Another Post...
As his opponent rapidly closed with him, Ortwin felt the strange sensation of a light breeze which seemingly issued from her. It wafted coolly over him, simultaneously agreeable and disquieting. She had an exotic quality which he could not place.
Ortwin, who rightly considered himself one of the most accomplished swordsmen in Wyre, immediately found himself on the defensive against his opponent’s slender blade. She launched into a series of maneuvers which Ortwin had only read about in the most advanced theoretical textbooks, penetrating his guard three times in her opening flurry and striking with deadly accuracy. Where the point of the rapier penetrated his flesh, a numb feeling remained in his body, as though nerve endings were deadened. The Bard’s acute instinct, honed by years of practice, was shamed by her perfection of form and technique. From the outset, he knew he was outclassed..
Those who observed saw only a flurry of steel, which raced faster than their own thoughts. Mostin, who had indulged himself in learning to use the rapier from an early age – more through whimsy than due to any natural talent – was speechless. He invoked a spell in order to ascertain the extent of her magical armamentarium, in an effort to distinguish her natural ability from any augmentations that she might carry: casual observation was impossible due to the speed of the exchange.
After her initial onslaught, Ortwin recovered somewhat and adopted a defensive stance with his scimitar and pick flashing through the air in a complex dance of warding actions whilst he considered his options. His sword flicked out once during the period and struck her, drawing a long but shallow welt on her forearm, but failed to elicit even a grimace of discomfort.
Noticing his posture, Ortwin’s opponent smiled and assumed a counter-screening position whilst her rapier flicked out in rapid succession – tap-tap-tap-tap-tap – oh Gods, thought Ortwin, that’s too fast she’s trying to – SH*T.
His pick dropped from his left hand and fell to the floor.
"Aaargh!" Ortwin screamed, lurching forwards.
Her weapon flashed, penetrating his shoulder. Holding his scimitar in both hands, the Bard smashed it into her rapier with all of his force. And again. And again. Each time she turned the assault, and sparks flew. But now a look of horror mixed with disgust crossed her face.
"That’s a cheap trick, you bastard," she said, "now I’m going to fill you full of holes." But she eyed the scimitar with a look of renewed caution. It had a reputation almost as notorious as the Bard himself.*
Lunge-thrust-stab-stab-jab. Her rapier was everywhere, stabbing at his hand, his neck, his shoulder, his leg, his face. And it was leeching him, somehow. Ortwin noticed that the wound on his adversary’s forearm had almost closed up. He looked at his own body. He WAS full of holes. Ugh. But he could break that cursed rapier – he knew it. Just one, solid contact – that’s all it would take. Githla could cut through damn near anything.
But she was right. It was a cheap trick, and proved nothing.
Ortwin lowered his weapon and yielded. He bowed with a flourish.
"My gratitude for the instruction," he said smoothly.
"You’re welcome," she said, and walked straight past him towards Mostin.
"Mostin the Metagnostic, I presume?" She asked. Her breeze floated over him.
"Aargh!" Cried Mostin from underneath the floppy, wide-brimmed hat which covered his face. He cast a quickened ‘Dimension Door’ and vanished.
**
"My name is Iua," she explained after the now heavily-buffed Alienist had been located by Nwm and a partially healed Ortwin, and brought back to the Inn. "You have met my mother."
"Ngarrgh!" cried Mostin, and began to cast ‘Disintegrate.’
"Mulissu…" the woman said quickly.
"Aah," said Mostin, interrupting his spell and relaxing a little.
"My mother sends greetings, and congratulates you on your transcendence. She hopes you are well."
"Perfectly fine, thank-you," Mostin said, tightly. He was still nervous.
"I also suspect that she would approve of your caution, although it is rather disturbing to me. She wonders if you have heard of the mages Kothchori and Qiseze?"
"By reputation, although not personally," Mostin replied. Kothchori dwelt on an island three thousand miles to the south, and Qisesze had long since retired to her elemental hideaway.
