o' this comin' clash. Do th' crusaders 'ave an Ascendant or a godling with them, ye know?"

 

The mortal looked thoughtful and scratched his short, unkempt beard.

 

"It might explain ... hmm. Why do you ask, lord?"

 

"Because I'd like t' believe Our Lady has not wast'd my time by sendin' me 'ere t' crush ants. If they do not 'ave th' backin' of a power, our vampire lord would've easily cut through them eventually. One o' th' three factions would've been enough, after a series o' bloody battles at worst. Yet they send me ..."

 

"Yes?"

 

"I am not sent lightly, littl' one."

 

"As you say, my lord. May ... may I ask a question?"

 

"Ya?"

 

"Why did you .. umm, lash out at him? Unless what I heard was too much off, you attacked without real provocation."

 

The Dreamer nodded and reached into his robes, not noticing how both of the mortals automatically tensed at the gesture. The silent one turned slightly, his left hand softly touching a pistol, while the one who had been talking merely crouched and grimaced. When the Dreamer's hand reappeared holding a harmless-looking card the mortals both relaxed to their earlier positions. The card's back was so dark blue it was indistinguishable from black in this illumination, dotted with a number of small stars or pearls that gave the impression of being an indeterminable distance below the card's surface, like a deep well filled with the reflection of a starry sky. He turned it around and it showed a monstrous bat-human hybrid obscured partly by shadows, partly by its cowl and cloak, holding a massive chalice of pitted, gauged and torn gold. A pair of skeletal hands reached out from the cup, one holding a rusty dagger, the other a grimy gun. Behind the twisted humanoid figure another shape loomed, so hidden by swirling shadows it was impossible to discern much of it.

 

"Th' Knight o' Grails, revers'd. Guile o' th' Primordial Beast, fraud an' subtlety mix'd with blood, unholy passion. Not one o' th' more auspicious omens, no."

 

"Just because of one card?"

 

The mortal's incredulity made the Dreamer sneer with disdain.

 

"'Just', say ye? Do ye think I'm some itinerant gypsy-girl makin' up futures with handsome strangers an' happy endings? This - this is a window t' th' very skein o' Fates, a declaration o' what'll happen! More than a divination, a signpost for th' future to choose its way. Ye should count yerself lucky ye can see what I've with great pain, skill an' work dug from th' muddy waters o' Destiny, this time more accurate than usual, more clear."

 

"If you say so, m'lord."

[Zadown]

The brightness of the space battle rivaled now the radiance of the Maelstorm itself. It shifted and sparkled on the evening sky like a crafted galaxy or a colorful display of aurora borealis, impossible to read any meaning to its lights and hues from this distance. The pulsing specks could be activating minefields, firing drone squadrons or dying star cruisers, maybe even something more exotic. The Dreamer lowered his gaze back to what he had come here to supervise in the first place, letting his eyes widen as they left the fireworks of the sky.

 

Past him poured one of the myriad legions of Chaos, this one tainted and twisted to the core. He was not sure which one of the three factions held claim to this division of Hell but he suspected them to be part of the hidden strength of the Orthodoxians, a reserve kept in the catacombs below. Now they marched past him, a sure sign of the imminent war: manbeasts, beastmen, creatures with genes spliced and mixed and twisted, others that merely had parts grafted into them, some corrupted by the essences of raw Chaos into mockeries of their former shapes. They marched from a tunnel's entrance, already armed, bloodlust glinting in their eyes that were narrowed against the unfamiliar light of the surface. One of them had sub-officer's stripes crafted out of its own bone on its shoulders and as he studied its abominable form it turned to regard him, its gaze steady and cool, out of place in its elephant-like face. The creature stepped out of the river of mutants.

 

"Are you an officer, sir?"

 

Its voice was startlingly human, emerging from somewhere under its writhing snout.

 

"No, sergeant. I am a Duke."

 

He grinned at the strange hybrid, waved away its sudden awkward bow and returned to his lazy survey of the troops. They kept on pouring out, carrying in their hands and claws and talons crude polearms, huge guns and heavy weapons most men would not be able to lift alone. In their multitude of shapes and forms they had a sort of unity, their differences melting into an ocean, every wave different in the monotonous whole. No changes in the river of changed men, but a sudden frown appeared on the Dreamer's previously relaxed face and he turned around, leaving the legion to its plodding march out of the city.

