Jubilation

[Zadown]

His pale fingers hovered motionless in the frigid air, thin wisps of steam escaping their surface in constant stream. A neutral, empty look on his face, his eyes pale, dull blue, he considered the situation in front of him, the flow of time hissing in his ear. They were both patient players, the Dreamer and his huge adversary. He ignored the noise.

 

Then, the merest twitch of his torn lips, a change of color somewhere deep inside his eyes, and he lifted an âhn-kzad playing piece, sent it far into enemy territory with one long decisive thrust. He breathed out, an old habit, and created a small cloud of floating ice crystals, the tiny snowflakes drifting apart and vanishing into the shadows cast by his opponent.

 

"Yer turn, m'lord."

 

The only reply was a bass metallic rumble, half of it burrowing under the hearing range of mortals. It disturbed the nearby ice and snow, like somebody had shook a snowglobe that depicted the two of them playing the ancient game, some of the playing pieces and Chárôt cards involved barely visible with all the snow dancing above them, landing on them. The Dreamer stretched, prepared to let parts of him drift into the depths of his memory, light trance beckoning as the most convinient way of waiting for his next turn, when their slow game was interrupted for the first time, ever. A small portal appeared, its borders starting cherry red but rapidly cooling towards burgundy as the eternal winter reigning here struck against the invader's warmth. It expanded to the size of a troll's head, then spat out an imp wearing a bright red hat, carrying a large green gift-wrapped packet. On the top of the gift was written with uneven, scrawled crayon letters "To Uncle Dreamer, Merry Christmas!".

 

The scarred planewalker turned to frown at the imp already shuddering in the grip of the deadly cold, his eyes narrowing into dark grey slits. The imp shuddered even more, if possible, and held the gift above it as a shield.

 

"From my old 'prentice, ya?"

 

The gift bobbed up and down as the imp bowed its head, then the demon squeaked as it was lifted upwards along with the packet it was holding on to. Somewhere beyond the planewalker the other player rumbled again, the noise louder this time, the vibrations almost dislocating those of the playing pieces that had not frozen into the board yet. The Dreamer ignored the noise.

 

"I, Wodzan Xe Chanima of th' Scales, have receiv'd yer packet, imp. Now scram before ye freeze solid an' shatter into a thousand pieces."

 

It nodded, let go and leaped through the portal that had been trembling on the background, the cold and the unstable magical surges of this plane both making it hard to maintain a way through from the fiery realms of demons. He turned to regard his opponent and opened his eyes wider again, their color shifting towards the magnificient blue of the Astral. Another rumble, insistent and powerful, another miniature blizzard of loose snow.

 

"Ya, I hear ya. So 'twas a visitor, an' so my 'prentice knows where I am."

 

He shrugged, the gesture dislocating snow from his white robes. Eyes almost shut, a thoughtful look rippled through his devastated face.

 

"Doubt that'd be enough, an' doubt they still bother lookin' for me that badly. If they appear, I'll leave with such a commotion th' meagre traces of yer existence 'ere are certainly overlook'd."

 

Somewhere far above the planewalker, a massive head moved a slowly up and down, creating a small avalanche that barely missed their game board. The Dreamer gave a wan smile in response, gestured in a dismissive manner.

 

"Now, let's see what my twice-born pupil has sent t' me ..."

 

He tore away the wrapping paper, opened the wooden box with jerky moves and froze when he saw what was inside.

 

"A huge snowflake. Just what we were missin' from our cozy hideout, neh?"

 

The wan smile turned wider, and when the Dreamer turned to look at the game again tiny motes of silver drifted in his pale eyes.

[Zadown]

The card shone so brightly it illuminated the snowflakes drifting lazily above it with rich white radiance, making them seem like miniature angels flying above a tiny heaven. The Dreamer leaned away from the annoying brightness, the light accentuating the mountain ranges of scars and the valleys between them on his brow. His eyes were dark, almost black, with a few sparks of blue. A push sent the card on a short glide over the ice-covered table, towards the left edge.

 

King of Grails, the Lord of Good in all his magnificient, inept glory. At the sidelines, yes, but nevertheless involved. Alarming, to an extent...

