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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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."

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.

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."

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."

This is one of the things I really like about writing - you think of something, and then you write it down in some form ... and somebody else reads it and thinks something completely different. Perhaps not a good quality in user manuals, but definitely good in poems.

Winter Soul With age-wrought wisdom I sit here, waiting for my soul to thaw. The time-honed burden always the same.

Epilogue "... you are only just coming back from west? Then you didn't hear yet what happened in Thakelmia - not a good place to go, right now, unless you are selling food and tents." "Why's that? Earthquake struck them or what?" A hooded figure turned its head slightly in an unmistakeable show of interest at what the two merchants sitting in the next booth were talking about. Neither of them were paying much attention to their surroudings, however, the older getting ready to tell his big story, the younger eating and drinking like somebody who had spent a few weeks too many on trail rations. "Earthquake would have been just, maybe, with how they have been filled with hubris lately ... but no, this was worse." "Mmm. What's worse than a big earthquake? A huge flood?" "No, no. There's no floods in autumn, you lummox. It was war!" This made both the younger merchant and the hooded figure pause, even more interested. The young man took a long draught of beer and then set the tankard down, frowning. "War, Gelter? But there's no powers big enough to challenge them within a marching distance, especially this late in year. Maybe the Empire of Foess could do that, but ..." "But they have good relations with each other, yes. You do have some brains in that big head of yours, Aeger. It wasn't the Foessians, no. It was ... Jugatt!" "Haha! Now you are just spinning a tale, old man. Jugatt maybe able to protect themselves, with how easy their town is to defend, but to attack? They don't even have a proper army!" The hooded figure slumped down as if in sudden pain. The loud voices of the two merchants made others to glance at them, some turning back to their food when they heard what it was about, having head the news already. Others had sceptic or attentive looks on their faces, some of them openly listening to the exchange now. "Again right - it wasn't a proper army. It was an army of hellspawns, conjured by that Witch of Jalar! They destroyed the whole city, killing everybody and going as far as to destroy the walls and houses, leaving not two stones on top of each other." "Right you are. While we are it, I have a flying horse to sell you." "Go on then, take your load of exquisite furniture and mirrors all the way to Thakelmia, if you can find any room on the river boats that carry building materials. Don't come crying to me when your journey's wasted." Something in Gelter's air of absolute certainity gave the younger man a pause. The noise of conversation in the tavern washed all around them, with nobody laughing at the older man so far. "Wait - you really mean that? Thakelmia is ... gone?" He looked around, seeing a number of nods and a few shrugs but no jeering patrons, no vehement denials. "Not quite gone, Aeger. They just struck, destroyed as much as they could and went away back to the Hell they had been summoned from. There's still a town of sorts there, but the last thing they need is your load of baroque junk. You'll have to take those elsewhere, friend." "Hells damn it! If you were a rival, I'd still think you'd be fooling me." Aeger sighed and turned his attention back to his food and drink, eating now with far less gusto. In the next booth over the hooded person was staring into a dark corner, immersed in thoughts. A young man in merchant's travel clothes set two plates of food clumsily down on the table in the booth, startling her. She withdrew her hand from the hilt of her sword, looking slightly embarassed as the man lowered down two tankards next to the plates. He sat down, speaking in a language only they two knew in this whole tavern full of exotic travellers. "Looks like you were right to insist on subterfuge, Jan. I'm not sure what would happen if they'd figure out who we are but I doubt it'd be anything good." She hissed in frustration, then tugged her hood back a bit to make eating easier and lifted a spoonfull of the meat stew. Instead of putting it in her mouth, she paused it in midair as her hand started to tremble. By the time she had set it back on the plate, she was shaking from silent tears. "You have .. any idea how many people live..d in Thakelmia, Marc?" He shook his head and picked his spoon, but just looked at Jankiize's general direction without making any further motions to eat. "Over thirty thousand .. mortals." There was barbed venom in the last word. * Moonlight streamed through the tall, majestetic trees to create ornate patterns of light and dark shadows on everything. Their edges were softened by the ambient glow of the various stars dotting the cloudless sky, most of them white but some larger ones glowing red, blue or green. A sense of almost supernatural peace suffused everything, making the Dreamer grasp the stone parapet more gently than necessary. Far below the elven gardens spread out to every direction from the white tower, a mixture of wildness and order that did not seem to prefer either philosophy in the end. He spied fruit trees, a thin stream that connected two ponds, stone benches cleverly hid so they did not detract from the overall view, a hundred other details. He had not asked about the history of this place, but everything he saw made him sure no violence had touched this haven in several mortal generations. Breathing in deeply he spent a moment immersing himself in the mixture of heady fragrancies wafting from below only slight diluted by his distant vantage point, then he sighed the air he did not need out of his lungs and turned around. "You have an exquisite garden, sister." "I am glad you like it, Wodzan. Not all immortals can appriciate the beauty in tranquility any more, and many who can do not walk the planes." Faaye smiled. She looked at home here, or as close to home as anybody could without elven features. The long dress she wore looked simple at first glance, but under more careful scrutiny revealed itself to be made out of countless different hues of green. Her movements invoked the effect of a forest floor with sun moving over the canopy and casting a pattern of constantly changing shadows, the dress also rustling in a manner of leaves caught in a gentle spring breeze. The soft gloom of the night hid every mark of her long age and left her looking like a young maiden, at least until she spoke careful words laden with the weight of centuries of experience or until she turned her ruined eye towards the observer. The Dreamer's grey robes were as simple as they seemed even if the shifting lighting tried to conceal the fact. Not even the faint moonlight could erase his scars or the grey in his medium-length hair, the disorder of his uneven beard and moustache. He had brought no weapons here, wore no jewelry, the reflecting pools of his silvery eyes his only ornament. He turned to gaze back at the garden but let his attention drift away from its silent beauty. She walked to where he stood, her bare feet making no sound on the stone. Faaye stopped next to him to see where he was looking at. When she spoke her tone was soft, careful. "Have you finished being the King of Ants, for now?" "Yes. For now." He did not seem offended, more as if he was relieved, like some hidden anger was draining out of him by her presence, her words a healing knife to puncture the pustule. "Nothing good will ever follow from that hobby of yours, brother. I am not saying this out of malice or of judgement, but out of experience. Any change you forge down there in the mud you could do thousand-fold when working for Balance, running the Lost Paths." "And is that the Arbitrator of Balance speaking, hmm?" She laughed, even that sound more elven here, like crystals tinkling against each other. "I am me, brother. Even if my face has been cleft in two I still have less masks and their differences are less striking than of those you wear." He looked like he would say something, for a moment, before just nodding towards the garden, as if to some thought of his own.