 

Around him rose the towers of the city's edge to one side, factories of war and absolute necessities to another, the stream of warriors heading towards a wasteland poisoned by its proximity to the polluting masses of humanity. No civilians were in sight, though he could sense a few skittish gangs of them around, weak urban tribes pushed away from the beating putrescant heart of the city to the pointless borderlands. The planewalker walked along that border, his frown staying on his face, his eyes flickering with yellow flames. He looked around as if looking for somebody, then continued his purposeful striding, pausing now and then. His mouth twisted downwards, scars dancing across his face.

 

Finally the frown faded as he stood on a concrete ridge above a pit filled with metal trash and broken machines, the few forgotten corpses thrown in the mix mostly eaten by dogs and other scavengers. With great deliberation he smashed a moldy skull with his booted heel, then leaped down like a crimson-winged angel, his robes billowing. The Dreamer's landing was softer than any laws of physics would allow, his levitation cantrip keeping him almost floating even after he had touched the bottom. It was dark here in the shadows of the pit's walls, dark enough for the planewalker's blazing eyes to send out little shadows of their own. From the deepest darkness stepped out a man clad all in black, the vibrant yellow of his hair more solid than the nervous, crackling citrine ghost-fire of the Dreamer's eyes.

 

"Hey, old man."

 

"Suentalv, ya?"

 

"You can read my wards, Dreamer, can't you? Who else would I be?"

 

"Ye know th' answer t' that yerself, pup. How 'ave yer travels been?"

 

The Dreamer's eyes dimmed to softly glowing green and the darkness around the two grew almost total.

 

"Actually, you are right to ask. Where did I hear a story 'bout the Cult of the Damned?"

 

"Why, in ... Chtan'ghal, not that I much care for such mnemonic tests, youngster. I 'aven't gone senile yet."

 

"Yeah, but there's more of you around than just you. I like to know which old man I'm speaking to."

 

There was relief in Suentalv's voice and he grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the gloom.

 

"What sort o' copy ye met, then? Th' skeleton?"

 

"A skeleton? What sort of planewalker is a skeletal one?"

 

"One sunken far too deep. So, 'twasn't th' Fanatic o' Chaos."

 

"Actually, he seemed to be of the Chaos alright, wearing a shifting armor colored not unlike those silly robes you are currently wearing. Now .. what exactly are you doing here, wearing crimson and overseeing the Legions of Chaos? Did you switch sides again?"

 

The younger planewalker took a short step backwards, his hands touching his guns out of old, nervous habit. The Dreamer shrugged, his scars swirling lazily on his face.

 

"Faaye sent me 'ere, m'lord, with me bein' uniquely suit'd for this kind o' undercover work, ya. Ye might not want t' show yer unblemish'd face around me, not havin' any tentacles makes my credibility 'ere t' be on enough o' a short supply already."

 

"Ohh! You are planning to infiltrate them and then strike these evil demon-worshippers in the back when they least expect it! Clever plan, reminds me of the time me and my cell were trying to bring down the Oligarchy of Zevenos and I had to get a black wig ..."

 

"Somethin' akin t' that, 'prentice. I don't think a wig would be 'nough t' involve ye in this one, no. Once this assingment is finish'd, I'd like t' hear what ye've been doin' lately an' what my other me talk'd with ya 'bout."

 

"You'd actually want to listen to a story of mine?"

 

"Ya, ye can put it like that, m'lord. This'll take a few more weeks first, likely."

 

"Are you sure you don't want to hear what the other you told me first?"

 

"Later, m'lord."

 

The Dreamer looked around pointedly, yellow creeping back into his eyes. Suentalv shrugged slightly, waved one hand in farewell and disappeared back into the Void without a further word.

 

"... so, at least he made it, ya."

 

He smiled and floated out of the black pit, his eyes glowing with pale light.

[Zadown]

Snow swirled across the battlefield, obscuring vision and giving the butchery an ethereal beauty. It also muffled the booming chorus of artillery, the only sound of war loud enough to carry this far. The Dreamer lowered his pair of binoculars and glanced at the acolyte of Balance standing next to him on this tiny hilltop, twisted his face into a grimace.

 

"There's somethin' very wrong with this, ya. 'S all too easy."

 

A coordinated artillery barrage backlit his scarred profile, made the forlorn little trees that were their only company throw vague shadows. The mortal frowned in response to his words, took the offered binoculars.

 

"You are right in that. Out there in the south the Battle of Koivkuj was a complete massacre, the Reconstructor armies crushing all opposition with unlikely ease."

