Happy Saint Lucia's Day.
*
Storm Sorceries; Demons' Amulets.
Nwm had described the weather as uncomfortable.
Mulissu had generated a windstorm thirty miles in diameter over the warm waters north of Pandicule, and moved it to occupy a position between Fumaril and Jashat; ahead of it, a derecho had formed through which tornados churned with distressing frequency.
Eadric sat upon Narh on a low rise in the darkness beneath the Pall of Dhatri, gazing southward at a large enemy host. Eastwards, the haunted city of Jashat and the soaring pinnacles of the Temple of Cheshne were a blot of corruption on his perception. The Ahma was magically concealed and his sight had been supernaturally enhanced to penetrate all shadows; still, his vision compared nothing to Lai's, who balanced easily in hawk-shape upon his helm. The noise of the wind was deafening.
The enemy had erected a defense against the storm, creating a smaller bubble of calmer weather which mitigated – but did not altogether counter – the magicks invoked by Mulissu and her cabal. Conjured allies – monoliths, storm-drakes, djinn and lesser elementals – skirmished continually with the Cheshnite outriders and van: clouds formed, discharged lightning and dissipated, and downdrafts erupted and vanished as a dozen competing sorcerous demands were placed on the local weather system.
Visuit was less than a mile away, hewing her way through everything in her path.
[Lai]: You study your enemy?
[Eadric]: Yes.
[Lai]: Do you see any weakness?
[Eadric]: None. She is the perfect warrior.
[Lai]: And what is your strategy?
[Eadric]: Prayer. The adepts are exhausted; Nwm is almost empty of power.
An urge. The goddess paused in her butchery.
A feeling of quietude.
"She senses something is amiss. That she is being observed." Lai hissed and squawked through the roaring wind.
"I thought we were inscrutable."
"And so we are," Lai nodded. "Warded from her sight, sound, touch, smell and all her divine faculties. But not from her instincts."
"If that is the case…"
Before he could finish his sentence, a cloud passed over his consciousness, numbing his soul.
Kaalaanala, he knew. Visuit had invoked the great Bhiti's name; the Fires of Death had instantly located him.
"Enemy Captain. I know you're there." Visuit's voice, and the urge to unimaginable violence, carried to all across the battlefield.
The Butcher began to move towards them. She gestured with her hand: an invitation to combat.
And now the ravenous perception of the Dark Goddess in Jashat was a terrible presence in the Ahma's mind.
Get out of my head!
…
Get out!
…
Nehael!
(I am powerless).
[YOU WILL DIE.]
"We have to get out of here," Lai said.
Eadric nodded.
The Green was warm as their forms dissolved into it. Annihilation became a memory.
**
Ortwine corporeated from wind walking and floated, invisible and mind blanked a mile above the water. The air was cold and clear. Heedless stirred restlessly in her hand.
She had chased a vaporous Pazuzu around the cape of Nivorn, across the hills of Ardan, and for more than a thousand miles over open ocean. The pursuit had lasted thirty-three hours, and had demanded a focus more than she thought herself capable of maintaining. Never losing sense of him. And he was more slippery than an eel; her initial attempts to dominate him had proven utterly futile.
Finally, convinced that he had eluded any pursuit, the demon gyred and turned towards the west. Ortwine waited patiently. She sheathed Heedless; it writhed as she forced it back into its scabbard, and then projected silent telepathic anger at the sidhe.
Pazuzu materialized and began to work magic; Ortwine cursed, and began to fly silently towards him at speed. She had no notion of his intention; she had no need: demon princes casting spells never boded well. She carefully scrutinized his shape as she closed, scanning him him minutely.
Pazuzu – who had begun to invoke a ward of some complexity – stopped abruptly as he perceived the slightest breeze waft past him, and felt something snap. He began to scream with incredulity and rage and groped wildly at his throat.
Ortwine materialized a hundred yards ahead of him.
