sec_tcpaipm
Explorer
How important that is depends on who you ask, the Adversary or Oronthon.
Oronthon says it's neither important, nor unimportant, neither both important and unimportant nor not important and not unimportant
Last edited:
Aeon (updated 10/9/14)
Oronthon says it's neither important, nor unimportant, neither both important and unimportant nor not important and not unimportant
Oronthon says it's neither important, nor unimportant, neither both important and unimportant nor not important and not unimportant
Saizho
The Forsaken One
Explorer
*rubs the lamp vigorously)
Every year I wish this story can find a way past all rights and legal issues into the writers ambition and end up in sweet ass hardcover published works.
Best fantasy I've ever read. I said it when I read the first few installments and I can still say it with full conviction after almost a decade.
Cheers Sep and I hope you can find the time and passion to treat us fans to plenty more of your work.
Every year I wish this story can find a way past all rights and legal issues into the writers ambition and end up in sweet ass hardcover published works.
Best fantasy I've ever read. I said it when I read the first few installments and I can still say it with full conviction after almost a decade.
Cheers Sep and I hope you can find the time and passion to treat us fans to plenty more of your work.
A decade? Has it really been that long?!
Yes, I started reading in highschool... And still I find myself returning.
Other stories, other worlds, rise and set like the sun and moon.
Other games come and go as the tides themselves.
Still, I return.
I return, and I sit. Here by this old many-branched tree of a forum I rest, with staff at my side. Sometimes you leave a trinket, sometimes nothing. Here a link, there a discussion.
As though you were fey, I leave bits of bread and milk in my replies, bumps. Bits of myself to keep the mystery and the romance going even a little longer.
Ten years as a dream, and here's to ten more, and ten times ten more! This small post I leave as a votive. Be it months or years, I'll come again, and smile again, to take the torch from other pilgrims and light the dreary dark between.
Thank you Sep, and to your players, and to the Enworlders who have kept the stories alive.
Yes, I started reading in highschool... And still I find myself returning.
Other stories, other worlds, rise and set like the sun and moon.
Other games come and go as the tides themselves.
Still, I return.
I return, and I sit. Here by this old many-branched tree of a forum I rest, with staff at my side. Sometimes you leave a trinket, sometimes nothing. Here a link, there a discussion.
As though you were fey, I leave bits of bread and milk in my replies, bumps. Bits of myself to keep the mystery and the romance going even a little longer.
Ten years as a dream, and here's to ten more, and ten times ten more! This small post I leave as a votive. Be it months or years, I'll come again, and smile again, to take the torch from other pilgrims and light the dreary dark between.
Thank you Sep, and to your players, and to the Enworlders who have kept the stories alive.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Fumaril - Part 3
North of the Pall of Dhatri stretches the march of Scir Cellod; further north still, Mord, Hethio and the Wyrish heartlands
At the junction of three wide feodalities, beneath the aegis of a Yew scion, stands Morne, the celestial city. Its resurrected craftsmen – possessed of a sudden inventiveness and aesthetic genius – are beginning to contrive works so far unrivalled in the course of human history. Teams of masons, acting in unconscious unison, work unceasingly to perfect some grand architectural design. The devout throng about the Temple courtyard; within Morne's baileys, companies of the Illuminated muster.
It is the six-hundred and ninety-second year as measured since the foundation of Wyre upon the ruins of Old Borchia; the six-hundred and thirtieth since the consecration of the Temple in Morne; the third year of Saizhan. Midwinter is fast approaching, but in Wyre it is unseasonably mild, and no snow has yet fallen.
In the South, in the Thalassine, it is as warm as a late spring day. A great tract of land lies in darkness, suffocated of light by Dhatri's magic: a hemisphere of tenacious night with a diameter of two hundred miles. Beneath, vampires and phantoms rove at will. From the city of Thond, a blighted wasteland extends to Cirone, Jompa, Jashat and the walls of Fumaril, as well as a score of smaller towns and cities. Of them all, only Fumaril endures.
The Cheshnite forces are concentrated at four locations within this arena. Jashat itself is empty, save for Kaalaanala, her priesthood, and the marasmic demigoddess Jahi. Other vestiges of life have been scorched from the city; its once-abundant olive groves and peach orchards are reduced to an ashen plain.
The largest group – the main host – is at Thond with Dhatri. Hordes of undead of diverse types accompany her; the most numerous – her crawling ghoulish minions – have scoured the city of all carrion, and begin to hunger again.
Thirty leagues to the Northwest – at the edge of the Pall – the Cheshnite vanguard is locked in an interminable skirmish with celestials, Illuminated, and Wyrish Templars. They strike or are struck, before their enemies scuttle back to Galda and the protection of the Trees. Here, the immortals Prahar, Rishih and Naatha have established a precarious alliance. Most of the remaining Anantam – the blood magi once loyal to Sibud – are entrenched with them, as well as blood fiends, compacted demons, and the three thousand death knights under Prahar's command.
Further from the front, straddling the Hynt Coched – the concourse which runs north from Jashat – are situated those legions which attend Temenun and Idyam. The demilich has erected an impregnable jade palace, and fortified an encampment about it. Armored Giants of Danhaan stand guard; the largest goristros are emplaced here. The remaining theurges and Deathshriekers accompany Idyam; unknown numbers of Naztharunes – the servants of Temenun – lurk nearby. These two immortals – most subtle amongst the Cheshnite camp – prefer a slow game. Each acts prudently, and their magical reservoirs are still largely untapped.
The last group – the smallest, most mobile, and most reckless – is led by Yeshe and Guho, and accompanies Visuit. It is bent upon the destruction of Fumaril, which has remained a thorn in the flank of Cheshnite expansion.
**
**
Precedence amongst the spirits of the Green? Why must you impose hierarchy on everything?
The anime of the world should come first; of these, the great ludjas are the foremost, and, of these, the Trees are awake and hence most relevant: at present. Next, those servants of the ludjas which abide by their appointed Trees, or in Dream; these constitute a diverse group of sublimated entities, and I do not pretend to understand them all. Elementals are third; whether one arranges them in some particular order is rather a matter of personal taste than cosmic truth. Feys fourth – cataloguing these alone should take you several lifetimes. Fabulous beasts of no specific kind, I suppose, should be cited last: this would include griffons, unicorns, and the like.
