Myopia (39)

[Zadown]

It was hard to distinguish between the eager howl of Pain and the grinding scream of the metal it cut. The Dreamer drew his blade back and retreated several bouncing steps, looking ridiculously fragile in his fine robes facing the squad of plate-armored Kalash. He parried a blow dealt by the now-crippled construct, then two other hacking attacks by still intact warriors. The long blades the warriors of Law were utilizing looked unwieldly, their irregular shapes somewhat obscured by the blinding white light burning along the edges, but the Dreamer knew better than to let that illusion of clumsiness be his downfall. A circular parry bought him more time to dance away from the constructs.

 

These ... things should not withstand an assault of a veteran planewalker captain like me! Even with their queen on the other side of the Parallel gate, they are far too dangerous considering how expendable they are.

 

Soft and low booms, more felt that heard, from behind him, and three fist-thick lines of fire struck the first of the Kalash shredding it apart. He had been expecting that, and his retreat changed into a counter-attack at the very instant the shots were fired. Pain and a Kalash blade met, sending a shower of white sparks and swirls of ghostly mist into the empty Void. Then the Dreamer pushed the opposing blade aside, drew Pain back with impossible speed and cut forward to separate the head from the metal body. Without waiting to see if that was enough to destroy the construct, he leaped past the Kalash and had barely enough time to cut its legs off before he had to parry a blow from the next metal monster. His speed did not allow another parry in time, and a third Kalash's blade engraved a line of white fire across his wards. They pulsed angrily with emerald colors, but he could feel how costly that one cut had been to their integrity. Throwing a part of his large supply of caution to the wind, the Dreamer drew on the ambient magic and channeled it through his crude but effective psychic skills. The psionic lance blew the offending Kalash's head apart.

 

Not like we came here to hide, after all.

 

More gunfire from behind him, mostly harassing the remaining constructs. With the same vicious speed they had attacked in the first place, they now reformed their diminished ranks and backed off. Suentalv gave one of them one last hole in the back, then he waved his bulky gun to disperse some of the smoke its barrel was exhaling before holstering it.

 

"Evil, wicked things, those."

 

"Law's minions, not Evil's, Lord Suentalv."

 

"Yes, yes, you know what I mean. I can see a little better now what the Reconstruction Wars ended up being about."

 

"Ya. A new, disturbin' way o' wagin' th' Eternal War. That ended well for us, but if there's a larger number o' these ... ah, 'untaint'd ones' around, we may 'ave in our hands far more trouble than we'd want."

 

"Could we ask the Kalash of our Parallel to help?"

 

"Naw. 'Tis not a bad idea, 'prentice, but so evident it 'as been tried already. They did not care this way or that."

 

Suentalv shrugged and surveyed the surrounding Lost Paths. This part of the Void was riddled with more paths than most areas, and on them were more travellers than was usual. The auras were harder to read when there were so many of them, but it wasn't hard to see this was not the only band of marauding Law's Kalash on the move. Here and there fading taints of spent battlemagics showed a small battlefield, and further away they could see other planewalker captains on the move, some leading bands of demons, others commanding celestial beings or other, weirder armies.

 

"I have a bad feeling about this."

 

The Dreamer nodded, his face an immovable, serious mask.

 

"Not sure if we'll see a large war 'ere, ya, or merely a series of lower scale conflicts. Th' cards are confused - they are only meant t' work in this Parallel, an' here th' other ones seep in, muddy th' waters o' Fate."

 

A large concentration of Law's Kalash lead by several planewalkers captured Suentalv's attention for a moment, then he turned his head aside and pointed at a slightly less contested area of the local Void.

 

"The space around Atiiala, that's where she said she would be. This all reminds me of the siege of Branthislaw, just the three of us against an unclear number of enemies. You might not have heard the tale, old man, but ..."

 

"Some other time, m'lord."

 

Suentalv shrugged and gave the worrying view before them another good glance, his youthful face turning into a frown.

 

"Sure, let's hope we'll both still be there after this so I can finish it."

 

The Dreamer had been about to launch himself into his usual long, fast stride along the Lost Paths but he paused and looked back, a grin on his scarred face.

 

"We aren't call'd immortal for nothin'. Let's go, pup."

[Zadown]

"Ah-ha! Didn't know we 'ad any o' these under our command."

 

"Looks like she is taking this seriously, eh old man?"

 

"Ya, this'll take some effort t' move around. We might be 'ere a while, then."

 

Suentalv stood still for a moment and took the view in. They were at an outter branch of a colossal tree that had grown more spherical than traditional in shape here beyond the shackles of gravity. Vines adorned with different flowers were everywhere, and as if their rainbow colors weren't enough, small birds and butterflies flew around the portable demiplane. He wondered briefly if they were there to obscure his view of the magical flows, their swirling shapes even more complex and kaleidoscopic than those of the living things. Despite the heavy patrols outside, directly in front of them was one last checking point where two elder elven heroes and an amesha spenta, a towering angel of one of the highest orders, stood guard.

 

Beyond the guards, the branch they were on eventually joined into the core of the elven fortress. Besides the elder elves, powerful enough to stand against planar footsoldiers but rarely seen in conflicts of this size, the branches that were used as paths were filled with angels of every rank and sort. At some places it was as if the tree was covered in snow. He and the Dreamer, both clad in dark clothes, seemed out of place here. Suentalv grinned at the idea, used to being the odd one out as a planewalker, and followed the Dreamer through the checkpoint.

 

"Do the elves fight for us?"

 

"Naw, doubt it unless some fool decides t' attack this stronghold, ya. They value their fragile lives too highly, an' I can't see I blame 'em, too much. T' be immortal, but to die from a blow that'd just scar me ... well, ye can see how many times I'd be dead by now."

 

They walked a moment in silence. The tree was harder and harder to see as such as they neared the end of the entrance pier given its immense proportions. The Dreamer pointed at the empty air on both sides of the pier.