"You want this?" In her hand, she held his amulet.
He struck her, full force, with an eldritch thunderbolt. It dissipated upon contact with her.
Ortwine laughed.
He raised his hand as if to strike her again.
And instead became vaporous and vanished.
Ortwine scowled, and followed him with her Sight. She tied Pazuzu's amulet around her own neck.
Oh, that's good, she thought.
The chase resumed.
**
"What you seen to fail to appreciate," Mostin said to Nwm through gritted teeth, "Is the power of this dragon."
"She is a hellfire wyrm."
"Yes. No. Of sorts," the Alienist gave an irritated gesture. "She predates them. She may even predate the Fall. And she has not migrated in the sense of Hummaz. Not even in the sense of Mulissu – which is to say very little. She has been seduced by the Hazel-ludja; which apparently has connotations of magickal Will."
"Apparently so," Nwm nodded. "Although this is hardly a surprising correspondence."
"The Urn could…"
"Ngarh! You and your damned urn."
"It is pivotal," Mostin sighed. "If you think the Tree-ludja is omnipotent, think again. It is compromised by this admission of the Cheshnite Bhiti; and from the outset by permitting the I to remain here in any form. I use the Antinomian descriptor for Hummaz – which stands, according to Shomei, and she is reasonably well informed in such matters – because there are many infinities at work here invisible to you."
"And not to you?"
"Correct," Mostin nodded. "They are merely opaque. Many correspondences: Kaalaanala – Ancient Hellfire – the Wyrm – the Aeon."
"Why the Aeon?" Nwm asked suspiciously.
"I have concurred that it was the Aeon which…lurched…at me through the web of motes." [Formula]
"Why do you persist in…"
"It is my contention that the Aeon is fundamentally draconic," Mostin stared madly. "It was Qematiel who…lurched…at me through the web of motes."
"Wait!" Nwm held up his hand. "I am lost. Which is it?"
Mostin stopped speaking, and considered. "Infinities are bleeding. It makes divination complex. In any event, I don’t have the Urn, and the reason I don't have the Urn was because I was saving your sorry skins from annihilation; a service for which I am rewarded by a massive curtailment of magical power.
"How fortunate for us that you are so selfless," Nwm said drily.
"Do you understand that Qematiel is Ancient Hellfire. The wyrm which the Adversary will ride to the Oronthonist eschaton?" Mostin asked steadily.
"That reality is dead."
"Maybe. But Qematiel is not. This assumes, of course, the Adversary himself is not making some cosmic play. I have a plan…"
Nwm groaned.
"Hear me out," Mostin raised his appendage. "I need to convene a cabal. And I need your help…"
"Why?"
"I have an inkling. I will conjure Soneillon again as I need to talk to her. Outside of your loop. You have to get me there."
"You're insane. How far outside?"
"I don't care. Just far enough. Then I'll make my way to the astral retreat. But give me a couple of days. There are tomes in Ardanese monasteries which I need to consult."
"You have twenty-four hours. I plan on being in Fumaril thereafter."
Mostin scowled. "Can you get me to Esoc?"
"You can get there yourself," Nwm answered. "You'll have to walk the last mile, but it's generally polite to approach on foot, in any case." [Look: oak -> oak -> beech -> oak -> rowan]
"How many of these things have you made?"
"A few dozen," he shrugged. "It's getting hard to remember where they all are. Hlioth has fashioned many more."
**
[Ortwine]: Priestess!
[Mesikammi]: Your largeness?
[Ortwine]: Mesi, now is not the time for banter. My foe will not turn to let me kill him. I bore of this chase.
[Mesikammi]: You wish for my help?
[Ortwine]: I am issuing a divine command. Conjure a storm and force him down.
[Mesikammi]: Such an effect would be tiring at this distance.
[Ortwine]: There is kelp nearby; you can manifest yourself closer.
[Mesikammi]: I must also get wet?