"It's been a week now, uncle. Weren't you supposed to go back to oversee the defenses of the tower before we can go back? We are almost out of the worst bandit area too, doubt we'll get attacked any more." "Hmm?" The planewalker glanced at Jankiize who was sitting next to him on the wagon, a distracted look on his face. Something gleamed in his eyes as he turned before they changed into sickly, swirling blue. He was not concentrating on what she said, not even with a fraction of his sizeable mind. "Uncle? What is it?" "Th' cards weren't clear, I've 'ad trouble interpretin' them lately. This morning's divination was slightly more forthcomin', ya. We might 'ave company, today." "And you haven't said a word." "Th' omens were ambiguous, t' say th' least. Do ye 'ave any idea how many futures I see at any one time? Would ye want every one o' th' thousand warnings, m'lady?" The false blue cleared from his eyes, leaving behind fiery yellow. He was only partly paying attention to the conversation, his now narrowed eyes scanning the forest's edge. Her voice got lower and she forced herself to look forward. "Should I alert the guards?" "No." She felt it, then. Thin strands of magic extended from the seemingly inert planewalker, weaving a defensive net all around the caravan. Air shimmered faintly here and there as the Dreamer drained in more mana, laylines flickering in and out of Jankiize's second sight. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The forest all around them that had just a moment before looked beautiful seemed now foreboding and dangerous, every trembling leaf a possible sign of enemies, every tree a potential cover for archers. Her voice dropped down to a mere whisper. "You sure they will attack a caravan this well guarded?" There was no nervousness on the Dreamer's face. His mouth twisted to a momentary grimace or sneer. "They are committed already. I don't think they'll retreat now. And I don't thi..." Some unseen sign marked the opening of the assault. A swarm of angry, buzzing crossbow bolts soared out of the forest, their shapes making them wail as they flew. As they hit the Dreamer's spell of protection, they made a sound like metal striking glass. At the same time, before even the first bandit had charged from the cover towards them, the planewalker sprung upwards to land on top of the wagon. Jankiize was slightly slower, jumping down instead of up. She drew her sword and yelled "Get ready!" to her guards, a familiar panic blooming inside that was only barely constrained by her absolute faith in her armor. She had said before that she was no killer despite having had fought many times by now, often even commanding troops, and she would claim that to be true still. Fear pulsed behind her eyes and terror tried to turn her feet to lead but she somehow managed to keep that fearful civilian apart from the woman who yelled more orders and brandished a magical blade. You are the Lady of Bronze, the Grail Keeper! You have faced the Steam Army and the anger of the Kalash! A group of bandits ... oh. Already, the number of bolts their enemy had shot had been more than expected from a band of outlaws. As the enemy rushed from their cover, the true numbers of what they were against came apparent. A single glance was enough to note down their uniform, well-cared for swords, the determination on their scarred faces and the strict discipline they showed. These are no bandits! At the same moment she realized that, she felt a surge of magic tug at the earth below their feet. With a resounding crack, a noise that would have been staggering on its own right, a horrendous array of sharp stone spears smashed at the center of the attackers with such force two soldiers were sent careening upwards. Most of those struck were speared multiple times and stayed put, turning from living men to twitching, dying scarecrows in a blink of the eye. The few survivors screamed in abject agony, the noise loud enough to conquer the echoes of the explosion of stone. The left and right flank of the attack did not survive unscatched either. The unnatural blow that had so easily decimated their force stopped even the best of the men, breaking the morale of others like a dry twig. For a moment, nobody was sure what to do. When Jankiize looked on top of the wagon, she saw the Dreamer gesticulating with motions so wide and wild they were either pure showmanship or meant that he would unleash truly destructive magic next. He noticed her gaze, winked and lifted both of his hands in a gesture of conjuration. In answer to his call, sand and earth poured upwards in an accelerating, shrieking wind, wreathing the planewalker in a light brown tornado. This is a sound I'll never forget - the wail of a Hulkiljael. Now let's see if any of these are veterans of that battle as well ... True enough, either because of the growing wail or because of how their attack had smashed against incomprehensible forces without any effect, the Thakelmians broke and ran. A few half-hearted crossbow bolts from Jankiize's guards followed them, and the Dreamer lashed out with the wind he was controlling, but no further carnage ensued. As the last of the attackers capable of running vanished from sight, the planewalker snapped his fingers. The wind died leaving behind an expectant silence only punctuated by the cries of the wounded and the dying. The Dreamer shrugged at the people staring at him and leaped down from his podium, his face twisting in slow anger. "... and I don't think they are bandits, ya. I think I just lost my patience with this." * "Ye sure ye don't want me t' question them? I 'ave some methods I've been waitin' t' be able to test." "Absolutely sure. To be frank, I don't like the look on your face right now, uncle. We sustained no casualties, and the attack was not a personal affront to insult you, no matter how much you like to think you are the center of the known multiversum." The Dreamer did not answer, but turned to look at the few Thakelmians prisoners who had survived the short fight without being able to join the rout. None of them dared to meet his smoldering gaze. The weather was still very nice, warm for autumn, and birds which had been scared into silence by the loud noises of battle were singing again deeper in the forest. "Ye really think this is it, m'lady? What is yer estimate of what would've 'appened had I not been 'ere?" It was her turn to fall silent and watch the same prisoners. The planewalker had actually deigned to heal them in an angry, off-hand manner, so there were no wounded left, only hale prisoners and dead soldiers. When she spoke after a while her voice was so quiet it was meant for the Dreamer's ears only. "... the caravan would have been virtually destroyed, with most of my guard dead or wounded. We would have won in the bloody end - if nobody else, I would have finished the fight with Marchello, assuming he would have not taken a bolt through him. But it would have been a costly victory." "Ya, 'tis an accurate estimation o' what'd happen'd. An' still ye act unconcerned." They both turned to look at each other. The Dreamer's eyes, the mirror to his swirling, chaotic and immortal soul were black with a hint of burgeoning red somewhere in the depths of that cold night. His scars were etched into a mask of contained fury, twitching and turning every time the thin line of his mouth twisted into a sneer. Jankiize looked sad and tired and disappointed, her shoulders slumped, her armor incongruous on her like she had picked the wrong clothes to wear in the morning. "What am I supposed to say!? 'Yes, go ahead and torture them for information'? Would that make you happy, uncle? What would it solve?" She was too loud this time, or perhaps past caring that the prisoners heard her. Their faces showed alarm and determination and fear, emotions mirrored differently in the faces of Jankiize's guard. "I wouldn't go as far as t' say that'd make me happy, but maybe a divination usin' their guts would be more accurate than my cards. We've talk'd o' wars before, an' yer fully aware that without initiative there's no victory." "You really think they'd give relevant information to these grunts." "Ye really think I need relevant information t' see patterns in chaos, ya? I'd be able t' use whatever they'd tell me." "Well, they are my prisoners of war now and we are not going to hand them over to you so you can dissect them at your leisure! Do you have any idea of how this conflict would escalate if you did that?" He shrugged and took one step sideways, vanishing without a trace and leaving her to yell at empty air. "Go, then! Very mature of you to vanish like that when you are losing the argument!" Her sigh of frustration sounded almost like a sob.

It was morning. Sun sent a scattering of lances streaming through the forest's shadow, the moisture left by the night slowly giving up and vanishing. Jankiize yawned, feeling tired but cold, saw from the position of the sun it was too late to get any more sleep. She scratched at her dirty hair in irritation. A bath would have been heavenly, or even a proper breakfast. Neither would happen here on the trail, she thought, then frowned slightly. Maybe ... She wrapped up in her blanket and crawled out of her tent. Dreamer had promised to stand guard but she could not see him with her first glance. Only when she glanced over at the merchant's part of the camp she spotted him, talking with them. An unexpected sight, but she had learned not to be surprised by too many things he did any more. Her breath steamed in the cold morning air. "Hey, uncle!" He turned towards her, though she knew he had been aware of her the moment she stepped outside. She could have sensed him as well had she been awake enough to concentrate. His scarred face seemed more animate than usual, his eyes bright green. A good sign. She beckoned the Dreamer to come closer, amused for a fleeting moment at the idea of having such control over so powerful a creature. "Mornin', Princess" She switched to Classic Chaman, not feeling like sharing their conversation with the mundane people of the camp. "Remember that practice room you could create in the Astral?" "Ya, o' course." "Would it be possible for you to create a bath in there?" "'Tis quite a conundrum actually, m'lady. Air, water an' fire ... hmm." His eyes narrowed and changed like ocean's waves crashing over a lush forest, first turquoise, then blue and last the deep, dark color of Astral. His body froze, forgotten, as his mind expanded to probe and examine the problem from every direction at once. She had seen him spend days like that, immersed into his own thoughts. "If it's a bother you can forget it, uncle. I was just wondering, that's all." The Dreamer blinked, once, and dragged his awarness out of the reverie. He shrugged. "It's not really that hard, ya. Just not something I had tried before. May I?" He offered his hand, a light smile playing on his face, his eyes lightening to cerulean. Jankiize took the hand and the world vanished from around them, in one dizzying moment turning into the swirling chaos of the planar Astral before the Dreamer conjured the basics of a room. Before her eyes a wall rose to split the room in two, a crude door appearing next. She was not used to these surroundings, but still she could sense the complex magics the Dreamer was manipulating, the sheer weight of the laws of physics he was bending to his will. He did not look amused now. His face was set in a neutral mask of concentration, his fingers twitching and drawing tiny runes into the stale, artificial air. I should've realized its not that easy. He was complaining already about the strain of maintaining a mere cube with air in it, and this goes far beyond that. But I can't ask him to stop now, either. He froze in the middle of a gesture. "How hot?" "... what?" "How hot do ye want yer bath, m'lady?" "Oh. Your body temperature or so, I guess." A few last nervous-looking twitches and he was done, nodding first and then pointing at the door. "Yer bath, Princess." * "Mmm ... there really are some benefits for having you around, uncle." "What, besides my ability t' destroy whole armies?" "Yes. There's usually no army to destroy, but I can always use a good breakfast." She bit again into the pastry, a look of bliss on her clean face. She did not ask where all the food was from - it did not seem local, but it was good, warm and fresh. After a short hesistation the guards had joined them, unable to resist the enticing aroma of cooling pastries. Even the merchants were now sitting around the same fire, eating the pastries and talking softly with each other. Jankiize could not remember the last time the Dreamer had actually brought people together like this. A warm feeling only partially related to the delicious food spread through her. One of the guards looked at the scarred planewalker, gathered his courage and asked a question she had been wondering about as well. "You riding with us today, Lord Dreamer? There's room on the carts, or you could loan my horse if you want." He glanced at her and she shrugged, a barely noticeable gesture. "I suppose I can keep ye out o' trouble for this one day, at least. An' well provision'd, ya." "Just in case we run into an army?" "Ya, m'lady. Just in case that 'appens."