 

He flipped another card from the deck with two misshaped fingers, moved to place it on the table but stopped mid-motion to glare at the dark miasma the card was vomiting.

 

And of course his brother shows up - the King of Swords, dark and malign, poisonous and pointless, at the other side. Since when have they been appearing on a reading of this scale?

 

The ruined skin of the Dreamer's visage grew taunt, his scars writhing and paling, his eyes turning into thin lines of Void. He practically threw the card at the table and for a moment its fall over the edge seemed inevitable. It slowed down however, managing to glide over every spot on the table where the ice did not gleam with slickness, and ended up with only its corner over the abyss. That mundane sight of the card that should have fallen laying smugly exactly where the reading required the King of Swords to be sent a tremor through him. He felt the universe come into focus, with the deck he was holding at the center of it all, all the histories and futures and fates painted on those small cards, endless souls crying their anguish on them, endless conquerors bellowing their triumphs, endless final, sharp and utter Deaths and dim, vague beginnings of ascendence, endless existence, endless emptiness. A wave of despair crashed into him, and a wave of euphoria - he knew the moment would pass, flung the topmost of the cards on the table eyes shut to better see the fleeting inner visions as they turned into ashes and died, leaving behind memories so slippery even his immortal, powerful mind could not grasp them.

 

When he opened his eyes again their blue was deeper and more insane shade of Astral than they had been for a long, long time. Eyes wide, unseeing, he stared at the left side of the Torch for a moment, mouth ajar, then came to. In the middle of the table, midway between the two opposite Lords, was a card depicting a gaping hole in the darkness of the Void, black and white pillar framing the disturbing rent in the fabric of what should have been inviolable, immutable, eternal. Out of that portal spewed out a multitude of creatures, every one of them wrong in a way that made his mind ache. He was not able to pinpoint it, but even though they seemed familiar demons and angels and Kalash, planewalkers and gods and other major powers, not one of them was right. In front of that disparate mob, a step ahead of even the fastest of the painted personae was a speeding Chariot leaving behind it a maroon trail, a figure in black silk and another, skeletal one in whirling chaos armor crossing weapons aboard it. The details were tiny but distinct as if the card had grown since he let it fall on the table, the horde of creatures rushing out of the portal endlessly, never reaching the edges of the picture.

 

The Dreamer growled aloud, conjured a green mageflame to examine the reading more closely.

[Zadown]

"I will win th' next game, ya know. Ye gettin' th' Reversal o' Fortunes at an opportune time was th' decidin' blow, not yer skill."

 

The repetitive metallic bass growl sounded like a poor imitation of laughter. The Dreamer narrowed his blue eyes, glanced upwards at the helmet-shaped head of his comrade-in-hiding. A few light snowflakes whirled around the uneven pair, the light of the Torch creating one massive, titanic shadow, another thin and tall on the nearby hoarfrosted wall.

 

"Th' Fates be with ya, m'lord."

 

As soon as he saw the creature nod at his words, he sidestepped into Astral. Stepping through the barrier changed him in the instant he emerged, his placid eyes now flashing yellow, his posture growing taunt, Pain appearing on his back, unbidden. He breathed deeply, though nothing entered his useless lungs - he didn't bother with protective enchantments a mortal would have needed to survive out here and thus had no air around him. Behind him glowed the pearly globe of the plane he had just exited, before him, far away on the background, shone the Pearl Necklace of Worlds. All around him he could sense the Lost Paths beckon him, stirring images of the places they lead to in his mind - but none of the paths connected to the plane of Sabishvan. The Dreamer sighed, exhaling the same amount of nothing he had breathed in earlier.

 

This will take a while. I'm surprised she came here to see me at all, with her valuing her speed as much as she does...

 

He started wading through the Void to the nearest path.

[Zadown]

Thrice-accursed tin cans.

 

The blathering of his opponent went ignored, stored into some far-away, little used dusty corner of the Dreamer's vast memory. Eyes the black of night with a hint of future dawn, yellow and red, he raced forward, holding his sword almost like a lance. The armored knight left his defense to the last moment, then lifted his wide shield up, resolution shining in his blue eyes in the depths of the heavy, golden helmet. A jarring crash killed the Dreamer's momentum and sent both visible and unseen sparks flying, fingers of raw holiness stabbing at his wards from the impact.