[Ortwine]: I will grant you a boon, as befits faithful service.
[Mesikammi]: Perhaps a pretty bauble, recently won?
[Ortwine]: Mesi, do you spy on me? Truly, you are a worthy servant.
[Mesikammi]: An image of your holiness appears in my mind.
[Ortwine]: Such devotion should not go unrewarded. The amulet is a delight, I confess; I will bestow a different bounty, if you show a little patience.
[Mesikammi]: I can spare a little, but not too much.
Close by, the shamaness appeared. A wind began to gather.
**
Voicing her name was enough to invoke her; Nehael could offer no protection against her. This boded ill.
Presently, Oak and Elm shielded the Wyrish encampment with their power – not just the scions in the nearby vale, but the ludjas themselves, from deep within Nizkur. But this was not an effect which the Ahma was comfortable relying on – trees having their own, peculiar agenda. Nor was it of much use beond the zone of the ludjas' perception. And Eadric had no intention of entrenching permanently at Galda, despite the rapidly completed fortification of the site.
The Ahma therefore issued an edict, announced by archons who attended him. Trumpets rang, and the voices of celestials carried the proclamation to all within the Wyrish camp:
The name of the enemy in Jashat is anathema and may not be spoken: likewise, the name of the enemy war-goddess, and any of the abhorred names of Ancient Darkness.
All iconography, all material representation, all literature containing reference to any such entities is forthwith deemed blasphemous and must be surrendered immediately.
Practice Saizhan.
Eadric summoned Tuan Muat, a Talion whose prior acts had denied him bliss, and anointed him. The Inquisition was formally revived.
"Start with the aristocracy," Eadric motioned. "Refrain from physical coercion until they've had a chance to think about it."
"Ahma," the Inquistor began. "Many of the most ancient Temple texts…"
"Impound them," Eadric said. "In fact, confiscate them first, then start on the aristocracy. We need to set a good example, after all. This is a practical measure, not a philosophical one."
"The Irrenites aren't going to like this," Tuan Muat observed.
"Bring me Sineig." Eadric sighed.
"And the wizards?"
Eadric groaned. "Be politic, Inquisitor. A little pragmatic hypocrisy is no bad thing. My concern is with the ignorant; wizards must monitor themselves."
"And if one articulates these forbidden names or concepts in one's thoughts?" Tagur asked.
"Then they must be demonstrated to be un-True," the Ahma nodded. "Hence, we practice Saizhan. We must move. I need a sizeable force before noon tomorrow: I plan to relieve Fumaril."
"How many?"
"Two thousand horse and eight thousand foot – half pike and half archers. Illuminated and Templars. I'll take whatever Thalassine bombards you have, as well. With cold iron shot."
"A little more notice would be appreciated," Prince Tagur sighed.
"Just get them together in one place. Nwm will do the rest."
"I understand the principle," Tagur said. "And a little more notice would be appreciated."
"Noted," the Ahma nodded. "You have my apology, your Highness. Your tenure in the Serenities does not seem to have diminished your acidity."
"Oh," Prince Tagur sounded mildly disappointed. "I had rather hoped that it had."
**
At midnight, in Nizkur, all was darkness.
In a certain set of glades named Raithin Gabro, to the south of the forest and not too far from the marches of Tyndur, a power accumulated around an ancient stone named the Cleta; one of the many erratics or storrs which dotted the valleys nearby.
The area was a wild one: bare hilltops thrust above dense stands of pine. Further west, a forlorn strand stretched beneath rearing cliffs. Those tracts had a reputation for savage and malicious feys of every hue. It was here that Hummaz had elected to establish his realm: an area, to all intents and purposes, of Faerie proper.
From the bole of the Tree, a hundred miles to the north, Nehael's perception ranged wide over the land, absorbing all.
"What do you see?" Teppu asked excitedly. "He makes no efforts to impede your sight?"