And animals? Plants? Men? Giants? What of dragons? How wide one casts one's net is a lesson in discretion. But dragons prefer not to be categorized, and it is generally wise to respect their wishes.
**
**
Qematiel – most ancient and cunning of wyrms – powered her way through the skies above the forest. Dawn was kindling, and mist was rising from the ancient trees.
Something new was afoot. These were exciting times.
The dragon turned her gaze southwestward. Here, a distortion in space intimated at the wide extent of the range of Hummaz. Encroaching on rural Hethio, it encompassed almost all of the great southern lobe of Nizkur; five thousand square miles of enchanted forest which merged seamlessly into a wild Faerie of unguessable limit on its western bounds.
Hummaz – apparently now satisfied with the extent of his private domain – had ceased his annexation. A sixty-mile net of magic – the great central triplicty of the Oak, Ash and Elm-ludjas from Nizkur – defied his power, and defined the northern interface of his sylvan realm. Here, the very air seemed to crackle with a vibrant green potency.
Qematiel gyred gracefully and launched herself away from the mingled energies of the intersection, skirting the eaves of the forest and bearing across the green pastures and wheatfields below. Hethio was the garden of Wyre; its breadbasket, and its richest province.
Resisting the urge to tarry and obliterate a sleepy town which nestled within a wooded vale, the wyrm rapidly approached the duchy's expansive central woodlands: here, wide tracts of deer and boar forest stood around Groba, a site of ancient power. She glanced down and hissed at a great Beech which grew there; an entry into whatever shamanic awareness Groba had once – and apparently now again – embodied. As she dived, and then sped away, the ground shuddered from her passage and a wave of sound shook leaves from trees.*
Other Trees would also be waking; with Carash lurking upon the threshold of Dream and Soneillon fully reifying – the final grounding of the Chthonic in the matrix of reality – Qematiel knew that the Blackthorn and the Cherry must perforce be next. A reign of destruction and desire would begin; her mistress, Will itself, must accommodate and direct these unfocused energies.
The city appeared in the distance, white marble basking in the early morning sunshine. A low range of hills rolling westwards from it was soon below, dotted with large estates: previously, the country villas of Morne's fashionable bourgeoisie; now monastic cells in the care of a variety of contemplative orders. Within a wide bowl, the Wyrish Academy, Hellish trees and a Hazel scion.
Qematiel plummeted, and appeared in a tumult of fire which caused the earth to shake beneath the tiny figure of Shomei the Infernal, who stood alone, rod in hand.
"You presume much, small one; I may not be invoked, nor invited, nor conjured." The wyrm's voice threatened death.
"I tend Will," Shomei smiled. As she spoke, a great, spiked trammel of adamant coiled onto the ground from her left hand. "And at this moment, I am it. It is time for service, and I accept no scutage. You will be my steed. Or be chained. The choice is yours."
Qematiel raged furiously, the violence of her temper erupting as molten annihilation.
"I have no patience for this," Shomei sighed. "This is the Hazel's mandate. Cease your petulance, and retain some dignity. When your tantrum has abated, the choice will remain the same."
**
Yeshe was not unprepared when she met the onslaught of the Ahma, and had girded herself with powerful magic. As well as her goristros, two armored balors – maybe the last of Baramh's train – still attended her; she had fortified them with spells.
To no avail. His glare dazzled her. His weapon was an incandescent blur which seemed to burn everything around it; a radiant violence committed against Void's quietude. The steed Narh trampled demons and immortals in its path. Unease gripped Yeshe; the Great Bhiti in Jashat was deaf to her entreaties.
Pain consumed her briefly as she struck him with a dispelling; her reservoir was empty and Yeshe was forced to channel the spell through her own body. It could not overcome the Green Benediction and was insufficient to quell the light of Lukarn by an order of magnitude; other items on the Ahma and sundry wards were suppressed. Not enough. The Binder moved to speak a word of recall and spirit herself to a hidden retreat south of Siir Traag in Shûth. It was too late.
Her enemy held his palm aloft and spoke a single syllable: a blasphemy of light. Her servants burned away to atoms. Yeshe was overwhelmed; blinded and deafened, she could not move her limbs.
Goddess, her supplication was a silent, visceral scream. Ever have I been thy faithful servant. Now full earnest do I beseech thee!
The entreaty echoed through the Green.
**
In Jashat, the altars burned with black fires: an essence of Nothingness contrived by Kaalaanala.
Visuit the Butcher sat cross-legged, gazing into oblivion. Unsheathed, across her knees, that dreadful weapon which had wrought countless suffering. About her, the Fires of Death moved, formless, as a whirling maelstrom, imbuing Visuit with dark energies. Priests and supplicants chanted unceasingly.
Kaalaanala's formidable will reached out, seeking to grip the world. Trees were active everywhere, obscuring her vision. But that Yeshe's camp was under assault, the Dark Goddess had no doubt.
The flames coalesced into a tall hooded form, its visage awful and unknowable. It stood before Visuit, touching the forehead of the war-goddess to bestow some dark blessing.
The Butcher rose. With a growl, she hefted her weapon and carved open a hole in the Green, passing through into a shadowy region with eerie trees where distance and perception were twisted.
**
Mostin's mind raced. He knew they possessed a precarious advantage which might evaporate in an instant.
Prudently, he stopped time.
Lukarn cast a light which illuminated the despoiled countryside for a league around; brighter than the midday sun, causing fear and consternation amongst the Cheshnite forces arrayed against them. Columns of smoke hung static in the air from conflagrations started by Mulissu's lightning; whatever primal storm the savant had tapped, its eddies were potent: demons seemed no less subject to her discharges than anything else.
With the removal – in fact, the final demarcation – of the Tree's Interdiction, extradimensional travel was again possible. But in his stomach, the Alienist knew that all methods of such movement were contained in terms which were thoroughly Green. If he plane shifted, it would necessarily be to somewhere Green; if he teleported, the medium through which he moved would be somehow Green. If he opened a gate, Mostin had no doubt that something disagreeably Green would step through it.
Except for Uzzhin; Outside; the Other. Glancing at Nwm, the Alienist understood that the Preceptor was – in fact – now very firmly identified with the principal source of his own limitation. The struggle which had begun between them so long before might soon become unpleasant if not carefully managed. Mostin sighed. Now political necessity moved him, and he despised politics. Still, it behoved one to bargain from a position of strength, and he would pay with his own ichor if it meant asserting his continued freedom to conjure pseudonaturals.