 

If I do not crush this metal-clad clown fast there will be other tracking hounds to worry about.

 

Somewhere far away came the indignant declarations of the Good's pawn, barely registering through his battle trance.

 

" ... was the last drop, Scourge! Claim whatever allegiance ye wish, but if ye aim to release th' Devourer ye shall find no respite from any planewalker!"

 

The words had a booming metallic quality to them. The Dreamer sneered, gave his opponent a better look so that he'd recognize him should he meet this particular pest again. Most of his attention was concentrated on noting down the flimsy ward layout, but in passing he tucked away the outward details: heavy, golden platemail, an unwieldy, huge kite shield already scarred by Pain, tabard with a stylized white hearth on black background with yellow flames dancing inside. Nothing he saw spoke of any notable prowess and still sneering he snarled a quick incantation, sent forth a salvo of bolts of hellfire.

 

"Ha!"

 

A divine shield appeared around the anonymous knight, deflecting the attack. The Dreamer narrowed his eyes, his face twisting into even more overt display of distaste, if possible. The sight was too much for him to stay silent as he had done so far.

 

"Ye coward! Pestilent suckin' parasite o' some droolin' god! Do ye 'ave any powers ye haven't begg'd from greater deities?"

 

He beckoned, his face a warped and scarred mask of loathing. His eyes remained black, however, his hate chilled and calm.

 

"Saint Kzathperk! Empower my blows!"

 

A white halo sprang into existence around the paladin's mace, momentarily illuminating the face hidden by the heavy armor. A boyish face, unscarred and serious in a way that might have been almost funny, had there been more time to administer a proper punishment for this stupidity. There was a certain hierarchy in the planewalker world, and this was a lamb barely old enough to walk challenging the lion - or at the very least, one of the old, scarred hyenas. A hint of wicked grin tempered the scarred sneer and the Dreamer roared a return challenge to the battleshout of the paladin, his made of words of creation, of True Speech wrestled from those elder gods who had forged the first worlds. The words tore at the very fabric of reality as they finished conjuring what he was calling: an unimpressive grey sphere, transparent and faintly flickering and sizzling. It appeard hovering over his right hand, his left holding Pain. The Dreamer smiled.

 

"That is all the feared Scourge can muster?"

 

"'Tis all I need, fledgling."

 

Another charge, another jarring crash.

 

And a rain of golden metal shards, afterwards.

[Zadown]

The heavy, warm air was thick with the smell of spilled blood, of sulphur and rot, of tendrils of smoke. There wasn't much light more out of old traditions than out of any practical reason. Demons and the Fallen both were traditionalists. Usually, when the door was opened the newcomer was awarded a few lazy, malicious glances by the clientele before the sounds would continue: murmurs, low laughter and distant screams of somebody having fun (and somebody, decidedly, not having fun) in the basement. Now the noise that started slithering around the musty hideout was different, sharp and escalating hisses and growls. The multitude of non-human heads traced his movements with intense curiosity bordering on insult, here. He was used to it to a degree, his blazing yellow-red eyes shining in his torn face showing that he did not accept it, nevertheless. The bouncer demon unfurled itself from the dark shadows near the door, smelling trouble, its red face flickering between hostility and insecurity.

 

"Hey you!"

 

The Dreamer's hand curled into smoking fist. He then breathed in, the fire in his eyes dying out in an instant, leaving only the faintly purple greyness of ashes behind. The fingers unfurled but his stance remained coiled, angry.

 

"Ya, demon?"

 

A Fallen angel laughed, throaty and inviting and threatening sound, while more than one of the demons and a minor planewalker of Chaos all smirked at the confrontation. They did not care of the outcome either way - they just sensed violence in the air, their faces enlivened by the anticipation of blood that did not come before them pre-bottled.

 

"Who is your sponsor, 'walker? Entry here is restricted by the order of Lady Vrajo of Chaos."

 

Atmosphere in the room tensed, creatures leaning forward to see what was happening better. Those nearest seemed slightly edgy, ready to move aside should the expected planewalker's ire be indiscriminate in its destruction. What they were not expecting was the lightening of the Dreamer's eyes, the growing slant of his split lips between his grey moustache and beard.