"He's dead, then." "Yes, uncle." All the others had gone to sleep and it was just the two of them sitting at the low-burning campfire. Around them the forest had gone totally black, the faint noises the trees made in the wind the only reminder it was there at all. No stars or moons were visible on the cloudy sky. "Ye could move t' some other plane." "I could, yes. There's no reason to, though." He lifted an eyebrown. "Assassins?" "Show me a place with humans where they all live in heavenly harmony and I'll move there." "'Tis true. Still, ye could start anew, ya?" "I like it here. It's no Great Tree, but the weather's not too bad, food is better than in some other places I've had to live, there's no glass storms ... and the little ones have some friends, despite my reputation. I can't just teleport around the multiversum every time something bad happens." The Dreamer tossed a small stick on the hungry embers and the flames leaped higher for a moment. "Ye 'aven't ask'd me t' ..." "No. And I won't. You've told me what it is like ... and how peaceful it can be, for the dead. Besides, that'd be the last straw, maybe." "They wouldn't tolerate resurrection?" "Who knows. Or maybe they'd think I'd be able to bring their loved ones back, too ... by gods, that sounds so callous! I do miss him, like there was a hole in me ..." She shivered, suppressing a shudder, and reached forward to soak more of the fire's warmth saying nothing. They just sat there silent for a long time. "... it's actually the worst part, that I could ask you to bring him back." "Ye could. I wouldn't do it, ya." "Not even for me? Not if I'd throw you out of my life if you refused?" "Never." His eyes shone with dark blue, the color infusing every part of the visible eyes like somebody had stuck sapphires into his eyesockets. She shivered again staring at them, could not decipher what they and his faint smile together meant. His tone had not been playful, however, and a sudden relief surged through her. "Never?" "Never, m'lady." "Why did you ask then if the locals would tolerate it or not?" "I was merely curious of where their limit lays, ya. If yer stayin' here, I'd better not ruin yer reputation any more than necessary ... an' before ye ask, no, I did not mean t' step out of a fire." She looked incredulous. "You ... missed?" "Naw, I was too accurate, ya. Any more an' I would've appear'd inside th' tent." "Hah! I would've tried to stab you with Winter's Kiss if you'd done that, uncle. Some of the guards have been eyeing me, witch or not - given I'm the only woman here maybe not very surprising." "One o' the downsides of yer spells o' youth, m'lady. Perhaps they'd stop if ye told them how old ye really are." "Says a man a hundred times older than me. I'm sure if I had your scars, it would work too." A silence. "Ah, actually ... ye might be surprised, ya." The Dreamer grinned and threw another stick into the fire.

"We 'ave been traitorously complacent, m'lady. Th' tower should 'ave had more protection, been more like a fortress." She stood up and nodded, looked at the corpse lying on the floor with her thoughts racing. "We can figure out issues of security in the morning. But what are we going to do with this ... with these? How many assassins were there?" "Five, an' th' door guard is dead. His soul had left th' body when I got there, there was nothin' I would do at that point." "Would?" His face twisted, a grimace or a sneer, his anger boiling under the surface. "Ya, would. He died a warrior, no debt between me an' him - he is entitl'd t' his peaceful afterlife without me sinkin' my sharp hooks into his soul t' drag it back to his broken body." Fionella looked like she would argue the point, then let it be and gestured at the corpse. She sighed. "I'm not sure what the locals would think if we just ... bring these out in the morning. They might be from Jugatt for all I know, killers do not usually care about who pays them." "Gettin' rid o' dead organic matter is beyond simple, ya. I can remove that part of th' problem. But what about th' door guard? Him vanishin' might not be ... appropriate, neh?" "No, he needs proper burial, whatever the locals do. Jankiize would be furious if we'd just make one of her hirelings disappear like that." She was startled to notice that the corpse was already gone, only clue that the Dreamer had something to do with the matter a faint wisp of icy mist rising from his right hand before it too dissipated. A few tiny specks of darkening blood on the wooden floor and on her thick rug were all that remained of the dead man who had tried to kill her just a moment ago. "'Tis her fortress, an' her laws. I do not like t' interfere with her travels an' affairs, but I doubt she'd chastise me should I seek her out t' bring th' news o' this. Or what do ye think, as a mortal an' her friend?" His voice sounded odd when it was stripped of its usual pervasive tone of superiority, when he actually framed a genuine question. Like an uncertain god, or a flawed one. Fionella kept her face carefully neutral, realized as she did just how hard it was not to fear him. Fleeting thoughts, let to sink down away from sight, to be examined later. "You'll look into the defences of this tower before going?" "O' course. One celestial should be sufficient, once I 'ave fortified th' runes o' protection around this tower a bit." "Celestial?" "An angel, a heavenly warrior, deva, archon, whatever ye call them. We planewalkers may not be gods, but a loan'd soldier is as good as th' real thing, ya?" His grin was not all that different from his grimace, except for the color of his eyes. * Seen from the space, this world looked like so many others: brown, blue and green covered with swirling white. He was not sure if it had a name, if the locals knew they were walking on a sphere instead of a flat pancake. Of course, not all humans in the multiversum who thought they were inhabiting a flat world were wrong, or who thought their cities were the center of the existence, or who marked the edges of their inaccurate maps with "Here Be Dragons". The Dreamer mused on the various theories of why the human race was so prominent in the multiversum - some planewalkers were of the opinion it was a matter of flawed perception, that there were countless worlds and planes with no humans but those were just not paid attention to. Others argued that there was an endless chain reaction, humans dreaming up gods who created worlds with humans who dreamed up more gods, that humanity was a disease spreading through the multitude of planes. And some, like himself, did not really care. It was convinient to be the same general shape, in both body and mind, as the locals. Rare were the planewalkers who spent any considerable time beyond the planes the two-legged plague had conquered or at least touched in some manner. He did not dwell on the dry thoughts long. The Dreamer conjured a vision of Jankiize and concentrated on it with the force of his considerable will. A step through Astral ... ... and he was standing on clouds, the sky dark blue above and light blue below, the globe he had seen now a flat plane of green and brown below him. He smiled at the grand view, briefly, and took another step. Usually, it was hard to find his vague targets, people he had seen once, perhaps, or not at all. Aiming at places only deciphered from the cryptic whispers of the cards or the bones, cities marked on smudged, elaborate maps not reflecting the true nature of land at all. He was used to appearing close by, high enough to possibly see where he was going if he was lucky, forced to try again more often than he'd care to admit. But he knew Jankiize well and his urgency was not normal, a need to see her pushing at his immortal patience. He stepped out of the planar Astral right into a cooking fire. "Oops." The Dreamer's chagrin at his own clumsiness was brief, soon doused by the amusement he got from the looks of the caravan guards and Marchello. Fighting an urge to laugh at their amazement he stepped out of the fire. He made the effort to brush out any sparks landing on his grey robes even if they were more than fireproof, grinning slightly. "Evenin', m'lords. I hope I'm not intrudin'." "Um ... hey, Lord Dreamer. We ... weren't really expecting you." He could not read the faces of the guards. Awe or fear, respect or suspicion, he was not sure, and usually did not even care. On Marchello's face there was something more welcoming, less apprehensive. The guards muttered something, one of them asking where he had appeared with a rhetoric tone, but he ignored them and focused his attention on the occultist. "Now, where's she?" "Is it really urgent? She's asleep ..." Marchello's protesting voice faded when they all heard a movement from a nearby tent. "Or not. Not sure how that woke her up, you made far less noise than we've been making." The Dreamer shrugged. "She knows th' impact of my wards pushin' through th' leylines. Ye might try t' learn it as well, m'lord. Could be useful, one o' these days." "So it was you, Uncle." Jankiize's head had appeared from the tent, tiredness apparent on her face. She yawned, brushed a hand over his face, shook herself a bit in effort to shake of the last weight of the dreams and then stepped outside, wearing a blanket over the inner paddings of her armor. "What brings you here, Dreamer? It's not like you to track me down like this." "Ya, it isn't. I come from yer tower." That woke her up instantly like a bucket full of cold water, complete with the shock and the shivers. A growing wild look on his face softened when she studied the Dreamer's face. "It's ... nothing really bad, is it? Your eyes are green." He nodded briefly. "Th' door guard was killed, but I took care o' th' assassins before they 'ad time t' do any more harm. I left a new door guard at place before comin' to see ye." "Assassins!?" Marchello and Jankiize both cried out at the same time, the guards muttering and exclaiming on the background. "You saved ... everybody else?" The Dreamer nodded again. "'Twas fortunate I was there, ya. Fionella an' th' little ones are fine. I presume yer work has stirred up a hornet's nest, an' they were told t' show how displeased these ... " Jankiize stepped forward and hugged the Dreamer briefly, surprising everybody one more time. Even through his robes, the planewalker radiated fierce heat, his scarred body hard and uneven. She did not seem to care. Before she released her gentle grip, she breathed out "thank you", then stepped back. His eyes brightened to white and he smiled back at his foster daughter. "Yer welcome, Littl' Princess. I remov'd th' attackers, but Fionella said it'd be disrespectful t' dispose of yer guard in similiar fashion. An' I thought ye'd like t' know what happened, now and not later." "Yes, definitely. Do you have time to go back or are you needed elsewhere? We can't break our contract and leave, even if we could leave the merchants on their own ..." She glanced towards the other cooking fire. A number of merchants were staring at them with badly veiled curiosity, alarm on the faces of those whose hearing was good enough to make sense of what Jankiize was saying. "I 'ave a few months t' spare, ya. I can leave now if ye want to." "No, no such hurry if you already left a guard of your own there. Sit down, tell us how things are there." "Very well, m'lady."