So he made a choice. In a matter of seconds, Mostin emptied his reservoir utterly. First, he invoked a wish to reconfigure his transvalent armamentarium.
"It is time," the Alienist intoned. "Horrors will befall them."
Mostin cackled, and a huge amorphous [concept] appeared. It flailed [concepts], and more [things]. It was something more obscene than any there before – living or dead, mortal or immortal; saint, demon or celestial – had ever even imagined. Contact with its mind, if such it possessed, challenged the Alienist's already tenuous grasp on reality.
[Mostin]: Slay enemies in this order [equation]
He made a dimension door to Guho's position and focused a most potent spell. She was gathering energy for a ritual.
Time began again; reality buckled as Mostin caused to occur a sound which should not be heard. Guho – the Worm that Walks – dissociated into a combination of color, noise and more obscure elements. This time, he had struck at her essence; a powerful coercive impulse, unmaking her mind from the inside, dissolving the quiddity of her form. Mostin shook from the exertion; ichor dripped from his maws, and two pseudopodia caught fire.
In the space of a moment, four more temporal discontinuities passed across his consciousness; other mages using time stops and unleashing deadly combinations of spells.
He turned to observe the Ú; the monstrosity he had conjured from beyond the Periphery of Ghom. It had set about the Kesha-Dirghaa – the ritual theurges. It wrought such carnage amongst the enemy that he knew that it, and it alone, was sufficient to guarantee domination of any battlefield – barring, perhaps, the arrival of a vastly augmented Visuit.
Many of the demons were simply vanishing. Others were fleeing as best they could. In the event, the Butcher was occupied elsewhere.
**
After Rishih had fled, Ortwine cut her way through the remains of his guard, and assumed a position near Nwm. Despite his disgust at the thing which Mostin had conjured, the Preceptor gazed in fascination as it annihilated the enemy.
A messsage reached the sidhe; sent by Rhul on the scream of a dying ancestor: the Butcher was in Mulhuk, wreaking bloody havoc. Jaliere had barricaded himself into his forge; Rhul himself had eluded her.
She looked at Nwm. Then at Lai.
The Preceptor nodded wearily, and opened a path.
[Nwm]: We are going to contain Visuit. Join us at your earliest convenience.
"What?" Eadric yelled.
*
In Nizkur, Nehael stood silently, her hand resting upon the bark of the Tree, observing a half-dozen events with her mind's eye. Soneillon had seized Deorham and demons were flocking to her; Temenun was about to embark on some venture of his own without regard to either Kaalaanala or the other immortals – or at least so Nehael surmised; the Claviger had adjusted certain aspects of the underlying morphic, sending the practice of Sorcery into a generational decline; Visuit was loose in the Bole of Shades, and about to wreak havoc.
And now Yeshe made an appeal. She relayed the information in an instant to Teppu.
"It is not to you," the fey sighed.
"Do you mind…"
He stopped time.
Nehael continued. "Then to whom? Or what? To impotence?"
"To the Void."
"To a Goddess."
"You are considering intervention?" Teppu sighed. "I admit, sometimes your actions confound me."
"Things are simpler than you might imagine," Nehael shrugged. "In any event I do not intervene; rather, as Ortwine rightly observed, I intercede."
"And is the face you present to her your dark one? I do not believe I have seen that."
"You might find yourself less well-disposed toward me. But she will apprehend it whether I will it or no." As time recommenced, she turned pale.
Mostin.
**
**
All was silent, and motionless.
The Ahma glanced down, and saw himself nearby. Lukarn was poised to strike down his foe.
Inwardly, he scowled.
"Let me have her," it was Nehael's voice. She was here; potent. She seemed to draw on the full power of the Tree; he felt she could break the world in an instant and remake it with a thought.
"A command?" He asked wrily.
"An entreaty. I beg mercy."
"What will you do with her?"
"Do? Nothing. I do not need to do."
"Are there others whom I should expect you to abduct to safety?"
She sighed. "A prayer was offered. What would you have me say? Do you hate her so?"
"I am the Ahma, not Nehael; I can hate heartily. What will happen to her?"
"She will have an opportunity to reevaluate."
He had the urge to laugh. "This scene is reminiscent of more than one prior. The answer is still yes, I imagine. Your reasons are your own, but I am curious."
"I am invoked. Consider it restitution for your violation at Khu."
Violation?
"It is not a perspective you will find easy to appreciate."
"I imagine not."
**
**
Yeshe waited, powerless, as the blade descended and her enemy smote her; a burning agony; black fire sprang from her helm. Her immortal body did not break, but she crumpled to her knees from the strength of his blow. Now, even her inner sight began to fail. Ancient blood flowed, and she felt her life ebb out of her.
Prama-Adhyaapikaa, apraapya pralayah Taamaseva anuman; Great Preceptress, if I am denied extinction permit me to persist only in the mode of Darkness.
She knew he would finish her. She fancied that she felt the wind which ran before his blade as it cut the air.
The blow never came; an eternity might have passed.
Slowly, impressions began to form; first in her mind, then through her eyes: vague shadows. A greenish light.
A tree.
No: The Tree.
Praartha! I beg you! Taamaseva, praartha!.
"That is denied you," a voice said firmly. "And would be in any case. You are in the Womb of Qinthei. You stand before the Tree. I am Nehael."
"You presume to judge me?" Yeshe smiled weakly as her senses returned. "Or suborn me to your cause?"
"You invoked me. I interceded: I asked the Ahma to stay his blow. He indulged me. Had you died with my name on your lips, you would have been mine for a while ere I released you again into the world, or kept you here: I spared myself the dilemma. Did you not know? I am the Image of Uedii. The World is Mine."
Yeshe cursed Nehael roundly: the Binder felt her strength was quickly returning to her; this place bestowed some remarkable regenerative power.
"You are welcome," Nehael said easily. "I will not trouble you further. You may stay or go, as you please. Nothing threatens you here; more importantly, nothing is threatened by you."
The Goddess vanished from Yeshe's perception.
Yeshe stared at the Tree.
A rustle behind her made her hurl a death spell instinctively: its power manifested as a barely audible hiss.
"That doesn't work," the voice contained an air of condescension. "Rumor has it that Oronthon's Adversary managed acorns." Its owner's hide was dry and leathery, almost wooden. As tall as a man, it might have been some forest spirit. It had restless power; Yeshe could feel it.