 

"See th' traps, pup?"

 

"No."

 

"'Xactly."

 

He nodded to himself and grinned, his eyes almost white by now. The fortress radiated harmony and light euphoria, an aura that would've been easy if pointless to resist. It was like reaching a refreshing oasis with shade and water after a walk through dangerous desert. Lured in by it, they reached the area that had seemed like the trunk of the tree from the distance, but close by was more like a thick three-dimensional forest. Paths to various parts of the great fortress were either branches to be walked on or tunnels under and over them. The Dreamer stopped an elven patrol and asked for directions, then turned back towards Suentalv who had hung back, savouring the mere experience of being here, in the middle of this wonder.

 

"I'll see Faaye now. Yer not needed there, go see th' sights. I'll seek ye when I know where we'll be headin'."

 

"You think we will pair up again?"

 

The old planewalker shrugged, a slight smile tenaciously trying to hold on to his scarred face.

 

"Ye weren't entirely useless on th' last mission. We'll see."

 

He gestured, something between a wave and a dismissal, then started climbing a branch up towards the canopy. Suentalv stood still for a moment longer, soaking into himself the warmth of the rare praise, the tranquil atmosphere and the green-tinted light before flashing a grin and heading downwards, into the deeper shadows.

 

*

 

"I figur'd ye'd be up 'ere at th' top, m'lady"

 

"Heii-i, brother. I have to admit I'm surprised Suentalv actually found ye and managed t' persuade ye to come."

 

Faaye had been sitting utterly still, letting the illusionary sun blazing on the inner side of the planar crystal soak her with light and warmth. Her eyepatch was off and her weapons were leaning on the heavy chair she sat on, and she had a wide, genuine smile on her face.

 

"Situation is that relaxin', Arbitrator?"

 

"I wish, sincerely, that it was so."

 

Her face fell and she attached her eyepatch, sighed.

 

"It is, perhaps, too easy t' be distant o' th' conflict that rages just outside, 'ere. Ye've seen it, and it is as bad as it looks, at th' very least. We do not 'ave anythin' better t' serve as a mobile fortress, however, an' so this'll have to do. At least bein' here lifts our spirit if nothin' else."

 

"'Tis a foolish multiversum, t' not to take a break from th' Eternal War like we individuals do."

 

She stood up and lifted her weapons with reluctance. Nobody else was nearby - they stood at one of the few peaks of the massive tree, the curve of the planar crystal so close it seemed they could have touched it. Beneath them was a sea of green, dotted here and there with the white of angel wings or with the brown of branches seen through the thick canopy. For a moment they were silent, Faaye busying herself with the sword and the crossbow, the Dreamer merely standing there, looking calm. When she spoke again it was softly in her own language, its melodic and peaceful tone very close to the language of the elder elves and very much at home here, spoken on top of a city living in a tree.

 

"Lady Balance has given me some guidelines, less obscure than normal. I am taking that as a bad sign, that we do not having the option of defending the integrity of our multiversum in depth, but must hold a line here, even if that risks many a fragile, priceless and rare things ... like this, the elven fortress Keava'et Aam."

 

The Dreamer's eyes flashed dark blue, then settled into the color of deep Void with a hint of green. He spoke in Ancient Aefian now, as gently as Faaye had done even if his own language was alien to these surroundings.

 

"I will be your sword or your shield, then, should you need me ... before they bore a hole in the Wall that leads to a Parallel with a free Devourer, or worse."

 

She looked into his eyes, then turned her gaze back at the bright sun. Somehow, while they had been speaking, both of them had let their active wards drop, and now she was free to touch his hand and he free to clasp it.

[Zadown]

The room was dim, as such rooms were wont to be. A dozen lanterns of colored glass illuminated it just enough to see the brightly clad elven patrons, but Suentalv in his black attire was almost invisible in the corner. The Dreamer nodded to the other planewalker, got a bottle of elven wine from the bartender and joined him at the corner table. Suentalv was sitting on a sofa and sipping golden mead from a tall glass, his boots lifted to lie on a chair, his gun on the thick wooden table.

 

"Thought ye might be 'ere, squire."

 

"I had time to see a lot of this fortress before I came here, given how much time her instructions took. It's an amazing place, I tell you that."

 

"Ya. Been over a millenium since I last was aboard one o' these ... an' that was a brief visit, as I was barely tolerated there."

 

"What, did you fight elder elves?"

 

"Not really, no. Wasn't much of a fight."

 

His grin was wicked, unsettling, and Suentalv shifted himself nervously to sit properly. He twirled his gun on the table, did not look at the Dreamer when he spoke.

 

"What's the word from up high, then?"

 

"'S bad, th' situation is. We barely 'ave enough good-will with th' elves an' still we brought this into it, that tells how things are. Worse yet, Our Lady of Balance's instructions were clear an' precise, with no room for error or dawdlin'. We are committin' our forces, 'ere."

 

"Speaking of commitment, I think I'll stay here."

 

"A holiday at th' End o' th' World? If that's what yer going t' do, I doubt anybody'll object."

 

Suentalv sheathed his gun and glanced up. He looked slightly morose or defensive.

 

"I doubt it'll be a holiday, old man. And I really mean it when I say it's amazing, what the elves have done. I might be from a city but this floating tree is ... not sure, but if even one of us only sees these places once in a thousand years, I'm staying here as long as I can."

 

The Dreamer was amused, his eyes light blue. He took a long draught from his elaborate glass filled with elven wine, grimaced once at the taste and made a placating gesture.

 

"Yer a 'walker, squire. Good t' see ye 'ave enough spine t' decide for yerself what yer going t' do. If yer going t' defend this fortress, they should be able to detach some additional forces from 'ere when all th' Abyss breaks loose."