Sometimes conflicts could be taken care by money, or by excessive force. Sometimes such overt measures failed, and a more ... shadowy resolution would be called for. Thakelmia was big and rich city state, but not big enough to employ a full-time cadre of skilled workers for that sort of eventualities. So, they were not quite assassins, not officially. Good enough, still. Good enough for this little naive haven. Avarr had to suppress a grin. It felt exhilarating to be out there in the night for a real mission. A rare drug, this feeling of righteous danger, bravery for the home country. Oh, the locals would disagree and call them cowards and worse, but this is where courage was tested, not on the big fields of battle where you had safety in numbers. Especially this time - the Witch of Jalar! The stories they had heard, most false of course. There had been similiar stories about other, less known places, how they summoned djinns and dragons to do their bidding, maps marked with "Here be monsters". All shown to be false later on when they had established proper trading routes, of course. It was odd a story had sprung up so close, about the well-known town of Jugatt, but Avarr supposed it had something to do with saving face after the disastrous and short war. Now, a new war was brewing, and this time they would not lose, erasing this particular legend so the ignorant line soldiers would not lose their night's sleep over wraiths and demons. How quaint. A sorceress's tower - she knows her marketing for sure. It did not take long for him to bypass the lock on the door. With the same precise ease he had picked the lock, he cut the throat of the door guard. Avarr took out his specially made small bull's eye lantern and showed the go signal for the rest of the unit, then tiptoed deeper into the tower. It's not as impressive from the inside. Trader trophies, colored glass windows and warm colors, I was expecting something ... different. Avarr did not have time to register what he saw before his head exploded. * The wards are being crossed. The Dreamer was transformed from a scribe burning runes into the warded room's floor to a nervous beast, his whole body tensing and eyes turning into yellow embers. Releasing a previously set spell, a series of emerald green globes of protection sprung into being around the house, protecting the sleeping girls in one room, their dreaming teacher in another. He had not really been prepared for this, the faint wards and sketchy spells of protection being ready more from a force of habit than the result of any real anxiety. I have been stupid. I should have remembered what happened at the Tree of Life - fragile mortals trying to make their problems vanish by breaking each other. A furious grimace split his face in two, the resulting look a visage of such fury even the little Jalar girls would not have laughed at it. The Dreamer's scars writhed in anticipation as he sank deeper into the immortal time, stalked out to meet the intruders with the grace of an angry tiger. * For a moment she could not understand what she saw, was stuck between dreams and reality. She was not used to waking up in the middle of the night, and even if she had been the green hue coloring everything she saw would have confused her. What surrounded her made more sense to her second sight - a powerful protective spell was surrounding her, transparent sigils of abjuration floating across the green bubble. "Mhwhat? Lord Dreamer?" She blinked once, tried to understand what was happening. There was nobody in her room, no unusual sounds, no burning pair of planewalker eyes staring at her. First sign the protective ward was not the only oddity this night was a sound she heard, like a rotten cabbage bursting apart, followed by a faint thud. Definitely not normal sounds, and she had no idea what had caused them. Only a growing sense of unease and the opinnion offered by her slowly waking mind that the Dreamer would not encease her in magical armor if nothing was wrong. Fionella stood up and reached for her robes, blinking sleep away from her eyes. * They could not see Avarr but the orders had been clear before they had set out. Clear the place, make a statement, whether or not the Witch herself is there. Nobody paused when stepping over the dying guard, the squad spreading out to every direction. Even if there would be no real opposition here, they only had a little time. Jugatt was not an easy town to escape from, not with how and where it was built. Ansik pointed at a door for each of the killers, then took the rightmost door himself. Avarr always went right first - "when in doubt, attack; when in doubt how to attack, flank from right". That's what he always said, and actually did as well, believing more in keeping the initiative than being too timid, too careful. It had worked, so far. Another corpse, not far in. He would have ignored it, but no weapon Avarr had would leave a target headless. He actually had time to frown, time to lift his gaze and see two yellow flames burning in the dark. * Another thud and her unease deepened, her heart thudding. She felt ridiculous for being afraid, that everything was alright and it was just a drunken servant fumbling with ale kegs or some such trivial thing, but even so the muttering voice mumbling "what if...?" in her mind did not leave her in peace. That voice possibly saved her life, made her whisper the words of a spell of concealment. Acute embarassment for overreacting, for a tiny moment, then acute fear as a stranger clad in dark clothes swung the door to the Opulanti bedroom wide open. The green light of the ward had vanished along with Fionella herself, and she could barely see anything, eyes not accustomed to the almost total darkness. The man had nothing to see. But she could not control her nerves that well, not even after all the mental exercises they had been taught, not so soon after waking up, and she made a startled, frightened sound. This close, the thud of a knife striking wooden wall was like thunder. Even louder was the crunching sound as the Dreamer's fist struck the back of the assassin's head, throwing the hapless mortal on the ground, his skull deformed and broken. She knew the planewalker was on her side, but it was impossible not to quail at the sight of him as he was now: eyes burning, twisting scars writhing across a mask of ruined skin, a sense of immense speed infused into the long, trembling limbs of superhuman strength. Fionella let her spell lapse, re-appeared to took a step back and cowered, knowing she would not be hurt but instincts ordering her body. "'Twas th' last o' them, m'lady. Are ye unhurt?" She started to tremble uncontrollably, her teeth clattering as if she'd been hit by a stray blast of primal ice and sat down on the floor, to not to fall. "I-I am'm al-all right, m'm'lord. W-what happe-ned?" "Shh. Shhh, nothin' t' be afraid, any more." Fionella breathed deeply in and muttered a few of the mantras they had been taught, wiped a single tear out of her eye and dragged herself out of her terror. When she managed to look upward, she could see the Dreamer's wrath had abated and that he now looked almost like a mortal, the dim light of a green mageflame barely showing the now-quiet scars, the planewalker's eyes too dark to see their color. It was easy to remember what had just happened by looking at the assaillant's corpse, though. A crumpled doll, still slightly twitching, head's unnatural shape telling her there was no chance for the man to live. "Oh! The girls!?" "Why do ye think I was 'ere almost too late, mmm? They are safe, an' still asleep." His tone was gentle, but a hint of the earlier fury crept back to his face.