 

"Ye do not recognize me, then? An indisputable proof o' my current allegiance, ya, patrons?"

 

He gestured calmly with his hands at the sharks scenting blood behind the hapless bouncer and nodded slightly, a grin shifting the arrangement of scars mapping his face. The Dreamer's silver gaze scanned the crowds, every face he recognized somehow adding to his growing hilarity.

 

"Abnoctorius, Huorios, do give our confus'd comrade 'ere a clue, neh? Sangveriel?"

 

The last one of the three he had named, a man with elven apperance but the aura of a devil, innocent eyes but a cruel mouth, shrugged at first, then spoke, carefully articulating every word.

 

"You might not be as welcome in here and elsewhere as you have been, m'lord. There have been talk, far too much talk for it to be airy rumours only, of you trying to crack open the prison of the Devourer."

 

Sangveriel looked as he had been about to continue, then shrugged again and fixed his blue eyes at the suddenly serious planewalker. The large demon next to him was forgotten and it shied away like a frightened child as a realization crept over its brutish features. Some of the patrons muttered in disappointment as they saw the prospect of devastation fade and they turned back to their bottles of blood, muttered conversations and games of âhn-kzad and xkapor. Most only shifted their expectations from seeing blood to hearing real information, something far more expensive than shiny metals or enchanted baubles on the Lost Paths, expressions on their inhuman faces keen.

 

"I'd 'xpect nothin' less, ya. Now, 'ere's somethin' for ye scum t' think 'bout as ye waste yer time here, playin' trivial games for th' souls o' mortals or for shreds o' knowledge, for items lift'd from th' dead hands o' planar warriors in th' deep murky holes o' th' Lost Paths. If I 'ad wanted to open th' Prison, do ye really think it'd still be closed, right now? Do ye, ya?"

 

The words were heard and weighted, the faces staring at him turning away one by one as he challenged them with a glare, all traces of amusement gone.

 

"Now, bloodkeeper, a bottle o' yer best angel's blood, aye."

Edited April 16, 2007 by Zadown

[Zadown]

A different door opened. This time there was a short, soft hush that faded into the background noise as fast as it had swept over it. Nobody felt the need to stare at the planewalker who had entered the room, but a perceptible strain altered the mood as she walked to the corner table where the Dreamer sat. She had the predatory beauty of the Fallen, but there was less posturing, less projected hardness in her body language. She knew her power, knew everybody around her was aware of it, had no need to feel challenged. If she had not been so tall and if her open smile had not revealed canines which would have made any vampire proud, she could have been mistaken for a human. Lady Vrajo, the owner of this Tavern of Lost and Found Souls, was wearing a simple yet elegant dress of translucent shadows and a dozen layers of invisible protective wards, both of them a weapon and an armor. On her hip, hanging from a thin black silk sash, was a thin dagger in a black planar crystal sheath. No scars marred her visible pale skin, a single strikingly red earring marking the single spot of color in her outfit.

 

The Dreamer glanced up from his glass. His eyes were the color of verdigris, dull and ugly pools of ruined copper in the middle of his equally ugly face. With the practised smoothness of immortals he bowed just as low as he should to the mistress of the fort, Lady Vrajo returning the gesture in equally exact measure, the two planewalkers acting with mechanical precision.

 

"Evenin', m'lady. 'S been a while - I hope ye aren't offended by my brutish company, ya."

 

Vrajo nodded and sat down, a tiny gesture creating a wall of silence that would also foil any but the most brutal means of scrying.

 

"Evening, m'lord. I do wonder what void wind has blown yer so far off th' course ye've ended up here, Dreamer. We are fairly deep in Chaos territory, Hound o' Balance."

 

"I had some rumours o' my death t' dispel, not t' mention th' rumours of what 'appened at th' Devourer's prison ..."

 

A blink cleared the greenish rust from his eyes and left him with two silver mirrors, gleaming in the gloom. He smiled, jolting his scars back into motion. Vrajo crossed her legs and leaned backwards, staring the Dreamer as if he had been a beautiful but very poisonous insect.