"Regrettably Qiseze is now deceased," Iua informed him, "desiccated and burned with acid. Kothchori is deranged, and suffers from the effects of a powerful enchantment. He had been due to meet with Mulissu, but never showed. Kothchori had a reputation for excruciating punctiliousness and my mother, who was suspicious after he was five minutes late, made a rare translation to the prime to investigate. She found his stronghold infested with demons who were roasting one of his servants.
"Mulissu drove off the fiends and rescued the servant – an unfortunate sprite by the name of Orolde. He informed her that Feezuu – with whom I believe you are acquainted – had stormed the castle. She stole Kothchori’s spellbooks. The mage himself was finally located in the Western Ocean swimming with a pod of whales – he makes little sense when spoken with. Orolde said that Feezuu first attempted to barter with his master before laying waste to the stronghold. Apparently Kothchori demanded that she leave in no uncertain terms, and this angered the Cambion."
"When did this happen?" Mostin asked.
"Three days ago," Iua replied. "My mother visited me in Fumaril and instructed me to warn you. She procured a number of items in the city before making a translation to the Plane of Air. I have ridden hard to reach you."
"Very hard, apparently," the Bard remarked drily.**
Iua ignored the comment.
"Did Kothchori possess the ‘Discern Location’ dweomer?" Mostin asked, aghast.
"I have no idea," Iua replied. "He was a powerful Transmuter, but I don’t know the details of his auxiliary powers. Mulissu has also speculated that Feezuu may be in pursuit of the spell."
Mostin considered for a while. "I must confer with your mother," the Alienist said.
Iua grimaced. "She will not admit it, but I suspect that she is feeling nervous herself. She has no way to ward herself from sustained magical sight and, although her location is known to only a few, it must have crossed her mind that Feezuu may try to pinpoint her as a candidate for possession of the spell."
A spell which I gave her, Mostin mused. The irony was not lost on him.
"What do you mean, she cannot ward herself?" He asked.
"Neither abjurations nor illusions are within Mulissu’s capabilities," Iua said hesitantly. "I think she herself regrets some of the hastiness of her youth when she made choices about the path she would take."
Mostin shook his head. Something didn’t add up. "When I scried your mother some time ago, she dispelled my sensor – although I admit that I was surprised to find that she was not already warded. How is this possible if abjuration is proscribed to her?"
"At great personal cost," Iua replied. "She can still alter reality to suit her whim. I suspect that she would rather do that than admit to weakness in any area."
A ‘Limited Wish’, probably, Mostin thought. No wonder she had been annoyed with him. "Why was she travelling to the Elemental Plane of Air?" The Alienist asked.
"She was attempting to petition my father, in the hope that he prove less evasive and unforthcoming than usual."
"Er," said Ortwin, "who is your father, if you don’t mind me asking?"
"A djinn, called Ulao," she sighed.
Nwm stroked his beard. Mostin had some rather peculiar acquaintances.
After the Druid and Alienist departed, Ortwin purchased another flagon of firewine and nursed his battered ego.
"You are a most capable swordsman, Ortwin," Iua said condescendingly.
Ortwin grinned venomously.
"I have been keeping abreast of events here in Wyre," she continued. "Tell me, are you committed to the Transaxiomatic cause?"
"Why?" He asked. She was digging, and he didn’t like it.
"I’m merely curious," she said. "I find all restrictive regimes tedious, and although I have no particular vested interest in the way things turn out here, it would be a shame to see this opportunity for libertarianism fail."
The Bard sighed. She was still young, and probably idealistic.
"No," she replied to his thoughts. "I am a thrill-seeking opportunist, like you."
"That is very rude," Ortwin said. "Please get out of my mind."
"Look around, Ortwin. Trempa is normally a sedate, respectable town. Look at all of the other thrill-seeking opportunists who are here. All of these disreputable people, descending on the place. Have you forgotten what it’s like to be in the thick of it?"