The Dreamer paused with his index finger pointing upwards, its tip sparkling with bright yellow fire. When he turned his gaze away from the runes he had already burned on the floor he could see half of a little girl's face peeking from the doorway. The fire winked out and he stood up from his kneeling position. "Ya, Mendra?" The response was muffled, Mendra facing downwards at the wall and mumbling. "Come 'ere, li'tl' girl, an' greet yer uncle Dreamer properly, ya? Now, what brings ye 'ere, m'lady?" "Hi, uncle." "An'?" The little girl, now mostly visible, swayed from side to side as if she had been a snake mesmerized by the planewalker's deep blue gaze. "What are you doing, uncle?" "Ah. This?" A nod. "'Tis a new room for ye an' the Opulantis t' practice. How's yer schoolin' comin' along? Can ye decipher any of what I've been writin' here, m'lady?" Mendra took one short step forward, then stopped. "Fion said not to read runes unless she says so." Most people would have described the grin that sent the Dreamer's scars adrifting across his face as terrifying, but the little girl was immune to its effect and actually smiled back. "'Tis good, learnin' things like this is all 'bout th' precautions. Now, however, I tell ye ye can try t' read them, ya?" Mendra looked first up at the Dreamer's patient face, then at the confusing array of warding runes covering most of the nearby floor, her small face crunching up in concentration. "It's ... it's a bit like a blanket. To keep the bogeymen away." "Quite so, m'lady. Very good." He grinned even wider and his right hand disappeared for a short moment, fishing the Void for something pretty and shiny for the young girl. When it reappeared it held a silver tiara with a ruby in the middle flanked by a series of dark semiprecious stones. After a short frown at its faint aura of enchantment, he placed it carefully on Mendra's slightly too small head. "There ya go, o' Queen o' Knowledge. Wear 't proudly, m'lady." Mendra giggled, pushed the tiara lower with both hands and ran off, almost colliding with Fionella before continuing her wild dash. "Evenin', m'lady." "That's quite a gift for such a vague answer." She sounded more amiable than her words. The Dreamer's presence here had lifted her spirits - even though she could have tolerated being stuck here, she had not realized how homesick she had been before the weight of it had lifted from her. The nightmare of what had happened in the Burning Times tavern ages ago was a faint memory, the here-and-now Dreamer's placid manner and good humor making that memory seem slightly surreal. And while she did not worship power to the extent of some Chamanians, it was nevertheless impossible not to be suffused with a giddy awe at the presence of a Master of the Art. Hundreds or thousand years of knowledge, not veiled under the insanity of a decaying lich or the alien mind of a Death Guild vampire. Not human, granted, but still somebody you could actually talk with. He shrugged. "Gift that did not cost me more than a fleetin' moment o' searchin'. It's merely a pretty bauble, 's all." "And that enchantment on it?" "Of not any particular use for 'er for th' next ten, fifteen years. A bauble even then. Would ye think I'd hand 'er a dangerous artifact? A darkwood dagger t' play with, perhaps?" "No, I suppose you would not. How is the warded room coming along?" "Not my speciality, rune-engravin', either, but I've picked up th' basics 'ere and there. Even then, once it is ready it should hold 'gainst anythin' any of ye mortals can unleash on this Prime, easily. It might even withstand some o' my experiments, ya. That does not reduce th' risk t' ye to zero, though. If ye unleash a mana storm inside, or fail a summonin' spell ... well, I'll etch a circle in th' middle." "We'll be careful, Lord Dreamer. We would have had to experiment sooner or later even if you would not have been able to do this for us, so we are grateful for your work." A lopsided, almost embarassed grin. "They call me th' worst planewalker smith in existence, an' I'm no better at inscribin' than smithin'. But perhaps th' worst o' the Immortals will do for mortals, neh?" "We will take it, yes." Her answering smile was genuine, warm.

Something was slightly off, an error in the world. The feeling in itself was extraordinary, given how little attachment he had to any one place these days, how he was far more used to adapting to enviroments than judging them to be wrong. It was not the faint hint of autumn in the air, the smell of rain and decaying leaves, or the curious looks the locals gave him. It was rarer for whatever locals there were to not to stare at him, and as long as they did not get belligerent he did not care. Meeting a wandering wizard once or twice a year should not change her reputation much. It did not rain very heavily, but a faint mist obscured the city. He noticed a few armored caravan guards, could not remember if it was business as usual here. The wrongness had woken up a vague anxiety inside him, something he did not notice before seeing Jankiize's tower dispelled it for a short moment. There was only one flag flying above it, that of the House Vangaijuua. That brought a deep frown to the Dreamer's scarred face and he walked even faster than normal to the door, skipping his usual hesistation at the doorstep. He did not have to wait for long after he had knocked, but he did not recognize the young man in leather armor who opened a small hatch in the reinforced front door. "Sir, the lady of the house is away and we cannot accomodate new customers. You'll have to try one of the other guard companies." It sounded like a rehearsed litany, something he had said a dozen times before. If not momentarily captivated by the Dreamer's impressive map of scars, the guard might have slammed the hatch shut without waiting for a response. The planewalker's eyes flared yellow, jolting the guard out of his hourly-wages reverie. "Then I demand t' speak with Marchello or Fionella Opulanti, doorkeeper. 'Tis not a request." The storm gathering on the scarred face was far more impressive than the weak drizzle nature was throwing at Jagutt. Staring into that maelstorm and hearing mixture of hostility and authority in the planewalker's voice confused the guard to such extent he froze, the delay feeding the bright flames in the Dreamer's eyes. "Um ..." "Fine." The Dreamer sidestepped into Astral, vanishing for a tiny fraction of a moment before he stepped out far too close to the hapless guard. Still frozen, it was an actual relief for him to be lifted up and slammed against the wall, the painful choice of what to do taken away. "Where are they? Answer me!" "Lady Jalar and Marchello are both guarding a caravan to Takthan, sir! Fionella is on the top floor, but ..." Right then another guard appeared, drawn to the door by the noise. "Hey! Set Loke down ... now ..." The second guard's voice petered out in the face of the Dreamer's blazing gaze. "What on a Prime has 'appened 'ere, m'lord?" He glanced at Loke, who shrugged as well as he could from his uncomfortable position, then spread his empty hands in a peaceful gesture. "You haven't been here since ... well ... therein lies a tale then, I suppose, sir. If you could just lower Loke, I could try to tell it, all peaceful like, yes?" The Dreamer complied, this once. * The uneasy guards were visibly relieved when Fionella stood up and broke into a big grin at the sight of the Dreamer. It had been hard to decide whether the old, scarred man in out-of-place grey robes was insane or highborn, or perhaps both, but in the end the planewalker's unshakeable air of authority had won them over. And how could an ordinary guard pass judgement what sort of people the Witch of Jalar and her friends consorted with? "Lord Dreamer! We had been wondering when you would have time to visit us! Your ... affairs that have delayed you are now satisfactorily concluded?" A wan smile, a feeble shrug before the planewalker sat on the chair Fionella pointed out for him. "Not quite, m'lady. But I've learnt t' believe th' multiversum can manage without me, every now an' then. How are things 'ere? Th' guards did not make much sense, as is their wont." Fionella's welcoming smile faded out. "Melenar is dead, m'lord." The words were met with an expectant silence. Fionella hesistated, then continued. "And Lady Jankiize could not retain his web of trades and contacts. I'm not sure how well you know the rest of House Jalar, but their relations with Jankiize are less than warm." The Dreamer nodded. "Thus th' guards?" "They are actually not here to protect against any agents of House Jalar. It's more like they are part of what we do, now." "A guard company ... an' yer involved as well?" "Stories of what happened earlier when Thakelmians tried have circulated. I don't think it would have been possible otherwise, with so many different predjuices stacked against us. But now Jugatt and Thakelmia are in a sort of informal war, and we are one of the weapons employed. I hope you have taught my husband well enough - he is now out there with her, protecting a caravan through one of the areas of conflict." He grinned - a humourless, feral twist of his mouth. "He was far bett'r than his normally timid nature would suggest, ya. An' her ... as long as she wears her suit o' armor, no local can easily harm her. Ye've gotten along with my daughter, then?" "I think I would not be too bold if I called her a friend." "'Tis well." The Dreamer's eyes flashed dazzling, silvery white for a short moment before dark blue clouds obscured them again. "So ... yer content t' stay 'ere, ya? I can get a new patch o' books if ye've already read through the previous set." "'I'm not sure if it is possible, but when we talked with Jankiize she told stories of permanent portals linking two Primes ... ?" "Ye'd want a link to Chaman. Understandable, but despite it being a paradise from yer point o' view, I would never connect my ward's house t' that nation o' powerhungry maniacs. Permanent portals are meant t' have a permanent guard on both sides in addition t' several other security measures. Far beyond o' what I have time or interest in installin', I'm sorry. But I can send ye both back, should ye want t' terminate th' contract early." "Oh no, no. I'm speaking for both of us when I say we'd rather stay, then. We aren't anywhere near of making the trip on our own though, so we do need you to send us back eventually." He nodded, then looked around. "How 's yer work proceedin'? Have th' little ones shown promise, or has their father's blood taken over?" "Mendra has talent, yes. How strong is hard to say - we were talking about warding a room for teaching and for our own experiments, but none of us three is really good with anything as practical and permanent as engraving runes. And right now we are far too busy ... ah, listen to me prattle on about inconsequential things, I'm sorry." The Dreamer grinned, then, and made a show of taking a more comfortable position on his chair. "Yer th' one with limited lifespan, mortal. Tell me th' whole tale, ya."