 

"Yes, those rumours. I've heard a lot of them, an' while freeing th' Devourer would at first certainly cause Chaos most of us here so adore, after a while there would not be many planes t' have Chaos on, ya?"

 

"'Tis why he is still imprisoned. I may be eccentric even by our standards, an' those are some fairly flexible ones as far as sanity's in question, but even I enjoy havin' a multiversum t' be eccentric in."

 

"So you haven't broken through th' Parallels only t' find what they have to offer unpalatable, like some say?"

 

The Dreamer's face twitched and he glanced at the bottle and the glass, both half-full with the best archangel's blood. Reaching for his glass his facial scarring stilled again, and when he looked back at Vrajo he was the picture of seriousness, eyes turning to steel.

 

"Naw. Th' Parallels 'ave been meddled with, mostly by th' Law, an' what has broken through has been unpalatable, as ye say. I'm sure ye know more than yer sayin' - we may 'ave not had th' pleasure of conversation, but yer infamy spreads. Not like mine, with high-points and nadirs, but steadily, despite yer youth. Someday ye'll get a scar on that peerless skin o' yers, too."

 

"Yes, I've heard that does happen to people who as much as see ye from distance. Perhaps I should've barred ye from my fortress, Stormcrow. I do like my 'peerless skin' th' way it is."

 

Vrajo's smile undermined her words and her clothes drifted further from her perfect body, barely concealing it any more.

 

"Braggin' on yer lack o' scars t' me, m'lady? Ye'd be hard-press'd t' find somebody who can't do that in my presence, an' 's been far too long since I would've been tempted by th' sight, Seductress o' Chaos."

 

She sighed and the shadows embraced her more tightly again.

 

"Aww, yer no fun. I sometimes forget yer age, given how keen you still are t' run around meddlin' with our Eternal War. So, what other rumours ye want squished or started, Scourge? Th' one about a dead Runelord?"

 

He shrugged and drank a small sip of blood, reached into his robes to pull out the massive helmet Sir Owiric had given him and placed it between him and Vrajo, a surreal magician's rabbit trick. One horn was missing and the metal had nicks and grooves all over, ruining some of the intricate runes engraved on it. At places the cuts were deep enough to actually penetrate through the thickness of the cumbersome piece of armor. The Dreamer adjusted it so he was staring directly into the darkness of empty sockets and smiled at the helmet, wanly.

 

"Nah, 'twas actually useful a rumour, ya? Puts a dagger-blade through th' illusion o' invulnerability Law has, something we may still need."

 

"We, m'lord? Which 'we' are we talking about here, Turncoat?"

 

It was more total than his normal mercurial changes of mood. His eyes turned deep, dark blue like somebody had punched two holes into his face and his scars stretched taunt as he grimaced, from a scarred old man to a speaking death's head faster than a blink of a mortal eye.

 

"Us, Lady Vrajo. Us."

 

Around them, the illusionary map of the whole multiversum bloomed into existence.

[Zadown]

Lady Vrajo burst out laughing. It was a beautiful, low, cultivated sound, not the mocking and bitter laugh many immortals had their laughter worn down to. She gestured, ignoring the threat implied by the fires that were igniting in the depths of the Dreamer's darkening eyes, and the illusion vanished.

 

"Do ye really think theatrics like that are enough t' convince me to help you, m'lord? I know yer records in these matters, an' I've always wondered how ye do it, how ye get planewalkers whose philosophies and goals are at opposite angles to yours help ye so easily, but if this is how ye do it I'm honestly quite baffled."

 

Her postured hardened, the satisfied grin of a feline predator that seemed to linger on her face most of the time was gone.

 

"Lettin' th' Devourer free is one thing, but if ye think your multiversum-encompassin' benevolence is for me yer sorely mistaken. Perhaps whatever charm th' Fates have given ye was finally revoked durin' your self-imposed exile as th' Law's best ran around looking for you, or perhaps th' likes of Owiric and Faaye are more gullible than even I thought. Either way, yer flattery an' yer vague, vast threats are both wasted on me."

 

"I see. Not interested even hearin' what I have t' say about these 'vague, vast threats', then?"