 

"Ya. Sangar Vral was there, but out o' his lair that alone shouldn't 'ave tilt'd th' balance so much t' Chaos's favour. He is comin' 'ere next, but if this continues like this th' Orthodoxians aren't goin' t' require much help."

 

"We've usually beat them back ..."

 

"But not like this, ya?"

 

"No. Never so easily, not in the recorded history. Down in the older legends maybe but ..."

 

Emerald wards bloomed around them both. With a loud crack something hit the wards surrounding the mortal who was so startled he fell over, landing on the rocky, barely snow-covered ground with a painful thud. The Dreamer's eyes flashed and he reached over to where the mortal sat, snatching a gun, his motions a trembling blur. He pointed the bulky pistol away from the field of war and into the white chaos of slowly intensifying blizzard. Words of power escaped his snarling lips, twisting and capering runes appearing on the sides of the gun in a marching line from the Dreamer's white-knuckled grip towards the barrel. Before the acolyte had managed to stand up again, the invocation was ready. A scarred finger pulled the trigger and the hilltop was submerged in a gigantic, absurd muzzle flash that cuffed the mortal down again. A short moment of relative calm, then an answering explosion from the direction the Dreamer had pointed the hastily enchanted weapon.

 

"Th' Fates be damn'd. He is movin' 'gainst me already, tryin' t' eliminate what littl' allies I have."

 

The Dreamer slowly lowered the altered pistol, its shape and size notably different from a moment ago, the living runes dancing on its sides cooling off and soldifying in the frigid air, clouds of dark grey smoke pouring out of the now ridiculously massive barrel. He let the gun fall. The acolyte stood up, this time far more slowly, glancing at what used to be his pistol with a rueful look. The planewalker waved a hand absently.

 

"Ye can still use it, ya. Just don't fire it indoors. Now ... what is his game? What is such a minor 'walker tryin' t' accomplish, 'ere?"

 

"He actually tried to kill ... me?"

 

"Ya. He can't touch me, an' he thought this'd pass out as a stray bullet, ha. Perhaps he thought we'd be closer t' th' action than this. Nothin' t' see here, I'd say. Comin' with me t' Koivkuj, mortal?"

 

The mortal shook snow off his clothes, still visibly shaken, and grabbed the unwieldy, heavy gun from the ground.

 

"It wouldn't be healthy for me to stay here alone, that's for sure. How ... how are we getting there? It's almost on the other side of the planet."

 

"Why, by Astral, ya."

 

The Dreamer grinned.

 

*

 

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped out of the swirling madness of the Astral. The Dreamer tasted rotting ice in his mouth, shivered with what felt like a brushing tendril of distant fever. He spat on the ground, frowned. In front of him and his mortal companion spread the camped 5th Army, a huge rash on the green face of the swampy view. Men and vechiles standing around, brown and tan and crimson tents, cooking fires and mud and sentries - a panorama he had seen a thousand times even if most of those times the soldiers he'd seen had been carrying spears and bows instead of guns and monoblades. Further away, mostly hidden by mist rising from the swamp, he could see the edge of the field of battle. Corpses, people moving about looking for things worth scavenging, small engineering teams salvaging tanks, craters filling with muddy water, a few still manned heavy guns with half-naked crews grinning and smoking covering the field in case the enemy would magically appear again. No aberrations and hybrid manbeasts here, in this army - their conviction shown mostly in tattoos and crude metal jewelry, the sharp arrowheads of the Chaos wheel repeating itself everywhere.

 

A patrol was approaching them, their guns pointed away, faces deferential. The Dreamer shook the last remaining snow off his narrow shoulders but could not shake the feeling of wrongness, of being too late by far, so easily. His eyes blazed yellow, bringing the patrol to a halt an awkward distance away.

 

"Report, sergeant. Th' battle is over, ya?"

 

"Yes, lord. We crushed most of them easily and the remaining strongpoint they hold is expected to fall about now, or maybe already has. You'll have to ask one of the more senior officers about that, my lord."

 

"An' Sangar Vral?"

 

The troops looked slightly uneasy at hearing the name.

 

"He and his .. ah, troops, left already towards north in a gunship convoy."

 

"As expect'd. Find accomodations for my adjutant 'ere. I will go an' see this ... strongpoint."

 

The mortals made some more noises, his acolyte disagreeing with him and the soldiers assenting, but he barely heard them now. What he saw around him seemed more and more illusionary by every minute, the healthy tanned men and the green of the swamp a flimsy veil over the pulsing wind of reeking plague he, and he alone, could sense. A stench that felt familiar, a thick odor of decay and embalming herbs with a trace of winter only partly diluted by distance. The fires in the Dreamer's eyes flickered and shifted, burning purple and black and red.