Everything had been just right, just a moment ago. The Emperor guarding the door inside my head, my fellow acolytes and me against yet another putrescant pustule of heresy, together. A world of order. Now, two guns were pointing at me. I had trouble hearing their harsh words. Something about a murder, and an accusation, but I knew I had not killed anybody. There were two of them, wearing the armor of enforcers, autoguns in hand. I could feel my hands beginning to tremble. It was just like in my nightmares, like one of those shattered visions that haunted me even during the day. All alone, like I had been then, only the Emperor on my side. "Oh Emperor, grant me strength and hold the warp at bay." I could hear the fervent, fevered despair in my whispered prayer but I had no time to dwell on it. The thumb of my left hand brushed reverently the worn surface of the icon I was carrying, a compulsive gesture. Time seemed to slow down, the black holes of the two autoguns growing larger, all senses straining as cold terror rushed through me. I let the Emperor open the door inside my mind, just a bit. Warp surged around me like a growing wind, formed a dozen spectral hands, two dozen, three - and smashed one of the two enemies down, the cackling laughter of the demons in my ears. I could see them more clearly. A red glow illuminated the view, coming from somewhere behind me. The faces underneath the helmets were twisted, bestial, the hands curled around the guns like claws, blood spattered over everything. Blood forming the forbidden patterns of Chaos. It was no surprise when he fired at me, the black maw of his gun spitting yellow fire and slugs of metal. Those same spectral hands plucked the slow bullets out of the air, one by one, chittering and screaming as they did so. I embraced those hands, knew I'd be close to invisible under their swirling mantle. More futile gunfire, more bullets clinking to the stone floor as they fell down, harmless, their fury spent. I ducked into cover muttering another quick prayer to the Emperor. I was breathing too hard, too much blood was pumping through my veins, and at first I could not call His help. I saw the walls painted red, dead and dying at my feet, carrying somebody in my weak arms, a dozen, two dozen, three of these false enforcers all around us, that vision and the reality mixing into one truth. I would not surrender, and I would not die. That was enough. I jerked the door wider, let a bit too much raw warp out and the sword of the Emperor appeared on my side. A glorious thing of fire and fury floating in the air to protect me, as invisible as the hands of the warp to the foul, mundane beasts I was against. Now ... now this would be easy.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" "Yes. Have a seat, Enoch. How do you feel?" The nodescript man (nearing middle age, body in passable shape, wearing robes resembling those worn by the Ecclesiarchy with a worn icon hanging from his belt) sitting on the edge of a comfortable chair looked bewildered for a moment. The emotion of confusion seemed to eclipse the man himself, so clear a brand it was on so unremarkable a face. "How would you like me to feel, sir?" "Ah ... fine would be a good start." "I feel fine, then, sir." "Then you are ready for service again." "I am always ready to serve the Emperor to the best of my abilities." Something lit behind the pale eyes, a flame of conviction, and Enoch's hand clasped his precious icon. "What happened during your last mission, Enoch?" The interviewer was a veteran of far more years than his face showed, a veteran of countless conversations that decided the lives and deaths of those he talked with and often the lives of countless others (in an indirect, abstract way - but he had had time to think on such chains of consequence), and for only that reason he could see the fleeting horror pass over the pale blue eyes, extinguishing the flickering embers in them. He imagined he could see as if through a long, dark tunnel the lone figure of the man who now thought himself as Enoch, kneeling in a pool of gore, spent shells trapped in the viscous liquid like flies in amber. That moment lasted for less than a blink of an eye, then Enoch's composure turned utterly calm. Enoch frowned. "I can't quite recall, sir." "And that is how it should be. Your last mission and everything related to it has been classified." A moment of silence, Enoch's frown changed shape and faded. "Ah. I trust ... I acted as a loyal servant of the Emperor should." A benign faint smile and a nod. "You are one of my trusted acolytes, Enoch. We would not be having this talk otherwise." "Oh, of course. Am I to be sent to another mission, then?" "In due time, in due time. First I'd like you to meet the squad of acolytes you are being assigned to. Once there is a suitable case you all will be sent to take care of it together. I have sent a message to the supply officer - follow my assistant here and take whatever you think you might need." Enoch stood up, bowed and left, following a clerk. Nobody in the room, now, and he sighed deeply with what he realized was relief. That went better than we thought it would. He summoned the picture to the screen of his data slate once again, the last frame Imperial Guard Balthar's camera had taken from the floor: blood everywhere and still, headless forms, walls riddled with bulletholes. In the middle stood a grinning wild psyker wearing an insane version of Enoch's face.

Of course at first I thought - no, I hoped - that I was sick. I had enough money for the best care, and my private doctor checked everything that can be checked, but nothing was wrong. A shrink, next, althought I never had liked them. I am sure she mocked me behind her professional smile but she went through the motions, made her questions without finding any scientific, described sort of madness. All this I went through with the echoing curse ringing in my ears, first knowing and then just hoping it had nothing to do with any of it. I should never had rented an apartment to one of their kind. It was bad business, but the place had been empty for a while and I had no other apartments in the building. Of course, she could not pay the rent after a while, and when I went to foresee her removal from my property she spat at me, and cursed with the force of her old, centuries-heavy degenerate beliefs. Ugly words, but I had heard worse in my line of work, and thought nothing of it. Not at first. It took time, of course, for the curse to grow its roots into my life. There must've been other, smaller things before what I recall as the first incident, but I'm not a superstitious man and I try not to dwell on things that should not be. If my senses tell me things are wrong, they might be lying - they lie to our minds all the time, coming up with faces in the clouds or adding up half-heard pieces of conversation the wrong way. So, a sickening smell, like something small curled up dead. Too vile to just let be in the heat of the summer, no knowing how bad it would be the next day and so I looked for its source a grimace on my face, expecting to find a wet, glistening corpse too deep in a hole for me to remove. It did not take long for me to realize it wasn't coming off any wall, but nearer the middle of my tiny apartment. I found the source alright, and heard the echoing curse in my mind, the first time since it had been uttered. There it was, the point of change, the point of no return. A different world with different laws, things you took for granted mere shadows your grasping hands can not touch and the illusions of your nightmares tangible, loathsome realities. Of course I thought it was a passing hallucination at first. Then, as I said, I hoped was sick. But its been too long now, every day plunging me deeper into a world I want no part of. Now, when I pay my morning newspaper, I do not look around if others can smell what I can. I hardly flinch any more. Even if the money feels like rotting flesh.