 

"Not mad you won't hear my tales then, old man?"

 

"Hah! I'm reliev'd I won't 'ave to drag yer corpse back 'ere and explain my failure to Faaye, that's what."

 

"To not having to drag corpses!"

 

"T' havin' a spine!"

 

They lifted their glasses.

 

"So, what are the lovely ladies ordering you to do, Dreamer?"

 

"We 'ave t' find either of th' gates first. Scouts are already out there, I gather'd. Then, if it looks like we have enough strength t' hit th' gate, I'll head a patrol o' planewalker captains 'gainst whatever forces they 'ave defendin' th' wandering gate."

 

"I have hard time picturing you leading several planewalkers, as ornery as you are."

 

"I've been one o' th' Warleaders of Chaos an' ye ask me if I can lead a few planewalkers? They do not 'ave t' like me, all I need is them t' do as I say. An' if they don't ... ah, there's somethin' here ye haven't seen yet, I'd wager."

 

The Dreamer rose abruptly and beckoned Suentalv to follow. The younger planewalker frowned, but carefully put down his glass and stood up. The Dreamer dropped a beautifully engraved, large wooden coin drawn from empty air on the table and walked out at his usual brisk pace, Suentalv half-jogging to keep up.

 

"Do we have to pay here?"

 

A shrug was the only answer he got, and he did not bother the Dreamer who was choosing which paths to follow downwards with a preoccupied look on his scarred face. Angels did not venture this deep, preferring to keep to those areas they could use their wings in, and even elder elves got rare after first few turns. Light vanished with only a few mageflame lanterns illuminating intersections and the tunnels got narrower. Muttering to himself, the Dreamer conjured a small light that floated after him, suffusing the deformed corridors with his trademark emerald green. Deep in the dark, they met one brown-robed elder elf who was carrying a cage of living twigs filled with fireflies for illumination, perhaps a priest of some sort. The elf stopped and moved aside to let them pass, inscrutable look on his passive face. The Dreamer nodded to him, his face as passive as the elf's, and Suentalv followed his example, looking uncertain. Down here, despite the lack of normal gravity, it felt like the tree was crushing them down. The tunnels, narrow and getting lower, were like catacombs except Suentalv could see no dead bodies, no bones or rats.

 

Finally they reached a spherical room that had a central pillar made out of several intertwined roots with half a dozen heavy wooden chairs arranged around it, a few more delicate chairs at the outer wall. On most of them sat a dead elf, or what was left of them. Their skeletons and armor, weapons and boots were intact, but little roots had crawled through it all and there was no flesh or skin left. The ones at the middle seemed to be warriors all, their swords still bright, while those at the outer wall had perhaps been loremasters or treemenders, navigators or traders. The Dreamer pointed at one of the two empty chairs in the middle.

 

"If ye die at th' defense o' Keava'et Aam, this'll where ye'll end up, assumin' the tree survives. Would that be stayin' here long enough, pup?"

 

His voice was hushed, reverent, but his grin rather spoiled the effect.

 

"I have more years left than you, old man. Still ... better than getting animated and having to work even after you die. Much better."

 

"Ye should exist longer than me, ya. My master already moved on, an' he had less scars than I do when he did that. Not as hot-temper'd as I am, he was. Well, 'tis time for me t' go save th' multiversum one more time, old or not. Ye'll find yer way up, neh?"

 

"Yeah. Fatespeed, m'lord."

 

The Dreamer made a dismissive gesture before sidestepping out, into the Void.

[Zadown]

We were supposed to be held in reserve until a gate was found!

 

A step back gave him enough room to pour a prodigal amount of mana into a psionic lance, only to have it deflected by the opposing planewalker's wards. A mere distraction, but it gave the monk of Balance next to him a tiny opening to strike. The monk's stone staff struck wards with a satisfying thunder, making them flicker. The Dreamer had no time to gloat before their opponent attacked them both, his axes trailing tails of swirling nether.

 

* Who are we even fightin', monk?

 

* A Parallel LeRoy Jenkkel, I'd assume. Ye know th' 'zerker who died at th' Battle o' th' Twelve Dead?

 

* Him? But accordin' t' th' tales he was th' reason half of those captains o' Chaos died, an' inept tactician and a scoundrel, an' this is a warrior almost as good as Myrmidon himself.

 

* Perhaps he is both, a formidable warrior yet useless as a leader.

 

The darkness of the Void turned even blacker when one of the axes struck the parrying Pain and both weapons bled after the violent impact. The Dreamer danced back, knowing both him and the monk could utilize reach better than the frothing maniac they were trying to keep at bay. Pain screamed when he dragged it away but he ignored it, savouring the fleeting moment he had wrestled from the battle to survey the situation.

 

Between him and LeRoy the monk of Balance, or perhaps a monk, one of many. He had a vague idea there might have been more than just one of them, even if he had never heard of any other group of identical planewalkers. Clad in grey, the symbol of scales etched on his smooth forehead, he carried a staff of stone and the tranquilty of one who has accepted his Fate. In that frozen moment of contemplation, his face was set in stone, his staff whirling in front of him to parry the frenzied axes.

 

LeRoy Jenkkel, if that's who he was, had a strange set of wards surrounding him flickering in yellow hues. Heavy platemail covered him where it mattered most, multiple layers of chainmail giving the rest of him protection and mobility. There had to be a story behind the identical axes he wielded as well, some sort of beast engraved on both, their hungry blades exhaling a halitosis of death more acute than Pain's bleached desolation.

 

What is his agenda? Why is he fighting ghosts on the wrong side of a gate, on another Parallel?

 

The stupidity of it all made the Dreamer's face contort, red flames of naked rage spit out of his wide open eyes. Still he forced his gaze to sweep further, did not let fury blind him.