"What is your agenda?" Yeshe demanded.
"To dominate."
"You were Rimilin," Yeshe intuited.
"I am still very much Rimilin," Rimilin bowed with exquisite sarcasm. "Although, for a while I was not. I have acquired a new skin. I am adapting to circumstances."
This one I can deal with, Yeshe knew.
"Gu-analas yet abide near the Blackthorn," Rimilin ventured. "The ludja will soon awaken. When it does; deeper shades of Green – more perylene – will be revealed. The Ak'Chazar knows this."
"What else?" Yeshe demanded.
"In Wyre, we have a custom regarding the exchange of information; I will forego it on this occasion, as a courtesy: the Urn is here. At the Ahma's principal abode in Western Trempa. Soneillon has it."
The Urn. "And why is Rimilin still here?" She asked, suspiciously.
The wizard nodded toward the Tree. "I have yet to discover a compelling reason to leave."
The Binder snorted. "You are weak. Trapped."
"Certainly not; at least, no more than you – as you will discover. You merely need to find a compelling reason to leave."
**
The Ahma watched on in horror as the Ú acted upon the shattered Cheshnite ranks. It neither entirely devoured, nor tore asunder, nor engulfed those whom it touched; hideous transformations overcame some of them. His own knights recoiled from it.
A great, basso profundo noise emanated from it, flattening the enemy troops in a wide swathe for a furlong ahead. Others were routing away from it now; what had been intended – or at least, Eadric had foreseen – as a quick, hit-and-run attack, was turning into a decisive victory, and in a matter of moments.
As he offered a prayer of thanks to both Tree and Sun, an ominous shadow rolled across his mind. He glanced around. Where was Nwm? And for that matter, Ortwine?
Mostin alighted next to him in human form, but still appearing to Eadric through the Eye of Palamabron as a writhing mass of tentacles. Nearby, Hlioth looked at the Alienist and his conjured servant with utter revulsion.
"Get used to it," Mostin smiled wearily. "Next time there will be three of them."
[Mazikreen]: I seek audience with the Ahma.
Eadric groaned. What now?
**
Queen Soneillon was occupying Kyrtill's Burh. Many hundred demons had joined her.
Eadric received the news by saying nothing, and squinting.
The succubus who brought it – Mazikreen – was alluring even by the standards of her species, and possessed a grace of movement which rivalled that of Ortwine. Eadric did not know it, but she had once herself been Queen of a dismal realm which no longer existed. Wielding wide dominion, Graz'zt had tried – and failed – to seduce her. He had bribed her with more success.
"What of Caur, and Hawi, and the others?" Eadric finally asked.
"They remain unmolested, by command of Soneillon."
The Ahma examined Mazikreen's face. The Queen of Throile, he knew, played a slow game.
[Mostin]: Do not presume to understand her. She has achieved a great rapture.
Mostin was mad; Eadric had no idea what he meant.
[Mostin]: Soneillon, not this one.
[Eadric]: I still fail to understand.
[Mostin]: There are some facts regarding Soneillon of which I have not yet had the opportunity to apprise you.
Mazikreen smiled. "Soneillon thanks the Ahma for his continued hospitality. She asks me to remind him that he has always been a gracious host, and that she has always acted with restraint and decorum when lodging with him. She assures him that his servants, the townsfolk of Deorham, and the numerous pilgrims nearby are currently quite safe."
"Tell her they had better remain so," Eadric growled. "I will hold her personally responsible for every last bad dream experienced during her presence."
[Mostin]: You are willing to suffer this indignity?
[Eadric]: What choice do I have? I cannot open another front at present. And something remains unspoken.
The Blackthorn, he knew.
**
**
In the shades of the courtyard, hard beside the sanctum sanctorum which Kaalaanala had taken to herself, a Tree stirred. A single shoot unfurled upon a slender, thorned twig. Eight hundred miles away, near Deorham, another whispered in response. At Kyrtill's Burh, the Sun seemed to dim. Standing atop the Steeple, clad in protective darkness, Soneillon stiffened and felt a frisson run through her. At last.
In Jashat, Kaalaanala vomited black fire. Her effluvia took form, and sped westward towards Fumaril in an orgy of fiery destruction, heedless of the limit which had previously circumscribed her.
**
**
Beneath Mostin's Infernal Tower, amidst the dead and striken, Eadric prepared to mount Narh again. Something was encroaching at the limit of Lukarn's light. It was coming from Jashat, moving at terrible speed; molten earth was being churned a thousand feet into the air above it, where it evaporated in a disintegrating fire.
"No." Mostin guessed the Ahma's intent.
"Then what? What is it?"
"We fly," Mulissu said. "Get everyone wind walking. I will give the order to evacuate Fumaril."
She vanished. A number of other mages – including Daunton – took the opportunity to absent themselves.
"Huhng," Mostin groaned. "There are others."
"Other whats?"
"Effluxions. Avatars. It would appear that Kaalaanala is feeling a little less coy than previously."
"I must return to Fumaril."
"Forget Fumaril. There is no time. We go north, to Galda."
"I will not yield Fumaril," Eadric thundered. "We return. You think of something. And where the hell are Nwm and Ortwine?"
"Not in this world," Mostin snapped. "I should have told Daunton to do an interplanar version. Alas, I cannot think of everything." He forced a calm upon himself, and spoke slowly, as though to a child. "Eadric: we have to go. Fumaril is lost. Mulissu understands this. Even if you could get there in time, you could not organize the defense; even if you could do that, it would be swept away. Eadric: Kaalaanala's avatar. Do you understand?"
"Ortwine!" The Ahma screamed.
I hear your prayer. We are in Sisperi; in Mulhuk. With Visuit. Actually, a little help might be useful; her mood is terse. I have tried winning her with banter, but she does not seem amenable. Go [here].
Mostin jerked his head; a great gate in his tower opened. "Come on."
Eadric cursed. He quickly despatched devas as messengers to the garrison at Fumaril and to the main camp at Galda: respectively, flee and fortify.
He gave the order, and a swift mist flowed inside the tower. The Ahma himself was last, gazing at the torrent of dark fire as it drove down on them. As Lukarn was sheathed and borne within, the light dimmed and all was again gloom and shadow.
The tower vanished.
Inside, the illumination was ruddy; a great marshalling hall beneath a lofty, vaulted ceiling. Mostin was in human form.
"I am feeling uneasy," Eadric said.