Vast visions of rotating, changing runes turned in front of his mind's eye, superimposed over the calm view of the beach. It was a web of guesses and approximations, associations and expectations, and that was merely the starting point. After that hazy beginning it devolved into a thousand misty and equally probable paths of how the gate might have reacted to the poisonous counterspell the Patriarch had injected into it. A great number of those possible results ended with the gate intact and stable, their work wasted. Other possibilities included everything from a quick catastrophic collapse (impossible since he had lingered there long enough to have seen it) to a rate of deteriorating that would lead to unstability hundreds of years from now. If I only could use the stones or the cards to divine the current state of that gate. This leads nowhere, yet trying to see a construct not wholly in this multiversum with tools that are limited to the local Fate would be even more pointless. The Dreamer grimaced, irritation tainting the tranquility his long walk had instilled in him. His eyes darkened, the seaside calm in them threatened by an approaching storm. Now, what would my Master do ... * Mirkel rubbed his fingers and breathed out an icy cloud. He still had not quite used to the fact getting his blade struck away did not hurt, not used to how his new teacher looked like. He raised his green eyes, taking care not to waste even a glance towards his fallen sword. The Master was like a mountain or a craggy hill, a massive presence on both physical and mental plane of existence. His face was hidden inside his brown hood lightly encrusted with powdery snow, same coarse cloth covering his body as well. The only distinctive details were his stern eyes and the gleaming narrow sabre in his left hand, eyes and sword both ridiculously tiny compared to his hulking frame. "That wasn't fair, Master." "You'll never win a fair fight, boy." "Why?" "Because you'll never find one." The mountain's snowy peak shifted in a way Mirkel had decided must mean a smile, or a vague hint of one at least. "Retrieve the sword, boy." "You'll just strike it away once again." "Maybe. But your blade is your life, apprentice. Abandoning it does not mean you won't need it, it means you will not have it when you need it. It's a world of power, and that blade, as pitiful as you are with it, is your personal power." The Master's voice was like two boulders grinding against each other, painful in its intensity, gaining momentum with every word. Mirkel took a half-step backwards, feeling like a little boy stuck in a faery tale of miracles, mirages and terror, and almost slipped on the icy surface. "Now, retrieve your sword." He walked to where the blade stood stuck in icy floor and tugged it free. When the mountain moved he was ready, this time, and managed to parry the first blow. Its force sent him flying backwards. Mirkel tried to ignore the blinding awe he felt when he saw his Master lumber forward, body clumsy but blade quick as lightning and concentrated inwards, in what he did and how he stayed upright on the slick floor. He managed one more parry, this time with more of the numbing force deflected harmlessly aside, a feeble counterattack and a stumbling dodge before Master's sabre struck his longsword with unstoppable power and the blade whirled away, sparkling and shining in the light of the distant Torch. Instead of staring at his sword, he took one last step backwards only to fall off the platform into a snowbank, a sabre piercing the spot where he had stood. "Good. That'll do, for now." Mirkel coughed and spluttered, dragged himself upright and looked around now that a sudden attack seemed unlikely. He was standing amidst snow- and ice-covered ruins, every unwavering shadow cast by the buildings was pitch black, the areas on which Torch's light landed raw, crude white, giving the place a monochrome look. When he breathed out he exhaled a small cloud of floating ice crystals, the tiny snowflakes drifting apart and vanishing into the shadows. "Come." A hand appeared from the indefinite shape, its outlines somehow ignoring the harsh light. Despite the blurred appearance of his appendage, the Master's grip was solid enough when he dragged Mirkel up. A part of the humanoid mountain vanished, leaving behind an eye-straining emptiness, then returned with Mirkel's longsword in its grasp. The Master's heavy hand landed on his armored shoulder, surprisingly gently. "I will introduce you to Thea. She will teach you some magic, yes." * No fair fights, no giving up, no allegiances, no compromises. The Dreamer grinned, his equilibrium restored. He felt it hard to get back into the calm, analytical frame of mind he had been in. Something was wrong in the memory, not a taint but an error, a tear in the fabric of it. Was I Mirkel still back then? Or already Wodzan? * "What are we doing here, Master?" His senses were assaulted by the savage cold, but he could feel it was no longer lethal, and with that realization its sting was blunted. Mirkel breathed out, creating a cloud of icy crystals that drifted apart as he watched. "I told you to stop breathing, boy. It is ... unseemly for us. This place is a crucible, apprentice. A near-mortal clawing upwards towards the dim, distant Ascension goes in, into a black box of chaotic decaying magic, and an apprentice planewalker come out with his past fully erased. I hope." His master shifted his immense bulk, drew a thin blade out of the frigid air. "You can still die here, if you wish." * Back then it had felt like a threat, but the Dreamer understood the words now, three thousand years weighting heavily on his narrow shoulders. He kept on walking, a faint grimace drifting through the sea of scars he had for a face showing he heard the mocking laughter of a seagull. And the naming ... * "Wodzan Xe Chanima?" "Yes. The sword god said it doesn't mind." "Harrumph." The Master was wearing slightly more elaborate robes of black and white, but he still gave off the impression of a large hill just about to roll over you. They were in a large room inside Thea Aniar's demiplane that seemed white at first but then you begun to see the subtle pastel colors, different in every part of the space. It was mostly empty, containing merely a few chairs and a sofa around a table, some curtains flowing in a gentle fragrant breeze that circulated the whole plane. Mirkel sat in one of the chairs while the Master's bulk made the sofa look as if it had been a narrow throne. "Usually, we do not object to the name chosen. But ... it is the name of a god. You may not see it for a while yet, but we and them do not mix well. We are not supposed to be worshipped, boy. I will not teach a godling." He sounded angry, ending his short speech in a growl. "Worse yet, you might end back home some day. Two beings of power with the same name in the same plane? Nothing but trouble, there, boy. Nothing but." "There's nothing but trouble there for me. You've shown me the size of the multiversum! Why would I return?" "You tell me." He never did find out for sure if it was meant to be a test, or if it was a slip, a sign of how vexed the Master had gotten. Mirkel paled and his face twisted in a grotesque grimace of stubborn resistance. He had to bow his head, but he withstood the command itself, a fierce triumph shining for a moment in his green eyes. "... no." "Haha!" The loud burst of laughter surprised him, the loud bang when the Master's hand slapped against the surface of the table jolting him again in close succession. "Be like that, then ... Lord Wodzan Xe Chanima, Walker of the Paths. Be what you want to be."