 

Around LeRoy stood his elite guard of archdemons, few in number but following their leader in ferocity. They seemed less alien than their unknown leader, but the blood on their blades fuelled the Dreamer's growing anger. It was not blood shed by his own guard as he did not have the sort of reserves these days that would have allowed him to bring a regiment to this fight - nevertheless, Balance's general army could ill affoard to lose angels either. Beyond the fighting archdemons and angels there was some empty Void between this knot in the confused battle and the next ones. There had been no clear lines of battle here when he had joined the fight, and time had further fed the enthropy, increased the disorder until it had come to these small bands of war clashing against each other like three scores of unruly duels.

 

They were contesting a narrow intersection of the Lost Paths, and it had been no wonder fighting broke out here. But they had not expected such numbers, and whoever had been in charge of the defense had not been ready. The opening syllable of a bitter curse twisted the old planewalker's split lips.

 

How do they entice them all to cross in the first place? And afterwards, how do they order them to fight?

 

The Dreamer cleared his mind and gnashed his teeth, let Pain led him forward. It screeched in joy as it deflected one of the axes aside, then clawed hungrily at the berserker's weakening wards. That attack had been too hungry, too chaotic, for the monk to anticipate it, and they temporarily broke the rapport they had built. Monk struck aside the axe that tried to bit his wards, but not the other one that passed through the monk's side of the fight and hacked into the Dreamer's emerald sphere of protection.

 

A step back gave him enough time to assess the damage and he grimaced, realizing the axes were almost as deadly as Palgrave Atyaer's staff. Despite his dismay, he remained wary enough to block one of the axes when it was thrown at him. Thwarted, the weapon whirled back to its grinning, frothing owner, its beast-faced blade grinning as well.

 

Silvery notes of a trumpet cut through the cacophony of war at that moment, and he recognized the signal: scouts have news, his force should disengage.

 

* Ye'll hold th' line?

 

* Go! Balance will be kept!

 

Knowing he could be wasteful with his power now since he would have at least a short respite before his next fight, the Dreamer conjured a bolt of raw mana that smashed against LeRoy's wards. Not squandering time to see whether it had done any good, if the monk had gained any advantage from his showy spell, he turned and ran towards the agreed upon meeting point. Behind him he heard a bellowed battlecry: "LeRoy Jekkal! RAAAAAH!"

 

I hope that was his last show of desperate defiance.

[Zadown]

He could feel the invisible wings of an Astral Wyrm spreading through the Void while he was on his way to meet the group of planewalker captains. The local astral was disturbed by the Wyrm's passage, swirling and seething in an unusual manner. Even though he was in a hurry, he felt compelled to stop and gaze into the disturbance, to see the form of the Wyrm. A phantasmal vision superimposed itself over the velvet night of the Void for a fleeting moment: standing there, tall and proud, he was barely the height of one scale of the dragon's armor. It had wings the size of a celestial army, eyes large as planar pearls, its claws scything through the dark and its tail curling out of the nothingness. Then the vision passed and the Dreamer hurried forward. Fate did not like to be kept waiting.

 

He had not even seen the assembled patrol before he had been conscripted to help with the skirmishes breaking out everywhere around the deceptive safety of Keava'et Aam. Despite knowing how dire the situation was, seeing how little he had to work with made his face twist with dismay.

 

Two of the figures were wearing robes, the first one of the two clad in the ornamental black of a Void Descendant Ethereum. Dark energy crackled inside its cowl, barely contained within mummy wrappings covered with elaborate script. The creature carried a staff adorned with gold and other, more precious metals, the crystals jutting out of both ends glowing crimson. Not much different in looks from any mortal member of the ethereal race of traders, except this one had a dog-sized golden wyrm curled on its back in some sort of backpack, half of it consisting of enormous, bulky head. Its tail and both wings were useless, stubby things and it was snoring gently, giving off the air of a cute pet. For a short moment the Dreamer merely stared at the sleeping thing, trying to understand what bothered him so much about the creature. Then his second sight showed him the majesty of the Astral Wyrm again, the tiny wyrm at its heart, and he understood.

 

The next one's robes were light and dark blue, dark and light grey, the colors drifting across the robes like clouds across evening sky. Under this cowl he spied a humanoid face of ebony, the man's eyes crackling with the same yellow thunder his own showed when he was extremely alert. White teeth shining inside the shadows showed the man was grinning in welcome. This planewalker held no weapon and had no boots or gloves, a copper belt his only garment besides the robes of storm.

 

Last captain was only one of them wearing armor, but he had enough of it for all three. Angular platemail covered every inch of him from toes to his face, spikes, runes and engraved tales of victory and defeat crawling across the metal surfaces. His shield was taller than he was, so thick and massive no mortal man could have lifted it. On it was a short message, every brutal logogram large and baroque. The Dreamer winced as he read it, then sank the knowledge of it into the depths of his memory.

 

They all stood there, studying him as he studied them, ready and waiting.

 

"Greetings, m'lord captains. Is this th' whole force? An' who has th' knowledge of th' gates whereabouts?"

 

The ethereal nodded its cowl-covered head. Its speech was surprisingly refined, almost elegant, even though it had no mouth.

 

"Greetings, flesh-commander Dreamer. We are still waiting on the scout who discovered the gate, and, if I understood correctly, who will also join us in the assault of the Law's gate. Ah, excuse my manners - allow me to introduce myself and the other shareholders in this enterprise: I am Void Archon Zerevh Malad, my faithful wyrm calls herself Unabashed Cloudstrider of the Cloudstrider clan, and these two esteemed flesh beasts are Bishop Myrkorps and, somewhere behind all that metal, Aksh Avarra."

 

A round of nods was exchanged. Myrkorps pointed behind the Dreamer and spoke in a mellow, utterly relaxed voice.

 

"There's our missing scout."