"This will be tricky," Mostin conceded. "But I have a strategy."
"And that would be?"
"We stay alive for twenty-four hours more," the Alienist replied. "Tomorrow Mostin the Metagnostic will be fully rested."
The gates of the tower swung open.
Eadric inhaled sharply. Before him, a slender Aspen reared; surely the most elegant tree he had ever seen. An exuberant joy possessed him.
"Don't get too carried away," Nwm said drily. "It isn't helping any."
"I have lost Fumaril."
"Fumaril was a feint," Nwm spoke through gritted teeth. "Visuit is here."
"Fumaril was no feint. Where is Ortwine?"
"With Lai. Attempting to draw the Butcher away from Jaliere's forge; he has sealed himself in with his smiths. Rhul is seeking aid from Saes; I do not rate his chances. Ortwine appears to be demonstrating loyalty."
A sensation impacted on Eadric's perception; then another; then another.
Akma..kma..Akma
"What?"
"Your priests are invoking you for protection," Nwm nodded. "I hope you don't disappoint them."
"What are my chances?"
"Dismal," Nwm smiled sympathetically.
* Qematiel is the swiftest of all wyrms, and may be the fastest of all flying creatures (barring some pseudonatural aberrations, which might not exactly "fly"). She can move up to 7500ft in one round at full speed: Qematiel can fly about as fast as an F-16.
North of the Pall of Dhatri stretches the march of Scir Cellod; further north still, Mord, Hethio and the Wyrish heartlands
At the junction of three wide feodalities, beneath the aegis of a Yew scion, stands Morne, the celestial city. Its resurrected craftsmen – possessed of a sudden inventiveness and aesthetic genius – are beginning to contrive works so far unrivalled in the course of human history. Teams of masons, acting in unconscious unison, work unceasingly to perfect some grand architectural design. The devout throng about the Temple courtyard; within Morne's baileys, companies of the Illuminated muster.
It is the six-hundred and ninety-second year as measured since the foundation of Wyre upon the ruins of Old Borchia; the six-hundred and thirtieth since the consecration of the Temple in Morne; the third year of Saizhan. Midwinter is fast approaching, but in Wyre it is unseasonably mild, and no snow has yet fallen.
In the South, in the Thalassine, it is as warm as a late spring day. A great tract of land lies in darkness, suffocated of light by Dhatri's magic: a hemisphere of tenacious night with a diameter of two hundred miles. Beneath, vampires and phantoms rove at will. From the city of Thond, a blighted wasteland extends to Cirone, Jompa, Jashat and the walls of Fumaril, as well as a score of smaller towns and cities. Of them all, only Fumaril endures.
The Cheshnite forces are concentrated at four locations within this arena. Jashat itself is empty, save for Kaalaanala, her priesthood, and the marasmic demigoddess Jahi. Other vestiges of life have been scorched from the city; its once-abundant olive groves and peach orchards are reduced to an ashen plain.
The largest group – the main host – is at Thond with Dhatri. Hordes of undead of diverse types accompany her; the most numerous – her crawling ghoulish minions – have scoured the city of all carrion, and begin to hunger again.
Thirty leagues to the Northwest – at the edge of the Pall – the Cheshnite vanguard is locked in an interminable skirmish with celestials, Illuminated, and Wyrish Templars. They strike or are struck, before their enemies scuttle back to Galda and the protection of the Trees. Here, the immortals Prahar, Rishih and Naatha have established a precarious alliance. Most of the remaining Anantam – the blood magi once loyal to Sibud – are entrenched with them, as well as blood fiends, compacted demons, and the three thousand death knights under Prahar's command.
Further from the front, straddling the Hynt Coched – the concourse which runs north from Jashat – are situated those legions which attend Temenun and Idyam. The demilich has erected an impregnable jade palace, and fortified an encampment about it. Armored Giants of Danhaan stand guard; the largest goristros are emplaced here. The remaining theurges and Deathshriekers accompany Idyam; unknown numbers of Naztharunes – the servants of Temenun – lurk nearby. These two immortals – most subtle amongst the Cheshnite camp – prefer a slow game. Each acts prudently, and their magical reservoirs are still largely untapped.
The last group – the smallest, most mobile, and most reckless – is led by Yeshe and Guho, and accompanies Visuit. It is bent upon the destruction of Fumaril, which has remained a thorn in the flank of Cheshnite expansion.
**
**
Precedence amongst the spirits of the Green? Why must you impose hierarchy on everything?
The anime of the world should come first; of these, the great ludjas are the foremost, and, of these, the Trees are awake and hence most relevant: at present. Next, those servants of the ludjas which abide by their appointed Trees, or in Dream; these constitute a diverse group of sublimated entities, and I do not pretend to understand them all. Elementals are third; whether one arranges them in some particular order is rather a matter of personal taste than cosmic truth. Feys fourth – cataloguing these alone should take you several lifetimes. Fabulous beasts of no specific kind, I suppose, should be cited last: this would include griffons, unicorns, and the like.
And animals? Plants? Men? Giants? What of dragons? How wide one casts one's net is a lesson in discretion. But dragons prefer not to be categorized, and it is generally wise to respect their wishes.
**
**
Qematiel – most ancient and cunning of wyrms – powered her way through the skies above the forest. Dawn was kindling, and mist was rising from the ancient trees.
Something new was afoot. These were exciting times.
The dragon turned her gaze southwestward. Here, a distortion in space intimated at the wide extent of the range of Hummaz. Encroaching on rural Hethio, it encompassed almost all of the great southern lobe of Nizkur; five thousand square miles of enchanted forest which merged seamlessly into a wild Faerie of unguessable limit on its western bounds.
Hummaz – apparently now satisfied with the extent of his private domain – had ceased his annexation. A sixty-mile net of magic – the great central triplicty of the Oak, Ash and Elm-ludjas from Nizkur – defied his power, and defined the northern interface of his sylvan realm. Here, the very air seemed to crackle with a vibrant green potency.
Qematiel gyred gracefully and launched herself away from the mingled energies of the intersection, skirting the eaves of the forest and bearing across the green pastures and wheatfields below. Hethio was the garden of Wyre; its breadbasket, and its richest province.