His face was even more impassive than normal, its scars inert, his eyes still. Having stumbled upon the step of that ancient memory he was now falling down the stairs of his mind, visions he had stored away centuries ago flashing past his mind's eye. The Dreamer's lips twitched, but the movement was so minimal it was impossible to tell if he had been thinking of smiling or sneering, or of saying something to the empty, tranquil sea air surrounding him. Only his left hand stayed on the metal staff now firmly dug into the wet sand of the beach. His right curled into a claw, then held an invisible hilt. * "...!" "... what?" "Mirkel! Snap out of it! It has all backfired on us. The Burners got here before expected! Steelclad's boys are holding the front but it's all lost, the fated are dead!" His vision shook. No, somebody was holding his shoulders and shaking him, a world of armored men, fire and loud noises materializing out of the fog of darkness he had been in. He knew he was hurt and for a fleeting moment wondered if he was in that numb state of shocked incomprehension he had sometimes seen in mortally wounded people before they realized they were dead. Then he shed that useless idea, knew Bachar would not waste time yelling to a corpse. "Bachar?" "You understand me, lieutenant?" "Yes! ... yes. Get our men ready. I need a moment." Bachar gave him a sceptic look but let his shoulders go and went away to yell at other people, doing what sergeants did best. Order out of chaos, a spine to the cowardly creature any mob, even a company of mercenaries, degenerated into when struck by panic. He stood up, noted the blood on his armor and how his limbs seemed to work despite that, saw a blackened and broken crater on stone wall nearby that explained how he had been wounded. Siege magic. They had meant to parley even less than we did. The earth quaked, an explosion more felt than heard. He could see the rising column of fiery smoke from the direction of Steelclad's company, mercifully far enough that the cries of the wounded could not carry. A powerful shiver ran through him and for a moment he thought it was a sign he'd break, that his willpower would abandon him now after a measly minor concussion. Then he could feel a surge of renewed strength and resolution flood through him, grinned inside the helmet despite the grim situation. Suddenly he knew what to do, if not the why. "Briiiightblades! Get ready! We'll show these book-huggers what Aefian steel can do!" At first it looked like the company had already broken down and his rallying cry did no good. Then Bachar roared a burst of instructions to his squad, creating an island of calm in the maelstorm. If another siege fireball had landed there and then, if one more of the veteran cavalrymen had ridden off at that moment, one blow struck against Bachar or him in fearful anger, the scales would have tipped against them. A moment of uncertainity showing in the eyes of the rookies and old armsmen alike, not longer than a few blinks of an eye. The moment passed and he realized they were his again, his and Bachar's. He mounted up, patted his superb horse on the flank. "Brightblades! Cavalry in a free wedge with me! Bachar, bring the rest!" Mirkel waved his sword, as bright a blade as he had ever seen reflecting sunlight like it had been on fire, and lead his company towards a pyrrhic victory. * The Dreamer narrowed his eyes, their surface changing from dull light grey to a more vivid, deeper blue. His face twitched a few times before settling on a sour look, like the old planewalker had eaten something disgusting. The sword-god's call during my Ascension, yes. Pointless to wade in memories that deep. Like blind fetus reaching for the stars, swinging an angel of wrath in its pudgy claws, that mortal larva was ... He tugged the heavy staff loose from the wet sand, rinsing the end in the sea to clean it before lifting it on his shoulder. A seabird cried again, this time further away, as invisible as it had been the last time. He was not sure if there had barely been any time between the two wailing cries, or if hours had passed. His memory was vast, labyrinthine thing, not easily navigated even by himself. The Dreamer resumed walking (splash, splash, splash), dragging his mind back to the specific recent memories he was trying to reorganize. Without him noticing it, it did not take long for his eyes to return to the the limpid hue of the heavens. Every step he took lightened their Void blue until they looked like two holes in his scarred face, two tiny skies only missing the clouds and the invisible seabird. Now, the Parallel gates and what the Patriarch told me ... there's what I should be thinking of! Splash, splash, splash ...

For a change, he tried walking in the water instead. No shoes that would have gotten wet, now. Not that his clothes cared much about the ravages of time and the elements after he had worn them for a while. Immortal attires for an immortal, his magic seeping into them like an embalming fluid. A bigger wave than usual drenched the hem of his grey robes, then receded back into the ocean that was humming its own symphony, his splashing sounds silly in comparison. The Dreamer twisted his whole body to give it a good look as he liked to do every now and then. It still looked enormous, changing, blue, wet and fascinating, among other things. He turned back to stare at the changing line where water met sand, the Rod of Cosmic Redemption he held on his shoulder making a low whispering sound as its far ends sliced rapidly through the humid air. Relative silence after that for a while, the soft roaring of the waves and his splashing feet receding so far into the background he had trouble hearing them from the cacophony of his thoughts. It had been far too long since he had cleaned the immense libraries of his complex mind. All the latest vivid memories were lying around in messy piles, unorganized and mixed up with each other. He had lived far too long to allow that, knew how many details would be lost, how many wrong conclusions met if he'd let things be. Splash, splash. A jolting wail of a seabird, rare enough to penetrate into his consciousness and he looked up without seeing the bird. Instead he watched the sky a while (splash, splash, splash went his feet in the shallow waters of the sandy beach, splash, splash), his eyes mirroring the pale blue, a color perhaps stolen from some pre-dawn summer sky. A few thin clouds, not much darker than the sky, slightly lighter than his new robes. He made a mental note to pay attention and see if the clouds were stationary, then forget it while moving the heavy, important memories of the last decade around in his mind. Behind him, his latest footsteps faded after a wave or two. Further from the hungry waves a few of his older footsteps still remained, shallow on the harder sand. All of them pointed at the same direction. His fingers curled slightly tighter around the heavy rod, turning even paler, highlighting the scars. A painful or exciting memory tightened his tendons and conjured a frown on his uneven face. His pace stayed even and steady, walking so automatic now that figuring out how to stop was harder than walking forward. Another frown right after the previous one faded, a promise he had made and not yet kept. .. it hasn't been that long yet, not even by mortal standards. Jankiize knows I will eventually return. Perhaps, nevertheless, I should head there next ... Another memory, from further depths of his mind, far past the recent experiences he was trying to rearrange into proper order. He stopped and swung the rod down, leaned on it like it was a walking stick. It's the sea. Calm and clear ... * He stared at the blood-tainted water with incomprehension in his green eyes. The almost calm waters reflected his face: almost without scars, hair the color of dirty, sun-baked roads, mouth set to a bitter grimace. The green robes were distorted by the waves, his armor a glinting web of polished metal, its details lost in the imperfect mirror. The fisherman's corpse befouling the ocean was almost torn in half, floating face down with his feet anchoring him to the beach. He felt like he might be able to recall his name if he tried hard enough even if he knew that feeling to be false. Too much time had passed. "That was just a mortal, Wodzan! We have t' find her before she does more senseless violence, not dwell on what we can't fix anymore." Wodzan Xe Chanima shook his head and his expression lost its unfocused quality quickly. He dragged a hand through his short hair, the metal of a fingerless gauntlet shining in the morning sun and turned to glare at Phacyra. He was as he had always been and would always be, thin with sharp features, wearing slightly too big jacket of demonskin, agitation shining in the deep blue eyes. "Find 'er, ye think? They 'ad nothing to do with what happened, an' this is her judgement on them. How do ye think she judges ye, now?" Behind Wodzan opened a field of carnage, mortals lying around like dolls of some petulant giant that had gotten tired of its toys. The stink was still barely tolerable, the corpses fresh, but they knew in a few hours when the tropical sun would strike with full power the stench would be unbearable. The devastation had been indiscriminate and total: there were no living things more complex than a plant in sight. Dogs and cattle had shared the fate of their masters, and further away, behind a number of war boats, a huge inert shape showed even an unfortunate sea dragon had not been safe. Not only living things had been the target. Canoes were broken, houses turned into piles of palm leaves and splintered wood, a stone idol turned into rubble. "But ... I did not do a thing, brother. I wasn't there." Phacyra's words sounded feeble even to himself, a dark comprehension throwing a shadow over his face. Wodzan watched his friend's spirit plummet and said nothing for a moment, looked around to let the absolute destruction be recorded in his mind so it would be there should he ever need it, a thousand years later, two thousand. Phacyra stared at the points of his shoes, his black hair hanging over his eyes, and when he finally spoke it sounded like the mumbling of a drunk. "She'll never forgive me, will she?" Wodzan shrugged. "Never. One of ye two'll die in th' end, and she was always th' most powerful of us three." "A fine friend ye are, predicting my death so casually." "I just want ye t' be serious about this, for once. Think!" Wodzan grabbed Phacyra's shoulder, a rare gesture among the hermit planewalkers, and shook his comrade. "Yer not more stupid than she is, brother! Remember her faults an' play on them, an' do it quick when she still hasn't found ye. The Fates only know how long ye have." "Well, she seems t' have a capability for unrelentless rage ... but ..." "An' what else?" "Cold patience." Wodzan nodded like a teacher to his favourite pupil and released his grip, his satisfied air gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Capitalize on that, m'lord, an' think fast. I need t' do what I came here for." "To visit yer tomb?" He nodded again and turned towards the peak of the island.