 

The Dreamer turned to look. It was hard to see a single aura against the background of conflict, marching armies and battlemagics, planewalker captains and scavenging entities all smudging the usually so clear view of Lost Paths and constellations of pearly planes against the utter blackness of the Void. Soon the scout was so close even the interference did not cloak his approach and the Dreamer could see his wards. An unfamiliar configuration, as he had expected - despite his history, he had not actually met most of Balance's agents before. But there was something tugging at the edges of his consciousness when he saw the scout run closer, an insistent voice he could not silence. Then it dawned to him, a moment like seeing the vague outlines of the Astral Wyrm resolve themselves into a dragon in front of him, except this revelation was not fleeting.

 

What in the name of all the myriad Abysses is HE doing here!?

[Zadown]

"Something is amiss."

 

Her fingers touched the glass briefly, even if she knew that'd leave fingerprints. It breathed chill on her fingertips, winter's most bitter cold prowling just outside the glass. They might even get some snow, a rare treat this far south. She felt restless and it had nothing to do with the weather. Her sixth sense was not as keen as it had been, now that there were two other mages in the same tower with her and Mandra was slowly waking up to her talent, but even if she could not pinpoint the source of the disturbance, there were only so many things it could be about.

 

"What is it, Janki?"

 

Fionella was reading one of the massive tomes the Dreamer had already lent them back in Chaman, her attire so haphazard as to be barely respectable, even at this late hour. There were only the three of them present, however, and they had quickly found such camaraderie through their mutual appreciation of the Art that it had lead to an unspoken compact of informality whenever the situation allowed it. Marchello looked up from his notes concerning planar travel as well, mute concern on his unpretentious face, ink stains on his slender fingers.

 

"It's ... a long story, but this would not be the first time he would try to tap into more power through me."

 

Marchello frowned, trying to cut into the core of her obscure statement.

 

"You mean he is coming, finally? He said two weeks, back then."

 

"No, no, I doubt that. He is in danger, somewhere far away."

 

"It is possible to draw mana past planar distances without any visible gates?"

 

"This is a special case, as far as I know. I should tell you the tale of the Grail Wars, I suppose. I just prefer not to dwell on those years too much."

 

Just then, before having time to start her next sentence, she staggered and almost fell. Marchello and Fionella could feel the surge, like a titan of raw mana marching through the tower. A golden light transformed the room into something from a faery tale, the beautiful moment marred only by Jankiize's distress. She went pale, cold sweat making her face gleam in the fading golden glow. Jankiize stumbled to the nearest chair, Fionella already next to her with a steadying hand, flustered Marchello pouring a stiff drink in case it would be useful, not figuring out anything better to do.

 

In that almost silent moment, only fire crackling in the fireplace, they could all hear Mandra starting to cry in the girls' bedroom.

 

*

 

The Dreamer parried, felt the strain of absorbing the deadly impact of the blow and backed off to gain a precious fraction of a moment to appraise the situation. Everything has worked as they had planned, so far, but they were so badly outnumbered by the defending forces their best did not seem to be good enough. Above them all, flying through the pathless Void with speed as its only sanctuary was the Astral Wyrm, smaller but more concentrated now, easier to see and more deadly. She blasted the defenders with jets of incorporeal fire, distracting more than damaging them. Near him, obscured by a horde of enemies, was Aksh Avarra, a master such he had rarely before seen in sheer survival. At least three formidable planewalkers were trying to cut through his heavyset armor, without much success.

 

Like a hedgehog curled into a ball. A masterful array of self-regenerating and hardened wards ... I wish I had the time to properly observe how he does it.

 

Far away, almost at the gate, another heated battle was taking place. Zerevh and Myrkorps, both excelling in stealth and subterfuge, had gotten that close to their objective before they were mired down. The Dreamer could not quite see how they were faring now, but he could see they would not gain much ground there fast enough for it to matter. That left only him and their scout.

 

That had been almost too much wasted time, and he had trouble dodging the next sweeping blow. If his opponent had not been incensed beyond rationality, that dodge would have been impossible.

 

"Enjoyin' th' sweet caress o' th' raw Void on yer bared head, Runelord?"

 

"You will not pollute this multiversum for far longer, Dreamer of Chaos, for my name is Justice!"

 

He sneered and feinted an attack, realizing to his chagrin the Runelord was not even trying to parry his blow. Luckily his opponents vicious hack was meant to kill, not to injure. The time it took to lift the Runelord's heavy sword high enough for the required force gave the Dreamer the time to step aside.

 

It was much as it had been the last time they had met in the Castle of the Birds. Heavy-set, human-shaped creature of the purest Law, runes etched all over its thick, cubersome suit of platemail. It handled a two-handed sword as tall as the Dreamer with deceptive ease, the blade engraved with even more writhing, glimmering runes than its armor. Seeing that instrument of war made the Dreamer both furious with anger and afraid, one of his deepest scars aching even more than usual. Only thing that allowed him to keep a level head when facing this juggernaut of destruction was its ruined head, a river of scars unlike anything that the Dreamer had flowing right over it. Scars made by daggers, an endless halo of daggers. It had retained its golden eyes, or perhaps they had been cut open and later healed, he had no way of knowing, and within those golden globes burned a fiery vengeance.

 

It rushed towards him again, sword lifted high, face twisted into a mask of murderous intent.

 

I'm glad I got the easy part of his plan to take care of. Of course, without Grail's earlier intervention ...

[Zadown]

It had been a long time since he had last felt the constricting presence of emergency wards around him. Not that there was much left of even them, as late as he had retreated from the fight. Resilient, yes, but not invulnerable.

 

Déjà vu - not the first time I am running away with a trail of angry followers, wards almost gone. This time I don't even have a foolish apprentice to blame.