Resisting the urge to tarry and obliterate a sleepy town which nestled within a wooded vale, the wyrm rapidly approached the duchy's expansive central woodlands: here, wide tracts of deer and boar forest stood around Groba, a site of ancient power. She glanced down and hissed at a great Beech which grew there; an entry into whatever shamanic awareness Groba had once – and apparently now again – embodied. As she dived, and then sped away, the ground shuddered from her passage and a wave of sound shook leaves from trees.*
Other Trees would also be waking; with Carash lurking upon the threshold of Dream and Soneillon fully reifying – the final grounding of the Chthonic in the matrix of reality – Qematiel knew that the Blackthorn and the Cherry must perforce be next. A reign of destruction and desire would begin; her mistress, Will itself, must accommodate and direct these unfocused energies.
The city appeared in the distance, white marble basking in the early morning sunshine. A low range of hills rolling westwards from it was soon below, dotted with large estates: previously, the country villas of Morne's fashionable bourgeoisie; now monastic cells in the care of a variety of contemplative orders. Within a wide bowl, the Wyrish Academy, Hellish trees and a Hazel scion.
Qematiel plummeted, and appeared in a tumult of fire which caused the earth to shake beneath the tiny figure of Shomei the Infernal, who stood alone, rod in hand.
"You presume much, small one; I may not be invoked, nor invited, nor conjured." The wyrm's voice threatened death.
"I tend Will," Shomei smiled. As she spoke, a great, spiked trammel of adamant coiled onto the ground from her left hand. "And at this moment, I am it. It is time for service, and I accept no scutage. You will be my steed. Or be chained. The choice is yours."
Qematiel raged furiously, the violence of her temper erupting as molten annihilation.
"I have no patience for this," Shomei sighed. "This is the Hazel's mandate. Cease your petulance, and retain some dignity. When your tantrum has abated, the choice will remain the same."
**
Yeshe was not unprepared when she met the onslaught of the Ahma, and had girded herself with powerful magic. As well as her goristros, two armored balors – maybe the last of Baramh's train – still attended her; she had fortified them with spells.
To no avail. His glare dazzled her. His weapon was an incandescent blur which seemed to burn everything around it; a radiant violence committed against Void's quietude. The steed Narh trampled demons and immortals in its path. Unease gripped Yeshe; the Great Bhiti in Jashat was deaf to her entreaties.
Pain consumed her briefly as she struck him with a dispelling; her reservoir was empty and Yeshe was forced to channel the spell through her own body. It could not overcome the Green Benediction and was insufficient to quell the light of Lukarn by an order of magnitude; other items on the Ahma and sundry wards were suppressed. Not enough. The Binder moved to speak a word of recall and spirit herself to a hidden retreat south of Siir Traag in Shûth. It was too late.
Her enemy held his palm aloft and spoke a single syllable: a blasphemy of light. Her servants burned away to atoms. Yeshe was overwhelmed; blinded and deafened, she could not move her limbs.
Goddess, her supplication was a silent, visceral scream. Ever have I been thy faithful servant. Now full earnest do I beseech thee!
The entreaty echoed through the Green.
**
In Jashat, the altars burned with black fires: an essence of Nothingness contrived by Kaalaanala.
Visuit the Butcher sat cross-legged, gazing into oblivion. Unsheathed, across her knees, that dreadful weapon which had wrought countless suffering. About her, the Fires of Death moved, formless, as a whirling maelstrom, imbuing Visuit with dark energies. Priests and supplicants chanted unceasingly.
Kaalaanala's formidable will reached out, seeking to grip the world. Trees were active everywhere, obscuring her vision. But that Yeshe's camp was under assault, the Dark Goddess had no doubt.
The flames coalesced into a tall hooded form, its visage awful and unknowable. It stood before Visuit, touching the forehead of the war-goddess to bestow some dark blessing.
The Butcher rose. With a growl, she hefted her weapon and carved open a hole in the Green, passing through into a shadowy region with eerie trees where distance and perception were twisted.
**
Mostin's mind raced. He knew they possessed a precarious advantage which might evaporate in an instant.
Prudently, he stopped time.
Lukarn cast a light which illuminated the despoiled countryside for a league around; brighter than the midday sun, causing fear and consternation amongst the Cheshnite forces arrayed against them. Columns of smoke hung static in the air from conflagrations started by Mulissu's lightning; whatever primal storm the savant had tapped, its eddies were potent: demons seemed no less subject to her discharges than anything else.
With the removal – in fact, the final demarcation – of the Tree's Interdiction, extradimensional travel was again possible. But in his stomach, the Alienist knew that all methods of such movement were contained in terms which were thoroughly Green. If he plane shifted, it would necessarily be to somewhere Green; if he teleported, the medium through which he moved would be somehow Green. If he opened a gate, Mostin had no doubt that something disagreeably Green would step through it.
Except for Uzzhin; Outside; the Other. Glancing at Nwm, the Alienist understood that the Preceptor was – in fact – now very firmly identified with the principal source of his own limitation. The struggle which had begun between them so long before might soon become unpleasant if not carefully managed. Mostin sighed. Now political necessity moved him, and he despised politics. Still, it behoved one to bargain from a position of strength, and he would pay with his own ichor if it meant asserting his continued freedom to conjure pseudonaturals.
So he made a choice. In a matter of seconds, Mostin emptied his reservoir utterly. First, he invoked a wish to reconfigure his transvalent armamentarium.
"It is time," the Alienist intoned. "Horrors will befall them."
Mostin cackled, and a huge amorphous [concept] appeared. It flailed [concepts], and more [things]. It was something more obscene than any there before – living or dead, mortal or immortal; saint, demon or celestial – had ever even imagined. Contact with its mind, if such it possessed, challenged the Alienist's already tenuous grasp on reality.
[Mostin]: Slay enemies in this order [equation]
He made a dimension door to Guho's position and focused a most potent spell. She was gathering energy for a ritual.
Time began again; reality buckled as Mostin caused to occur a sound which should not be heard. Guho – the Worm that Walks – dissociated into a combination of color, noise and more obscure elements. This time, he had struck at her essence; a powerful coercive impulse, unmaking her mind from the inside, dissolving the quiddity of her form. Mostin shook from the exertion; ichor dripped from his maws, and two pseudopodia caught fire.
In the space of a moment, four more temporal discontinuities passed across his consciousness; other mages using time stops and unleashing deadly combinations of spells.
He turned to observe the Ú; the monstrosity he had conjured from beyond the Periphery of Ghom. It had set about the Kesha-Dirghaa – the ritual theurges. It wrought such carnage amongst the enemy that he knew that it, and it alone, was sufficient to guarantee domination of any battlefield – barring, perhaps, the arrival of a vastly augmented Visuit.