Ortwin tried to suppress a grin. If only she knew.
"But of course, I do know," Iua said, causing the Bard to scowl again. "How would you like to strike a blow for the rebel movement which you half-heartedly support, and make a fabulous amount of money at the same time?"
Ortwin raised an eyebrow. "You’ve piqued my interest," he admitted. Denying it would be futile.
"We need a mage. A very powerful one, like Mostin. Can you persuade him?"
Ortwin groaned. This sounded irresistibly dangerous.
"Good," Iua said, raising her glass. Ortwin raised his own, and, for a second wondered why he just couldn’t help himself.
Before grinning and resigning himself to his basic nature. He looked at Iua.
"No," she said, "you may not."
Ortwin shrugged. It was always worth a try.
**
Mostin and Nwm sat in Mulissu’s glass refectory.
"Nice pad," the Druid had remarked.
"She had no right to disclose that kind of information to you," the Witch snapped at Mostin. Minute sparks flew from her head, ionizing the air and causing the two mephits who fluttered nearby to clap their hands gleefully.
"Ooh, she’s angry Mostin," one said.
"Yes, Mostin," the other chimed in. "Be careful."
Mostin ignored them. "How could you be so short-sighted as to eschew abjuration?" He asked her.
Mulissu shrugged. "One cannot master everything," she sighed, her characteristic languor quickly returning, "and I have no interest in making enemies. I just want to be left alone."
"You daughter is intriguing," Mostin tactfully changed the subject. "When I saw her fight, it was the finest example of swordsmanship that I have ever witnessed. Her elemental heritage sits well with her."
Mulissu smiled sadly, and shook her head. "If she’d studied magic, her powers would have surpassed mine by far. But she is too fickle and undisciplined."
Mostin said nothing. Fickleness came in many forms.
Nwm coughed, and looked at the Alienist. Mostin winced, and gritted his teeth. "I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you, Mulissu," he said.
The Witch stared at him impassively.
"When I made the translation to Limbo in an attempt to eliminate Feezuu, I encountered her master – a demon named Ainhorr."
Mulissu raised an eyebrow.
"I may have angered him. I should remind you that your pocket paradise is not the Prime. It is not forbidden to him."
"My evocations are primarily electrical, Mostin…" she said.
"Yes," he replied. "That may prove unfortunate, under the circumstances."
Mulissu seethed, and for a moment, Mostin thought that she was about to cast a spell on him. He readied himself for what might be an overwhelming magical assault, but did not flee. Although changeable, as a potential ally Mulissu was without peer. He must not show any sign of weakness.
The Witch did not blast Mostin. Instead, she shouted at him.
"You have been selfish and irresponsible, Mostin," she yelled, "and have lacked all foresight in this matter. You capture Rurunoth, and imprison him, thus demonstrating your potency. The point is made. Well done. But you do not stop there. Feezuu. Ainhorr? Even I have heard of this Balor, Mostin, and I am no demonologist. This must cease, or you will be dragged screaming to the Abyss. My own security is now jeopardized, and you make flippant remarks. The time for wit is long past, Mostin."
Even the Mephits ceased their careening to watch their mistress. Mostin spoke carefully.
"I apologize, Mulissu, if my actions have precipitated this series of events. But if circumstances had been kinder, then I would have eliminated Feezuu permanently, curbed her fiendish influence across several worlds, and removed a painful thorn from the collective ass of the magical community. You told me yourself that it was within my power to accomplish this."
"Had I known the byzantine intricacies of your own situation then I might have been more cautious." She snapped.
"What’s done is done," Nwm said softly. "I, too encouraged Mostin to assault Feezuu, and I feel some responsibility in the matter. The question now is ‘how do we proceed?’"
"I think that there is no ‘we’ in this, Druid," Mulissu said sardonically. "I am not being drawn into the political mess that you are in. I certainly have no interest in demons. Or celestials for that matter. I am surprised that you do."