 

The Dreamer paused his extra thoughts to weave a few extra defensive spells to replace those the pursuing planewalker captains had just dispelled. He could feel them probing at his considerable defences, probing and hammering and pounding, eroding the edges away like a hungry river. Rare that a planewalker losing face by running away was pursued like this, but this was no ordinary skirmish, no prize forgotten in a few passing years. He expanded his senses to every direction, sacrificing a portion of his meagre supply of mana to gain a better look at the situation.

 

The Patriarch is safe, veering away from Keava'et Aam with the majority of the pursuers. Never knew he could be that fast, or that he would be on our side in this. No sign of the Astral Wyrm or the two masters of stealth, but that doesn't mean anything ... and there's Aksh Avarra, finally ignored as they should have done in the first place.

 

He wiped blood from his face, flicking the gore away into the depths of the Void where it would freeze and drift away, tiny red globes travelling the dark, lonely space forever. From beneath the red mask, a new scar was revealed along with an ancient feral grin. The Dreamer's eyes shone with white glow, illuminating the claustrophobic constraints of the emergency wards. He was extending his lead, and during that intoxicating moment he knew he had won again, if not against the still nebulous sect of gate-keepers then at least against the Last Death, the eternal enemy. The Void was still filled with angry auras behind him, sores on the velvet surface of the night between planes, but he ran faster than the buzzing swarm of bees and Keava'et Aam was getting closer with its impressive, magnificent defences of Balance's finest, most skilled defenders.

 

Something is amiss.

 

He had never seen such a sight before, not even during all the grand wars spawned by the Eternal War. The Void was alight with pulsing and shimmering auras all swirling around the demi-plane of Keava'et Aam, a chaotic battle more vicious than the formalized affairs of Law versus Chaos. As he spiralled closer, drawing ambient magic as fast as he could to be of any use when he would arrive, the Dreamer started to see details: elder elves fighting against demons thrice their size, planewalkers with auras so dim they should have switched to emergency wards and fled ages ago, small groups going against other small groups in fights where it was impossible to see afar which side was the enemy and which a friend.

 

The strained laylines shone with pale blue around him like he was a winged demon swooping in from the night. Where those huge wings met, his emerald wards bloomed into renewed existence, weaker and more crude than his usual weave but best he could do with the time and mana he had. An awe-inspiring sight - and dwarfed into insignificance by the gaudy display of excessive magic already in progress all around the planar crystal. The Dreamer let his eyes turn black with a hint of blue, plotted a course for his mad amok run through the skirmish and sunk into his battle trance.

 

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

 

A demon commander's head exploded. Pain sliced through another, the Dreamer's wards taking the impact of the demon's blade without him breaking his stride. A boiling sphere of hellfire struck a formation of enemy's angels, turning every white thing it touched to grey ashes. His wings beat once forcing more mana into him, and he charged faster forward, slicing through a subcommander there, wrecking a unit of attackers here, never pausing until he was through.

 

The tree was burning.

 

That blow struck past his wards and made him pause there, to take the view in much in the same way his first visit had made him pause. Ashes and burning embers flew around the portable demiplane and further away, nearer to the trunk, the desperate struggle he had witnessed outside was duplicated. Where he stood was one of the calmer regions, since it was here at the gate the heaviest defences had been deployed, and here they had held. They had not done so easily, however - he could see marks of battle everywhere, from crippled angels to the sixth sense visions of the magical residue of triggered traps. Before one of the local angel lieutenants had time to approach him, the Dreamer snarled and sped forward, towards where the fighting was most fierce.

 

This I will not countenance!

[Zadown]

"Did they find 'is corpse yet, ya?"

 

"No, an' I doubt he is dead. He doesn't seem th' type t' overextended himself."

 

"He really did like this tree, he did. An' he didn't seem like th' type t' vanish, either."

 

The Dreamer floated down from his standing position to sit next to Faaye on the burnt branch.

 

"I promis'd him a grave here, should he fall at th' defense."

 

"Ye did? Ye know how holy th' roots are to th' elves."

 

"Not many things can be holier than th' still'd blood of those who have had th' strength to oppose th' gods themselves."

 

He shrugged, though, not standing fully behind his proclamation. There was an air of absence about him, like he had burned more than just his storage of mana in the fierce fight. Even his eyes had a vague color, shimmering weakly in his ruined face like two pools of dirty rainwater after a storm. He held Pain in his left hand in an awkward fashion, forgotten all about it perhaps, and there was a stain of soot on his right cheek. Faaye's white armor was still unblemished, but her energetic personality lacked its usual sparkle. They sat there, side by side, and watched the last fires being doused. The tree was in a sorry state, though the Dreamer's desperate and reckless charge had perhaps saved it. He had heard the elder elves were already composing a song of it, or weaving it in the larger chorus of the songs of this battle - a bold, grand theme recurring through the symphony of bitter loss, countering the deepest despair and fighting the black notes of already triumphant enemy. Somehow that cut him instead of comforting him.

 

Faaye touched his arm lightly.

 

"Ye sure ye won't need time t' recuperate, brother? Th' elves are callin' ye 'Bloodclad', an' they tend not t' give out epithet's like that lightly."

 

He winced and did not meet her questing eyes. The view suit his mood: from where they sat, they could see more black than green, more bare branches than living ones. More living soldiers than dead ones of every sort now, though, the piles of corpses slowly dwindling as they were sorted and dragged away.

 

"'Twas mostly th' blood of demons, sister. 'M not in th' habit o' dyin' myself."

 

Silence. Immortals had all the time in the world and there was no need to fill it all with chatter.

 

"This ... this was unforgivable. An' we did not even manage t' close th' gate."

 

"Ye said before ye couldn't ascertain what happen'd in th' heat o' th' battle. Do ye really claim th' Patriarch would leave a work like this half-done?"

 

That made him turn, his new scar vivid on his face, eyes bleached and worn.