 

"Not really, m'lord Dreamer. My network is spread far and wide by now, far enough t' catch any vast threats comin' my way, or directed at Chaos herself. I 'ave seen and heard how poorly the pawns in yer private games fare, yet they return to ye again and again for punishment. I have t' commend you for twisting so many powerful threads around yer own in the Weave of Times, but my appreciation'll be done from afar, just in the off-chance there is some irresistible allure in yer words in th' end."

 

"Yer assumin', there, that those glories and blows 'gainst th' established order where I've been involved have been mine, all. Sir Owiric's place in th' peckin' order of Chaos has gone up, an' I hope ye don't think going from one of Palgrave Atyaer's cadre o' guards to th' Arbitrator of Balance is a demotion. O' course, they've both paid a price ..."

 

"An' they both have their names tainted by yer proximity. Every time ye act like a proper, mature planewalker to mend even a tiny fraction of yer imago, ye do something t' further sunder it anew. Like tryin' to break open the Devourer's prison. Really, Lord Dreamer. Ever been able t' walk the Lost Paths without lookin' over yer shoulder?"

 

He managed a dry smile, took a sip from the glass that was empty afterwards.

 

"A few times, m'lady. Perhaps 'twas before yer Ascension."

 

He glanced at the glass, then at the half-full bottle, before returning his attention to Vrajo's face.

 

"I shall take my leave then, Lady Vrajo, lest I have t' look over my shoulder as soon as I step outside this fine establishment. 'S been a pleasure, even if I could not manage t' make ye my unwilling puppet with my charmin' visage and witty words, ya?"

 

They both stood up, Vrajo with grace, Dreamer with the unexpected clumsiness that sometimes made him seem far more vulnerable than he really was.

 

"You are welcome t' visit again, m'lord, as long as ye won't do any recruiting here, not when yer talking to me or any of my other customers. Ye know the by-laws and codes of conduct."

 

"Very fair, m'lady. I thank ye for yer hospitality."

 

He nodded, and she nodded in response, both bowing to the correct depth like two mechanical puppets controlled by Fates far beyond this stage. She drifted back to her room, tugged by strings of Chaos, while Balance dragged the scarred, old warrior to the front door and off this plane of debauchery.

[Zadown]

The horizon was a blazing ring to every direction, the sharp-edged mountains outlined against it like the jaws of a bear trap. Directly above the sky was an unforgiving black, a few stars here and there just outlining the lack of light and color. Night winds crept about with fingers of dust and sand, staying low on the ground to not to obscure the view. They also brought faint noises and stronger scents, the smell of wood smoke and overcooked meat, of sweat and animals and stranger creatures, of herbs used in the esoteric arts. Drifting sounds waxed and waned. Inside the fortress it was mostly silent, the sullen absence of activity a mark of washed out tenacity, the weary defenders having whispered conversations with each other and Death, getting ready for the inevitable. Some of the more energetic ones, the uninjured and unbroken, were even maintaining small cooking fires. This siege had always destined to be short. Too much wall, too few defenders, too old a fortress - steeped in old glories, yes, but lacking in modern design that might just have been enough to foil the attackers even with the low numbers. And so there was food to eat, if not quite a hearty meal, at least a meal not consisting of your past comrades. Far better going-away feast than most besieged had had, in the past.

 

A silhouette against the western sky, more red than the merry yellow flames of east, walked with economic ease past the sleeping and those groaning in wound-fever, the warm glow of a fire dancing on the metal of his armor whenever he passed one. He was tall and there was something wrong in his posture - it was not crushed. Romys watched the soldier weave through the inner courtyard while leaning against a bundle of clothes, sharpening his longsword with soft, caressing strokes. Optimism, and useless, but Romys had always been like that. Even then he doubted he could've held his head high like the lone wandering shadow who was getting nearer, one circumvented small cluster of warriors at a time.

 

Something in the rare darkness had always made men whisper or speak softly at least, and the feeling of impending end did nothing to lessen that unexplainable feeling of smothering holiness. Warriors could feel it, see it in each other's eyes, and speak softly. Speak softly, but not speak of it, not of the night and what would follow in the morning, not during any normal night and definitely not this night. So Romys whispered to the stranger, a voice barely louder than the murmur of his sharpening stone, expecting to not be heard, half-expecting the dark, tall shadow to be some spectre of Death itself that'd vanish like a ghost when addressed.