"Then why did you contact me?" Mostin hissed.
"To give you fair warning," Mulissu said. "If Feezuu approaches me for the spell, I may be inclined to trade with her."
"You cannot be serious!" Mostin exclaimed. "You despise her."
"I am wary of her also," Mulissu said. "Ulao will not aid me. Feezuu’s acid evocations combined with a fiendish resistance to my spells make me nervous. If she conjures demons, or is accompanied by them, my power is effectively curtailed. And I cannot resort to Sonics in the same way that you can. In terms of raw power, I am virtually unmatched, but I have few wards."
"A pre-emptive strike by the two of us…" the Alienist began.
"No!" Mulissu exclaimed. "Have you been listening to a word that I’ve been saying, Mostin? I am NOT being drawn into this."
The Alienist thought for a moment. "If you insist on the quiet life, Mulissu, I may be able to help you," he said.
The Witch looked quizzically at Mostin.
"I have not been idle since the failed assault upon Feezuu," he explained. "I have found a means to render ‘Mordenkainen’s Magnificent Mansion’ permanent."
Mulissu’s jaw dropped.
"Are you willing to trade the formula?" The Witch asked.
"I will give it to you," Mostin replied. "I owe you that much, at least."
The Alienist thought of Qiseze and Kothchori, mages whom he had never met, yet the loss of whose unique intellects he nonetheless lamented. In his abstract, cerebral way, he felt something akin to remorse.
**
The Great Hall of the Ducal Palace thronged with armoured warriors, their retainers and servants as the Duchess, Eadric, Tahl, Nwm, Nehael and Mostin took counsel together with the knights, captains and bannermen of Trempa. Foremost amongst them – the handful of Templars who had deserted with Tahl, and the Paladins who had elected to remain when the Fane was taken over – crowded Eadric with a look of religious awe on their faces that made him feel uneasy. Their fervour was not shared by many of those present.
"We must resign ourselves to the inevitability of war, but we may not, ourselves, initiate any action…" the Duchess began. She was immediately interrupted by Ryth, the Thane of Har Kumil.
"Bullsh*t!" He exclaimed. "We should catch them while their pants are down. Tomur is within range and I can lead a mounted sortie to storm the Bishop’s Palace."
Several voices were raised in support.
"Shut up, Ryth," said Nwm. The Thane, an avowed pagan, although loyal to the Duchess, was not renowned for his subtlety. Although Nwm liked the middle-aged nobleman, he found his bloodlust somewhat depressing. As a Uediian, Nwm felt that he should have at least some respect for the Druid’s opinion. Ryth was an iconoclast in all respects, however.
"If you got off of your priestly arse and did something to help us," Ryth retorted, "then we’d have no problem. You could burn them up for us, and we could finish them off."
"Aargh!" Nwm yelled. "Will you SHUT UP. All possibilities will be discussed, but the agenda of this meeting is not going to be dictated by you."
The Duchess waited for the clamour to subside before continuing.
"We must not initiate any act of war beyond Trempa’s borders. That much has been revealed to Eadric in his visitation."
The statement was greeted by assenting murmurs from the Oronthonian knights, scepticism from amongst the more agnostic members of the nobility, and by open disdain from Ryth and others in the Uediian party.
Eadric sighed. It was going to be a long day.
*Ortwin’s blade, Githla, was forged by the Azer smith Jodrumu at the behest of Druhmo of Borchia, one of the precursor states of modern Wyre. Jodrumu was considered one of the greatest smiths of his age, prior to his enslavement by the Fire Giants. When he refused to capitulate to their demands, he was maimed before being released. Unable to create more of his masterpieces, Jodrumu wandered for years before finally going mad and taking his own life.
**Fumaril, also the original home of Mulissu herself, is eight hundred miles from Trempa in the Thalassine.