 

"Ye weren't there, sister. We were better than them, so much better, yet so starkly outnumber'd like pebbles in rapids, pushed aside by a horde. Aye, I can't say for sure what he managed t' do with his few fleetin' moments at th' gate, but whatever he did he did not close it, 'tis sure."

 

Her voice softened and shifted, turned mortal.

 

"He was at the Sealing of the Devourer, at the Breaking of the Daggers and at the Denial of Birth. Even if he is not of Balance he will not let aberrations like these holes in the walls of reality rest, and you know firsthand how wise and powerful he is."

 

The Dreamer let Pain drop to gesture better with his hands, ignoring its plummet across most of the demiplane, not even noticing that it disappeared into the Void when it hit the crystal. He spoke Ancient Aefian now, and sounded like an officer, or somebody aspiring to become one.

 

"Ah! But he failed to be there when Grail made it possible to bring her back succesfully, and he has not managed to contain the Maiden of Daggers since. Listing his victories is fine, and I concede he has marked the flows of Fate with more width and depth than even me, but nobody tells tales of failures. It is easy to trust others to do the hero's work, but that trust does not equal to guaranteed success."

 

"So then, if you are healed, you will make it sure if one hero fails, another succeeds?"

 

His answering glare was hooded, but it lasted only for a moment before he shrugged again and averted his gaze. The soft, mortal moment broke.

 

"Ye will search for him, then?"

 

"Ya, o' course. Even if ye didn't ask, we do want t' know where all our planewalkers captains are an' what sort of force we can still muster. Scouts are out, harassin' and following th' enemy as far as they think they can go. Perhaps those o' them that return have a word of him, when they do. An' ye?"

 

He floated up to stand on the now fragile branch, dislocating a small cloud of ash.

 

"Me? Patriarch might be better at cleasin' th' multiversum o' things that should not be, but I'm better at hidin' afterwards. An' figurin' out where others may hide. I'll go meet him, wherever he is, an' ask what happened. Futile t' run after th' driftin' gate now, in any case ... unless ye 'ave a few armies somewhere I could loan."

 

The question was so rhetorical he did not even spare Faaye a look. Pain re-appeared in his hand and he sheathed it, still looking at the damaged, ruined tree fortress of Keava'et Aam. Only at the last moment, just before sidestepping back in the Void, he gave her a short glance.

[Zadown]

His feet were bare again, gripping the wet stone. Everything was wet by default here, the few scattered deserts of stone punching through the seas crushed between clouds heavy of rain and the ocean's colossal waves. There was not a long way to go - it was easy to sense this nexus of leylines even from beyond the planar crystal and he had landed with greater accuracy than usual. The Dreamer paused there, immune to the cold wind whipping him with lashes of water but not to the grand majesty of the view. No matter how many times he stepped through the planar veil, no matter how many times he opened his eyes under a different sun or moon or even in some sort of cthonian darkness, the wonders of this multiversum never ceased to be just that to him, wonders.

 

The islet he stood on was bare stone, dark and wet, worn smooth from the incessant abuse of the ocean. Above was the ocean of clouds, rushing to race with the wind, the clouds much akin to the rocky piece of land he stood on: sleek, round, wet. Through that uneven mattress punched diffuse rays of blue light, now a dozen of those bright spots in the sky, now half a dozen, now just one. And then the cycle begun anew, never illuminating the drenched world properly but never allowing it to sink into absolute darkness. Natural shapes both above and below. Beyond the shoreline rose the mountains of this world, hands of the sea gods reaching towards the far-away clouds, hammering whatever rock they found with affronted anger. "Ours! This world is ours!" Deafening warcry, and a wonder there was any rock left to hammer. The waves would have smashed along the eroded rock and right into the planewalker if he had let them. He had work to do, here far away from Keava'et Aam and close to the ambiguous edges of Law's Dominion, work more important than letting the waves vent their rage, and so the waves parted when they reached for him, a flickering sphere of emerald green marking the edges of his power here.

 

In front of him rose a marker, a sort of sturdy temple the locals must have had built. It was as dark as the stone it was rooted on and not very large, its edges smooth and shape simple. Layline nexuses this strong were rare, this one stretching beyond the confines of its own world, and he could feel its warm, magical hum without concentrating. Strong enough for mortals to feel its beguiling call, he supposed, a sacred place. No walker of the planes would have needed to mark it - to them the temple was like a tiny lighthouse on top of an active volcano, tiny light marking the location of a huge, fiery landmark. Stepping closer, he could feel an irrefutable air of Fate permeating the place, a connection to the laws set on lead for both future and past. A perfect place to perform a scrying or a divination.

 

He dragged out a leather bag from wet air, his hand quickly dipping through the endless distances and then back. Cards were what he usually used, but they picked disturbances from whatever was the greatest conflict in the multiversum, and he had a feeling this was not it anymore. Good and Evil were flexing and posturing elsewhere, the Black and White Kings glaring at each other over their servants. He was not a tool of Fate now, he felt, and thus not as well connected to the futures the cards made manifest. A frown, a few muttered words and tiny movements of his fingers, all done while he was thinking something else entirely - but the wind obeyed and stilled inside his little sphere of comparative dryness. Out of his bag came his runed bones, simple words of the First True Language carved on dragon's talon-bones: Fire, Man, Star, Spear. Images of earlier, more archaic age, something he had not been able to use before his few years as a war-god for the people of the sea-dragons. Those times had woken up a primitive part in him. There was room inside his huge mind, and so he had let it be, and that part had not walked out of him during his long slumber.

 

Something like his battletrance, but less angry, more elemental. His eyes were drifting through muted, earthly colors usually reserved for those rare times he was truly hurt. The Dreamer slowed down. He was in a hurry, yes, but in a hurry on his immortal timescale, and this required accuracy to be worth anything. Even this sacred, magical place did not allow him to just throw the bones and be done with it. He had to attune himself to the bones again, like meeting an old friend after ages have passed, a friend older than you.