Many of the demons were simply vanishing. Others were fleeing as best they could. In the event, the Butcher was occupied elsewhere.
**
After Rishih had fled, Ortwine cut her way through the remains of his guard, and assumed a position near Nwm. Despite his disgust at the thing which Mostin had conjured, the Preceptor gazed in fascination as it annihilated the enemy.
A messsage reached the sidhe; sent by Rhul on the scream of a dying ancestor: the Butcher was in Mulhuk, wreaking bloody havoc. Jaliere had barricaded himself into his forge; Rhul himself had eluded her.
She looked at Nwm. Then at Lai.
The Preceptor nodded wearily, and opened a path.
[Nwm]: We are going to contain Visuit. Join us at your earliest convenience.
"What?" Eadric yelled.
*
In Nizkur, Nehael stood silently, her hand resting upon the bark of the Tree, observing a half-dozen events with her mind's eye. Soneillon had seized Deorham and demons were flocking to her; Temenun was about to embark on some venture of his own without regard to either Kaalaanala or the other immortals – or at least so Nehael surmised; the Claviger had adjusted certain aspects of the underlying morphic, sending the practice of Sorcery into a generational decline; Visuit was loose in the Bole of Shades, and about to wreak havoc.
And now Yeshe made an appeal. She relayed the information in an instant to Teppu.
"It is not to you," the fey sighed.
"Do you mind…"
He stopped time.
Nehael continued. "Then to whom? Or what? To impotence?"
"To the Void."
"To a Goddess."
"You are considering intervention?" Teppu sighed. "I admit, sometimes your actions confound me."
"Things are simpler than you might imagine," Nehael shrugged. "In any event I do not intervene; rather, as Ortwine rightly observed, I intercede."
"And is the face you present to her your dark one? I do not believe I have seen that."
"You might find yourself less well-disposed toward me. But she will apprehend it whether I will it or no." As time recommenced, she turned pale.
Mostin.
**
**
All was silent, and motionless.
The Ahma glanced down, and saw himself nearby. Lukarn was poised to strike down his foe.
Inwardly, he scowled.
"Let me have her," it was Nehael's voice. She was here; potent. She seemed to draw on the full power of the Tree; he felt she could break the world in an instant and remake it with a thought.
"A command?" He asked wrily.
"An entreaty. I beg mercy."
"What will you do with her?"
"Do? Nothing. I do not need to do."
"Are there others whom I should expect you to abduct to safety?"
She sighed. "A prayer was offered. What would you have me say? Do you hate her so?"
"I am the Ahma, not Nehael; I can hate heartily. What will happen to her?"
"She will have an opportunity to reevaluate."
He had the urge to laugh. "This scene is reminiscent of more than one prior. The answer is still yes, I imagine. Your reasons are your own, but I am curious."
"I am invoked. Consider it restitution for your violation at Khu."
Violation?
"It is not a perspective you will find easy to appreciate."
"I imagine not."
**
**
Yeshe waited, powerless, as the blade descended and her enemy smote her; a burning agony; black fire sprang from her helm. Her immortal body did not break, but she crumpled to her knees from the strength of his blow. Now, even her inner sight began to fail. Ancient blood flowed, and she felt her life ebb out of her.
Prama-Adhyaapikaa, apraapya pralayah Taamaseva anuman; Great Preceptress, if I am denied extinction permit me to persist only in the mode of Darkness.
She knew he would finish her. She fancied that she felt the wind which ran before his blade as it cut the air.
The blow never came; an eternity might have passed.
Slowly, impressions began to form; first in her mind, then through her eyes: vague shadows. A greenish light.
A tree.
No: The Tree.
Praartha! I beg you! Taamaseva, praartha!.
"That is denied you," a voice said firmly. "And would be in any case. You are in the Womb of Qinthei. You stand before the Tree. I am Nehael."
"You presume to judge me?" Yeshe smiled weakly as her senses returned. "Or suborn me to your cause?"
"You invoked me. I interceded: I asked the Ahma to stay his blow. He indulged me. Had you died with my name on your lips, you would have been mine for a while ere I released you again into the world, or kept you here: I spared myself the dilemma. Did you not know? I am the Image of Uedii. The World is Mine."
Yeshe cursed Nehael roundly: the Binder felt her strength was quickly returning to her; this place bestowed some remarkable regenerative power.
"You are welcome," Nehael said easily. "I will not trouble you further. You may stay or go, as you please. Nothing threatens you here; more importantly, nothing is threatened by you."
The Goddess vanished from Yeshe's perception.
Yeshe stared at the Tree.
A rustle behind her made her hurl a death spell instinctively: its power manifested as a barely audible hiss.
"That doesn't work," the voice contained an air of condescension. "Rumor has it that Oronthon's Adversary managed acorns." Its owner's hide was dry and leathery, almost wooden. As tall as a man, it might have been some forest spirit. It had restless power; Yeshe could feel it.
"What is your agenda?" Yeshe demanded.
"To dominate."
"You were Rimilin," Yeshe intuited.
"I am still very much Rimilin," Rimilin bowed with exquisite sarcasm. "Although, for a while I was not. I have acquired a new skin. I am adapting to circumstances."
This one I can deal with, Yeshe knew.
"Gu-analas yet abide near the Blackthorn," Rimilin ventured. "The ludja will soon awaken. When it does; deeper shades of Green – more perylene – will be revealed. The Ak'Chazar knows this."
"What else?" Yeshe demanded.
"In Wyre, we have a custom regarding the exchange of information; I will forego it on this occasion, as a courtesy: the Urn is here. At the Ahma's principal abode in Western Trempa. Soneillon has it."
The Urn. "And why is Rimilin still here?" She asked, suspiciously.
The wizard nodded toward the Tree. "I have yet to discover a compelling reason to leave."
The Binder snorted. "You are weak. Trapped."
"Certainly not; at least, no more than you – as you will discover. You merely need to find a compelling reason to leave."
**
The Ahma watched on in horror as the Ú acted upon the shattered Cheshnite ranks. It neither entirely devoured, nor tore asunder, nor engulfed those whom it touched; hideous transformations overcame some of them. His own knights recoiled from it.