"None," Nehael sighed. "Faerie awakens. I see areas of dusk and gloam and magic, and quicklings moving in the shadows. I see sidhe fortresses perched on windy crags, and hoary hunters preparing to ride. There are eight scions…"
"Eight?"
"Holly and Hazel, obviously. A Willow. Others. Curiously, also a Yew. Ninit. The Boars. They have reincarnated. And those whom the Eater of Light consumed; the forest is alive."
"I sense no Awakening."
"I speak figuratively. The trees remain dormant, for the most part. But all of the most robust who were were taken by Shvar Choryati have transmigrated. They have lost none of their potency; they are now fey."
"Sidhe?"
"Many. And tree-wyrds and other genii. And nymphs and satyrs. The latter revel as we speak. Hummaz is drunk."
"One hopes that this is not a prelude to some rampage," Teppu sighed.
"His mood seems amiable enough. He smiles drowsily at me."
**
Mostin augmented and warded himself with powerful spells, and plane shifted to an area where reality maelstroms churned through Void. Mile-long shards of matter span slowly on their axes, flickering on the edge of annihilation.
A telepathic bond connected him to Jalael, Troap and Daunton, who were ensconced in the astral retreat, forty-seven shattered dimensions distant. Mostin's sensory experience was conveyed directly into the other wizards' minds.
[Daunton]: Pan left. Up a little.
Mostin scowled.
In the far distance, dominating all, a redoubt of substance which the Blackthorn-ludja had gathered around itself. Like a vast mountain floating capsized in space, fragments of Zelatar – complete with minarets, domes and viper groves – comprised its inverted flanks. About its base, a fence of lesser peaks thrust upwards to surround a forested bowl twenty miles wide, at the centre of which, Mostin knew, the malign Blackthorn brooded. Flights of chthonics – which erupted spontaneously and vanished as quickly – avoided proximity to the great Tree.
Mostin wrought magic, and brought his will to bear upon the planar flux near him. In a previous cycle, Graz'zt had made spells of his own for the same purpose: vast in scope, and taking millennia to complete. Strands of plasm flowed; matter quickly agglomerated, assuming shapes and angles possessed of a disturbing quality. The aesthetic was peculiar in the extreme.
The Alienist drew a rod of cold iron two feet long from a portable hole, and scratched a wide circle about himself quickly. Within it, he scribed a set of complex runes and glyphs with uncanny speed and precision, pausing occasionally to recollect. With a motion, the rod vanished and the scrawl became a perfectly engraved tracery of iron.
Mostin stood inside the circle, muttered, and made a brief gesture.
A gate opened, and Soneillon appeared without duress.
Mostin recoiled, and reflexively assumed his pseudonatural shape as a churning vortex of darkness attempted to engulf him. It failed – barely – to penetrate a hemisphere which had sprung into existence around the wizard. Mostin swallowed with many mouths: he had thought to err in his protective ward with a wide margin of safety.
Soneillon withdrew and immediately became a demure child with wide eyes.
"Mostin. How delightful to see you again. Forgive my enthusiasm to embrace you."
Mostin remained in tentacled form, a thousand eyes directed suspiciously at the demoness. He knew that she could endure any magic he presently had at his command: in Uzzhin, it appeared, she had not only undergone a powerful pseudogenesis, but had taken tutelage with one of the elder horrors; spellwarp clung heavily to her. A number of transvalent spells protected her.
"Let's negotiate," the Alienist said wisely.
"A Flame Precedes the Aeon, Mostin. It troubles my dreams. What does it mean?"
Mostin resumed his humanoid shape, looked at his hand, and cocked his head quizzically. "Why do we find such forms necessary?"
"For you, sentimentality; for me, habit. Mostin, your evasiveness needs much work: the question still stands."
"You might volunteer a little first," the Alienist smiled. "Given the level of mutual distrust which we must first overcome. Note that I have conjured you without compulsion in a locale which is suitably secure for you."