 

"There's room here, around my fire."

 

It stopped and turned towards him, an unsettling glint where eyes should be like a wild animal caught in man-made light. A friendly nod to the right was the first sign the shadow was perhaps a human, after all, somebody who would like to share the unnecessary warmth of a fire during this warm night to not to be alone in the dark. This near, the stranger was even taller, almost a giant, and whatever disquiet the nod had dispelled the realization he did not remember anybody of such towering height in their small force brought back. The stranger sat down, folding his legs in an usual way, bared his teeth in some expression that was lost in the gloom. Something wrong in his face, too.

 

"Evenin', soldier."

 

Louder voice than his, though still soft enough not to break the false sense of peace swirling around the fortress. Even in the two short words there was an odd accent, like the stranger was speaking in a language he had not quite mastered. The same note of unbroken will that had been in his posture, as well - he sounded like he had just been in an evening stroll, that everything was right in the world. Perhaps he had been smiling, earlier.

 

"Have we met before, warrior? I can't recall seeing anybody as tall as you here before."

 

Romys felt no real fear. Even if somehow one of the enemies had marched in and was now there before him, he was armed and the stranger had no blade in his hands, would have been hard-pressed to draw the long blade from his back given the awkward way he sat. No demon ever conjured had been this calm and collected, this human, either.

 

"I'm good at gettin' past sieges, ya. Just came in."

 

"So you are one of ours? Can't place your accent, either."

 

The stranger leaned forward a bit, Romys' fire illuminating his smile. Glinting teeth, face a mess of scars, eyes with colors so vibrant they were like two gleaming gems, hair gray like an elder's. Even in the warm night, near a fire, Romys felt a chill.

 

"Ye wouldn't, aye. I'm 'ere for th' cause, shouldn't that be enough, neh?"

 

"You are part of the help the priests promised us? How many of you came?"

 

Despite hating himself for it, a hope stirred inside him. It was hard to imagine how a company of these giants could have snuck past the enemy lines, and it was quiet inside too, with no swelling weave of murmuring voices that would have been a sure sign of something extraordinary happening. Still, the utter, relaxed ease the man before him exuded could not be denied.

 

"Ya, I was sent by th' Lady t' atone for my stupidity, yet 'gain. They don't want my taint around, not even when I did as they beseech'd me t'."

 

Those bitter, mangled words were aimed inwards, mutterings that made little sense past the understanding this was somebody far closer to Balance than any warrior here. There was little force behind them, no real fury at the way events had worked out for him, and by the time he spoke again even what little anger had lurked in his speech was gone.

 

"How many of th' Chaos are there?"

 

"Perhaps seven thousand, with over a dozen warlocks who have patrons in the Abyss, a number of chimeric conjurations and a few demons. Not many siege engines, of course, otherwise it wouldn't be this peaceful. Once this ominous double-night is over and Archiarus rises from the east they will attack and overrun the walls, this time."

 

"Th' warlocks are in charge, neh?"

 

"Yes, of course. As always."

 

He leaned back now, letting the fading gloom shroud his ruined face again, only eyes shimmering with pale hues and gleaming teeth showing.

 

"I outnumber their army, then."

[Zadown]

Pain was not meant for the fragile mortal flesh. As soon as its ghostly blade bit free, the spray of lifeblood that hung in the air, thick and slow in the accelerated time, was brown and putrid. The Dreamer flicked his blade, a needless gesture as nothing ever tarnished the half-real sword, and danced forward, his forms perfect.

 

No plan of battle ever survives the first contact with an enemy. But a plan of butchery ...

 

A few long strides, enough time to spare a glance at the colorful reds and purples his opponents were clad in, black stripes accentuating the merry patterns. Rising sun (the bigger one, Archiarus) glinted on shiny metal. They were armored, had been ready for a conflict, for something they could fight against. Another knot of enemies struggling to adapt to the white streak that conjured geysers of innards wherever it touched men, a nimble landing in the middle, a whirlwind that bisected every one of the six warriors. Off and away before the staining rain of rotten gore would land on his robes.

 

However wrong my old plan might have been after all, at least it involved me doing more than just smearing ants under my weary heels. Any Ascendant could do this much.