A great, basso profundo noise emanated from it, flattening the enemy troops in a wide swathe for a furlong ahead. Others were routing away from it now; what had been intended – or at least, Eadric had foreseen – as a quick, hit-and-run attack, was turning into a decisive victory, and in a matter of moments.
As he offered a prayer of thanks to both Tree and Sun, an ominous shadow rolled across his mind. He glanced around. Where was Nwm? And for that matter, Ortwine?
Mostin alighted next to him in human form, but still appearing to Eadric through the Eye of Palamabron as a writhing mass of tentacles. Nearby, Hlioth looked at the Alienist and his conjured servant with utter revulsion.
"Get used to it," Mostin smiled wearily. "Next time there will be three of them."
[Mazikreen]: I seek audience with the Ahma.
Eadric groaned. What now?
**
Queen Soneillon was occupying Kyrtill's Burh. Many hundred demons had joined her.
Eadric received the news by saying nothing, and squinting.
The succubus who brought it – Mazikreen – was alluring even by the standards of her species, and possessed a grace of movement which rivalled that of Ortwine. Eadric did not know it, but she had once herself been Queen of a dismal realm which no longer existed. Wielding wide dominion, Graz'zt had tried – and failed – to seduce her. He had bribed her with more success.
"What of Caur, and Hawi, and the others?" Eadric finally asked.
"They remain unmolested, by command of Soneillon."
The Ahma examined Mazikreen's face. The Queen of Throile, he knew, played a slow game.
[Mostin]: Do not presume to understand her. She has achieved a great rapture.
Mostin was mad; Eadric had no idea what he meant.
[Mostin]: Soneillon, not this one.
[Eadric]: I still fail to understand.
[Mostin]: There are some facts regarding Soneillon of which I have not yet had the opportunity to apprise you.
Mazikreen smiled. "Soneillon thanks the Ahma for his continued hospitality. She asks me to remind him that he has always been a gracious host, and that she has always acted with restraint and decorum when lodging with him. She assures him that his servants, the townsfolk of Deorham, and the numerous pilgrims nearby are currently quite safe."
"Tell her they had better remain so," Eadric growled. "I will hold her personally responsible for every last bad dream experienced during her presence."
[Mostin]: You are willing to suffer this indignity?
[Eadric]: What choice do I have? I cannot open another front at present. And something remains unspoken.
The Blackthorn, he knew.
**
**
In the shades of the courtyard, hard beside the sanctum sanctorum which Kaalaanala had taken to herself, a Tree stirred. A single shoot unfurled upon a slender, thorned twig. Eight hundred miles away, near Deorham, another whispered in response. At Kyrtill's Burh, the Sun seemed to dim. Standing atop the Steeple, clad in protective darkness, Soneillon stiffened and felt a frisson run through her. At last.
In Jashat, Kaalaanala vomited black fire. Her effluvia took form, and sped westward towards Fumaril in an orgy of fiery destruction, heedless of the limit which had previously circumscribed her.
**
**
Beneath Mostin's Infernal Tower, amidst the dead and striken, Eadric prepared to mount Narh again. Something was encroaching at the limit of Lukarn's light. It was coming from Jashat, moving at terrible speed; molten earth was being churned a thousand feet into the air above it, where it evaporated in a disintegrating fire.
"No." Mostin guessed the Ahma's intent.
"Then what? What is it?"
"We fly," Mulissu said. "Get everyone wind walking. I will give the order to evacuate Fumaril."
She vanished. A number of other mages – including Daunton – took the opportunity to absent themselves.
"Huhng," Mostin groaned. "There are others."
"Other whats?"
"Effluxions. Avatars. It would appear that Kaalaanala is feeling a little less coy than previously."
"I must return to Fumaril."
"Forget Fumaril. There is no time. We go north, to Galda."
"I will not yield Fumaril," Eadric thundered. "We return. You think of something. And where the hell are Nwm and Ortwine?"
"Not in this world," Mostin snapped. "I should have told Daunton to do an interplanar version. Alas, I cannot think of everything." He forced a calm upon himself, and spoke slowly, as though to a child. "Eadric: we have to go. Fumaril is lost. Mulissu understands this. Even if you could get there in time, you could not organize the defense; even if you could do that, it would be swept away. Eadric: Kaalaanala's avatar. Do you understand?"
"Ortwine!" The Ahma screamed.
I hear your prayer. We are in Sisperi; in Mulhuk. With Visuit. Actually, a little help might be useful; her mood is terse. I have tried winning her with banter, but she does not seem amenable. Go [here].
Mostin jerked his head; a great gate in his tower opened. "Come on."
Eadric cursed. He quickly despatched devas as messengers to the garrison at Fumaril and to the main camp at Galda: respectively, flee and fortify.
He gave the order, and a swift mist flowed inside the tower. The Ahma himself was last, gazing at the torrent of dark fire as it drove down on them. As Lukarn was sheathed and borne within, the light dimmed and all was again gloom and shadow.
The tower vanished.
Inside, the illumination was ruddy; a great marshalling hall beneath a lofty, vaulted ceiling. Mostin was in human form.
"I am feeling uneasy," Eadric said.
"This will be tricky," Mostin conceded. "But I have a strategy."
"And that would be?"
"We stay alive for twenty-four hours more," the Alienist replied. "Tomorrow Mostin the Metagnostic will be fully rested."
The gates of the tower swung open.
Eadric inhaled sharply. Before him, a slender Aspen reared; surely the most elegant tree he had ever seen. An exuberant joy possessed him.
"Don't get too carried away," Nwm said drily. "It isn't helping any."
"I have lost Fumaril."
"Fumaril was a feint," Nwm spoke through gritted teeth. "Visuit is here."
"Fumaril was no feint. Where is Ortwine?"
"With Lai. Attempting to draw the Butcher away from Jaliere's forge; he has sealed himself in with his smiths. Rhul is seeking aid from Saes; I do not rate his chances. Ortwine appears to be demonstrating loyalty."
A sensation impacted on Eadric's perception; then another; then another.
Akma..kma..Akma
"What?"
"Your priests are invoking you for protection," Nwm nodded. "I hope you don't disappoint them."
"What are my chances?"
"Dismal," Nwm smiled sympathetically.
* Qematiel is the swiftest of all wyrms, and may be the fastest of all flying creatures (barring some pseudonatural aberrations, which might not exactly "fly"). She can move up to 7500ft in one round at full speed: Qematiel can fly about as fast as an F-16.
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