 

... Dragon, Storm, Stone. Old friends, steady as rock, at home on any world still true to its roots.

 

He wasn't sure if it had been his presence or just a coincidence, or perhaps something pre-destinated, but when he lifted his gaze from his bones he could see the waves breaking at the shore and one of the locals rising from the ocean. Behind him he saw the unclear form of another, then another, rising up to this element hostile to them in their airsuits. Sturdy constructs of brass and leather, water swirling inside the transparent mask, something like eyes looking through. The suits were ornamental, adorned with the protective pictures of the deep gods, tentacles of brass curled in a blessing gesture. The wind tugged at them and they struggled to stay upright in this alien landscape, their limbs badly suited for walking. A wave slammed into the progression and one of them fell down for a moment before they reached the deceptive calm surrounding the planewalker. His tiny enchantment, just to make sure the wind would not blow his precious bones into the ocean. A miracle of the skylord to them.

 

The Dreamer stood up, far more inscrutable to the denizens of the deeps than they were to him. He had avoided the temple, partly because it was slightly away from the true center of the nexus, partly out of automatic politeness and wariness towards the local culture. Most locals were completely powerless against planewalkers, but even those cultures could be an irritant. It did no harm to adapt some, as long as the adapting was as easy as not sitting on top of a local temple. For a moment they stared at each other, the half a dozen creatures crawled out of the sea and the one walker of the Lost Paths out of the Void, meeting on a neutral ground.

 

Their language must be something transmitted only through the water. This is a vacuum to them, a deadly but holy enviroment enshrouded in sacred silence.

 

A nod was usually safe, and he did so, shallow but clearly visible gesture with no hostility in it. The first of the pilgrims bowed back in a way that made the Dreamer wonder what the locals looked like inside their cubersome suits. Only for a moment, though. Then a strong deja vu flooded him, the primitiveness in him remembering the old rituals, mortal creatures bowing to their immortal shaman or wargod. The people of the sea-dragons had been human, these clearly weren't and they were not even asking him for his prophecy. They merely were there at the right time. Props for the show, supplicants for the higher wisdom. He remembered how to understand the bones.

 

They were heavy in his hands, heavy and waiting.

 

*

 

"Ye call this a hidin' place?"

 

"It did serve me so far, ya."

 

The Patriarch, now in his normal guise, stood up, wiped dust from the pages of the grimoire he had been reading and closed it with care. He had been sitting on a simple folding chair, his few possessions standing in the middle of the featureless desert giving it the appearance of an absurd campsite. The Dreamer glanced at a large burnt furrow passing them both, straigth and uniform, as if he hadn't noticed it before. His mouth twisted with distaste.

 

"Yer handiwork, then?"

 

The older planewalker did not raise to the half-hearted bait. He placed the book on a bookstand and raised a bushy eyebrow at the Dreamer.

 

"Ye know I did not condone this sort o' warfare. Or yer summoning, for that matter. I doubt Faaye's entirely pleased with that unsolv'd manner either, even if th' Maiden o' Daggers is hardly another Devourer."

 

"It seem'd necessary at th' time, m'lord."

 

A nod that did not mark agreement, merely that his words had been heard. The two ancient warriors stared at each other in silence. This close it was easier to see Patriarch's many scars on his weathered face, the unyielding anger in his eyes. It was almost like looking at a mirror, their deeper similarities greater than the shallow differences. A grin flashed on the Dreamer's face.

 

"Just hunt 'er down an' bind or kill her - I will not interfere, These bindin' words I, Wodzan Xe Chanima, speak o' my own free will."

 

"Ah ha. Very amusin', m'lord, an' I shall do just that. Now, what was it ye really wanted, ya? Ye'd hardly go through all that trouble tryin' to bend th' cards t' yer will from the conflict they'd rather show ye t' find me if that's all ye 'ave t' say."

 

"Indeed, th' cards ... a mighty struggle t' find ye with them, I'm sure. What I need t' know is was our effort worth th' price? I'm sure ye've felt th' balance shift an' waver even if th' word from Keava'et Aam has not reach'd ye yet."

 

"Th' gate ..."

 

The Patriarch dropped his intensive gaze from the Dreamer's face to a demon skull poking out of the dull brown sand, thinking deeply.

 

"'Twas more complicated construct than I had been expectin', an' sturdier than it should be. No doubt one of th' Keys was used t' open it."

 

"Ya, ya, we all know Atyaer's clique has th' Blue Flame. Did ya manage t' disrupt it, neverth'less?"

 

"Now therein lies a question I wish I 'ad a clear answer, m'lord Dreamer. Observe, if ye may, th' structure..."

 

Next to the Patriarch an illusion bloomed, painfully crisp in the Law-tainted air, showing the innards of the Parallel gate spell in runes and colors only a master of the Art could understand.

[Zadown]

Epilogue

 

Suentalv frowned, disturbed by the sight. A maelstorm of the Void swirling in front of him, its tendrils creeping to every direction, weakening as their distance from the unstable heart of the storm grew but doing so too slowly for his comfort. The eye of the storm was reality distorted to such extent even looking at it was painful or sickening.

 

I have a bad feeling about this. Really, really bad.

 

Around the dying gate he could see tiny embers denoting planewalker captains or those of the planar warriors who were strong enough for him to sense from this distance. They seemed like ants in a dying pond and no matter how he tried, he could not see if the majority of them were trying to reach the decaying hole in the reality or to escape its inexorable pull. Either way, they were all preoccupied with the catastrophe. He stood up, feeling vaguely foolish from having hidden on this piece of floating Voidship debris in the first place.

 

Faaye will want to know about this as soon as possible, as will ...

 

"... the Dreamer?"

 

"Heya, pup."

 

By the time he realized there was something very odd in the Dreamer wearing a suit of shifting wine-red armor the older planewalker was very close.