 

His face was taunt but no-one was fast enough to see it, to see how he had pressed his lips into a thin line, how his eyes were two black holes amidst his façade of scars. A lazy push with his mind through the lay lines pulped the brains of a sorceress, a muttered whisper cracked the chains of a demon whose blow he had just been forced to parry, once. More whispering, the exact words veering dangerously close to being so badly blurred by his muttering that even his formidable will would not be enough - even then, enough to re-forge the chains in that immortal time he was treading in, between the blinks of mortal men's eyes.

 

The mortals, stuck in their snail-time, saw one of their champion demons strike once against the white wind. They heard a noise of demon-forged felsteel ringing in anguish, a half-roar of abyssal defiance, choked as soon as it was born. The next blow of its three-handed sword splattered one of their own, a captain in baroque black platemail, a minor hero with the beginnings of a myth spinning around him. Dead, now.

 

A call to his master lit up a warlock to his sixth sense like a candle in the dark. The planewalker tugged at the lines of magic and sent all of it he had time to gather in a sharp pulse to his target. Another brain that was fed more power in a fraction of a moment than it could have handled in a long day. The Dreamer did not even turn towards the starting commotion. He found the voices of men, elongated into grotesque moans by the time-shift, to be disgusting and depressing, like the baying of frightened cattle. His wide gesture turned another squad, this one off the path he had chosen to cut, into a lacerated mess. None of his victims had even had the time to scream, yet.

 

This army has been broken for a while now. It just stands still, its spine severed, while I cut off pieces of the flesh that has not been told it is dead.

 

He grimaced and dived into the next group of enemies with a ferocity, as if everything had been their fault. Anger made him clumsy and one of the spears struck his wards by accident, setting off the active, topmost layer. The dead guards were electrocuted after Pain had already had its way with them, slashed and bloodied uniforms set on tempestuous blaze by the sparks and the gusts of wind the Dreamer's inhuman speed dragged after him.

 

Chaos was pulsing out of him in waves, something so ironic it twisted his torn lips into a semblance of a wan grin. Not the raw, nourishing essence of it he had breathed in and out during the Grail Wars, but close enough to remind him of those times. Here and there a few of those who had made stronger pacts with Disorder were tugged away from the reality towards the rapid river of immortal time, or their trinkets and amulets and rings blazed with a unstable power that might have done them some good in other circumstances. Here it merely pointed them out for him to deal with first, a fraction of a fraction before their comrades in arms.

 

He reached the edge of the camp, some of the crimson mist from his first victims still hanging in the air, hesitant to fall into the thirsty, dry ground. His plan had been to curve sharply back in, cut through those who were escaping the charnel house first and then shred his way through those in the middle who were under an illusion of resistance, or who were smart enough to be confused, or even so clever as to be apathetic. Somehow he felt tired all of a sudden. He had barely flexed his mental muscles, the swinging of moaning Pain through unenchanted steel and mortal flesh even less of an effort than smashing the brains of a few adepts of the Art had been. The Dreamer let time catch him and turned around, eyes paling towards grey as he observed what he had done to the army.

 

What hit him first was the sound, low gruff bellowing speeding up to transform into shrill cries for mercy and wordless expressions of pain. The cacophony was daunting, even though almost everyone he had turned his attention to was irreversibly dead - Pain did not wound, not prey as fragile as this. The first wave of red spouts died, the effect of so many so grievous injuries inflicted at so nearly at the same time almost artistic, a red rain rising from the army of Chaos upwards. A ripple ran through those standing, a shuddering as they tried to comprehend what their eyes were telling them. He could see their morale break and wither, be blown away in the wind he had created. An act of a vengeful god had cleaved through them, and now some of them followed the line of devastation with their gazes, stared at him with mind breaking awe etched on their suddenly aged faces.

 

It wasn't something he had expected himself to do, but when he addressed the army it felt natural, the only right thing to do in the circumstances. His voice was not loud but it cut through the escalating noise, enchanted with the same spells that allowed him to speak any language.

 

"This is enough, don't ya think? Go be men instead o' warriors, ya?"

 

His shooing gesture did not call on any arcane powers, his words tattered and bereft of weight.