"I have accepted an invitation; that hardly qualifies as grounds for debt. And good luck in your efforts to bind me. Still, I will tell you this: Carasch gathers darkness to himself; he prepares an oneiric assault. It will come in three days."
Mostin raised his eyebrows. "He is bold to move against the Seraphim. The Tree may swat him for his insolence."
"Or ignore him, as a fly. The fence has holes for those who know where to look. Only the great bhitis dream deeper than Carasch. A Flame Precedes the Aeon?"
"An opportunity to actualize the Urn, now passed," Mostin sighed.
"Which Flame?"
"In the Urgic sense; an iota of Perfect Radiance. Manifested when the Sela transmigrated."
"But you lost the Flame," Soneillon understood. "You search for another. Still, you withold much; some component of the equation is absent."
"This is to be expected," Mostin nodded. "You are my enemy."
"I am/not what I am/not," Soneillon snorted. "And you I bear no more malice than the rest of Creation, Mostin. If I were to proffer a little more, would you bite?"
"In this case, I regret I must decline. There is no article of knowledge which you possess which might be of equivalent value. You can surrender the Urn, to be privy."
Soneillon smiled sweetly. "Unlikely. But I am also reminded that analas – which is to say flames – come in a variety of colors. Perhaps ruddy or black? One might ask why there is a Hellfire Atavism lurking in the woods? Or would Carasch burn with sufficient heat, I wonder? Or the goddess in Jashat, the Death-Anala herself?"
Mostin shifted uncomfortably.
"You see," Soneillon placed her palms together. "The Void has opened, Mostin. It draws other forms spiralling into it. My power waxes."
"A Tree sits atop your palace and has enslaved your cabal," Mostin sneered. "You have no foundation."
Soneillon drew close to the circle's edge, placing childlike hands upon the invisible barrier. "The Cherry can wait. Chthonic axes will hew its roots in due course. Understand me, Mostin: I have been Outside and I have returned. I know what you know; I've seen what you have seen. Is there no potential for productive discourse?"
"Certainly. That is why I called you. Some topics must presently remain taboo, however. With which did you apprentice when you were Outside?"
Soneillon laughed. "You would not believe me if I told you."
"An entity of some reputation, I assume?"
"Something hidden, Mostin."
"Then this I must know," Mostin said wrily.
"Vhorzhe," Soneillon whispered. "My sponsor is Vhorzhe, Mostin."
The Alienist gaped at her.
"I told you that you wouldn't believe me."
"No," Mostin said grimly; the solutions to a number of nagging equations had already presented themselves in his mind. "I believe you well enough. You found a Pseudodaemonic Infinity."
"You should be more careful when targeting your banishments, Mostin. I didn't even have to look."
"The spell is named Pilgrimage," Mostin said bitterly. "An apt descriptor in your case, or so it would appear. Trust me Soneillon, were necromancy within my purview, I'd have happily obliterated you instead."
She smiled coyly. "Mostin, sometimes you speak such charming words."
"Nor did I name any particular pseudolocus for the spell. I find the prospect of coincidence improbable."
"To discover that one has been manipulated by an unknown agent is never a happy moment," Soneillon's eyes narrowed.
[Daunton]: Vhorzhe?
[Troap]: Enlighten me?
[Jalael]: Mostin was apprenticed to him. A disagreeable sort, by all accounts. Shomei knew him. Mostin's over-hyped Horror abducted him previously.
Mostin scowled. A wizard's dirty laundry was seldom a pleasant sight.
[Mostin]: Enough! Begone! I will relate the shabby details in Fumaril.
The Alienist summarily dismissed the other wizards from his mind.
In a chamber of the astral retreat, Jalael looked hard at Daunton. "He is so damnably arrogant. Will he now strike some deal without our knowledge? Why do we endure this tyrannical lunatic as our spokesman?"
Daunton raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Graz'zt's token, which hung around the Hag's neck; her greatest treasure gained from the binding of the demon prince.