[Zadown]

It was worse than he had been expecting. He was used to battlefields of every kind, but this was an abattoir of the gods with butchered men scattered everywhere in a frightening resemblence of order. Every step he took diluted blood splashed under his boots, the trees were covered in lines and spots of gore and pieces of corpses were hanging from their limbs. The Dreamer had almost shut down his sense of smell ages ago, not wanting to sense the pointless distraction of what must have been an unbearable stench. What he cound see with his second sight was in ways even uglier than the flagrant display of death all around - everything was wrapped up in sickly tendrils of necromantic magic, the flayed souls of the dead trapped in webs of magic. The few vechiles he could see were rent open like cans of meat, the tearing wounds inflicted on the machines of war the work of some sort of oversized blades or claws.

 

Of the taint of Order there was little left, a faint fleeting trace here and there. The fallen soldiers were from both sides as far as he could tell from the torn remains. A dread he did not want to acknowledge was growing in the back of his mind, calmly calculating the mounting evidence.

 

I am not sure if I am equal to him, now. Not even if I supposedly won the last time.

 

The Dreamer grabbed the sheathed Pain from his back and tossed it away, into the Astral. It was a blade of corruption and decay, useless against whoever was orchestrating this mockery of a crusade. With a preoccupied air he grabbed Benefical Dragon from empty air and tied its scabbard to his belt. His eyes never stopped on any one detail. Their gaze passed over the bones, the blood and the exposed organs, paused briefly to examine a swarm of white worms wriggling somewhere as a group, then continued to drift. Most of his attention was in what was happening beyond the visible reality, in the sinister glyphs coalescing out of the plague-magics, in the vast outlines of a massive ritual being born in front of his very eyes. Soon he realized he was walking in a tightening spiral instead of heading directly towards the strongpoint, reluctant to even turn to look at that direction. The Dreamer grimaced and turned his head slowly but surely to gaze upon the eye of the storm.

 

What he saw made him shiver. It was a raw unveiling of power, a putrescent star of malevolent magic descended to wreck havoc on this fragile world. From its center waves of venom surged to every direction, reinforcing and refining the coalescing ritual. It was like a thousand mushroom clouds or a direct portal to an Abyss or the glare of a world-wrecking asteroid, a doom of a world growing in front of his very eyes. A sickening despair threw a shadow over the planewalker's spirit and his face twisted with both grief and anger, his sword somehow appearing in his hand, his knuckles pearly white on its hilt.

 

This is far beyond me. I have destroyed cities, crippled armies, conquered small demi-planes and laid claims to fiefs on the Lost Paths ... but this goes far beyond that.

 

For a moment there, his will shook. The Astral was but a single step away, the Lost Paths stretching from there to every direction imaginable - nobody could catch a fleeing planewalker, nobody. A still moment, so brief it barely would have counted as hesistation for a mortal. Then he sprang forward, running straight into the embrace of the waiting nightmare.

 

*

 

Herald could have passed for a statue, if there'd been a master sculptor who could have done so perfect a piece of art: his face and hair both unnaturally white, his robes of office the color of cream, his bare arms muscular. He was studying a parchment, a report from one of the lesser holdings of Wodzan Xe Chanima. It contained descriptions of the travellers who had passed the fortress, what work had been done, details of the clashes with the locals and other such minutiae. All his responsibilities as the majordomo of the wandering planewalker.

 

A shiver ran through the holdings, making the green crystals extending downwards from the ceiling of Fortress Syvkiv tremble. This room was one of the smaller ones of the vast underground complex, and only Herald and the local main caretaker, a hound archon called Muskhe Resharn occupied it at the moment. The archon narrowed its golden eyes, tilted its grey canine head to show confusion.

 

"What ..."

 

It swallowed, clearly uneasy.

 

"... was that."

 

Herald grinned.

 

That look was so out of place, so wild and free compared to his usual completely reserved and mild manner that Muskhe took a step back, seeing an illuminating glory ignite somewhere inside Herald. The angel's now burning eyes stared somewhere past Muskhe, past the walls of the tiny room, past the here and now. He laughed, a short burst of crystal sound, then exclaimed with disbelieving tone of voice.

 

"He is gone!"

 

With those words, Herald spread his wings and kept on spreading them until they filled the room and then some, ghostly wing-shaped phantasms extending deep into the rock.

 

He beat his wings once and vanished.

 

The end.