"Profit," the diviner replied sagely.
**
Otwine swore. Divine blood erupted in a cloud from delicate fey skin as a sonic of great magnitude struck her. Heedless was a blur in her hand. It screamed ecstatically.
The Demon had gone to ground on an unnamed island; ancient olive groves, long abandoned by some ocean-going culture, clung to the steep slopes of a dormant volcanic peak. The trees were being ripped from their roots and hurled into the sky from the force of the wind which Mesikammi had conjured.
Pazuzu spat a gout of corrupted acid over Ortwine; she saw the droplets spin through the air towards her and somehow avoided each. The wind carried the black vapor harmlessly away.
"This."
Ortwine opened a gashing wound across the demon's chest.
"Is."
And another.
"Just."
And another.
"Too."
And another.
"Easy."
And another.
It was. The cornered demon prince screamed in rage and frustration. His remaining magic was impotent against her; his claws could find no purchase to inject their ineffectual venom. She outpaced him. Out-fought him. Out-thought him. He was stuck in this accursed place.
"I yield," Pazuzu screeched above the wind. It was a violation of his pact with Yeshe, but he cared nothing for that any longer; all of the old rules had been overturned.
"Thanks," Ortwine cut his head off.
The gale subsided abruptly.
Reaching down, the sidhe-goddess retrieved a rod of intricate design ending in a golden claw. She plucked a long feather from the fallen demon's wing.
"For Mostin," she smiled to Mesikammi.
The clouds parted: for a moment, the Sun shone brighter; a great bird seemed to pass across its disc. Upon the ground, the broken remains of the Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms burned swiftly; ash was carried away on a gentle breeze.
Ortwine made a rude gesture towards the Luminary. "I didn't ask for your opinion. I'd have taken another feather, if I'd known."
**
The Ahma retired grimly to his tent. As he entered, a movement within it prompted him to draw Lukarn in a flash.
He found himself gazing at his own reflection and swallowed. Resting on a stand, not a mirror but a round shield, burnished to perfection. Once Melimpor's shield, hammered fresh by celestial smiths, then cloven by Visuit; it had been cast yet again. A delicate device of Tree-and-Sun was etched upon it. Around its circle, between its rim and wide boss, phoenixes took flight; they seemed to wheel incessantly as the observer moved this way and that. Lukarn's light was reflected as with a green and gold fire.
"Strike it," a voice said from behind him. It was Jaliere.
"I…"
"Strike it!" The god demanded. "Hew at it with all your strength. Smash it. Shiver it."
The Ahma gathered his power and dealt a terrific blow with his weapon, two-handed, striking the shield's upper rim. The stand shattered. The shield sank into the dirt floor under the force of the assault, but otherwise bore no mark.
"Good," Jaliere nodded.
"I…"
"Don't bother," the god of the forge grunted. "Your account is still firmly in the black."
"There is no debt. I have never expected payment." Eadric shook his head.
"Hence, you deserve it," Jaliere replied. The god regarded him. "Ahma, in Soan they build a great temple to you."
"No!" Eadric stepped back and his face contorted. "I cannot be worshipped."
"Then you must disabuse your worshippers of their prayerful notions," Jaliere sighed. "I wish you all the best in that endeavour."
"And why are they building temples? A few thousands; barely returned from death. They must feed themselves. Clothe themselves. Build shelter."
Jaliere laughed. "The gods and ancestors are not idle in Sisperi, Ahma. And it has already been five years."
"Five years?"
"In Sisperi. Saes changed the passage of time; increased the pace of mortality – if only for a little while. The negotiation between her and Ortwine? Were you not present?"
"In body only," the Ahma smiled.
Eadric lifted the shield, and wiped the dirt from its rim. The tree in its design was – unmistakeably – a yew.
"How did you know it was a Yew?" He asked.
"Lai sees much," Jaliere replied.
**
