Raishe pored through the decaying documents for the thousandth time, finally ready to give in and activate the dormant technology hiding in his cells. It was a dangerous process, for his control over the nanocyte clusters was waning with each activation. As much as he would enjoy the automatic rejuvenation processes, the cellular cleansing that would undo the accumulated damage of the last ten years, such changes would mark him as an outsider.
He had pills, supplements of various naturally occurring toxins that would disable specific functions of the nanocytes. If he’d calculated the dosage correctly, they wouldn’t cause any permanent harm. Still, it was a colossal risk to take, especially for something as simple as processing power.
And yet, he had to have it. His gut told him the same man had written all five of the reports he’d worked so hard to acquire. Marked “Emperor’s Eyes Only”, these missives were in archives that didn’t even officially exist. Even having achieved his exalted position within the Empire of Rose, the favored agent of the Secret Service: Internal Division, he had only ever heard rumors that these documents existed.
He’d acted on a hunch that had proven correct, and now he needed to confirm a second hunch. He believed Vardaman, the empire’s Minister of Economics, had held the position for over a century. The last five ministers, if not more, had all been the same man.
The previous minister, Tenegor, had died in public view over twenty years ago. His heart had been pierced by an assassin’s crossbow bolt, with hundreds of witnesses swearing to the event. But Raishe hadn’t been there. He hadn’t personally witnessed the cremation of the body, and that made everything suspect. He’d dealt with enough lycanthropes, undead, wizards, and just plain unclassified monsters, to know that appearances should be taken with a grain of salt.
Raishe trusted nothing but his own instincts, which is what made him such a good agent. But his instincts were now leading him into dangerous territory. Bit by bit, as he’d watched the empire implement economic policies that he knew were flawed, he’d become convinced errors were intentional.
For over one hundred years, the empire had propped itself up with interventions that appeared to work, but only set the stage for a greater disaster later. Currently, the mint was churning out millions of coins a day, made from worthless iron but officially valued the same as the talent, an old coin with a core of silver. The empire’s money should be devaluing daily, but an odd trick was keeping most of it out of circulation.
Banks were paid to hoard the coins. Meanwhile, on paper, imaginary fortunes were being made, as investors were trading various properties for extravagant sums. The empire was deeply in debt, with the printing of these iron rounds the only way to pay it off. Yet, that debt was being compared to the imaginary wealth trading ever day, and the emperor was assured that the debt was smaller compared to the size of the economy, than it had been in generations.
An economic disaster was looming, and it had been carefully set up over decades if not centuries.
This wasn’t Raishe’s job to investigate, but he was loyal to a fault to those he served. If the empire were being sabotaged, he would do anything to reveal that crime and hopefully mitigate the coming disaster.
Now, after months of bribery, blackmail, and even more sordid acts, Raishe held what he suspected was his proof. The handwriting was different on each of the documents of course, but that meant nothing. The man, or creature, that had long been working to bring ruin to the empire, would be far too clever for a simple mistake like that. It wouldn’t be able to fool a linguistic analysis though. The sample size was more than large enough to determine if the same author had written each of these letters.
This world suffered a dearth of computing technology though. Even the surviving tech of fallen empires, from the ring portal network of the Talnacs, to the crude machines of the demons, had nothing like even a simple calculator. The only computer capable of running the linguistic analysis was the one implanted in Raishe’s head, the one connected to the augmentation system that would make him superhuman, and simultaneously give away his cover.
In the end, there really wasn’t a choice. He needed the linguistic analysis. If all went well, he’d never be able to reveal its existence. But that didn’t matter. Once he had proof, he didn’t necessarily need to bring it before the emperor. Once he was sure, he could take care of Vardaman on his own. He’d killed dozens of men in the name of the empire, and a handful of creatures far more deadly. The emperor had not known about any of them. This would be just one more assassination.
Waking the hibernating systems was a simple task, something he had practiced countless times before crashing on this impossible planet. It took him mere minutes to guide his brainwaves into the correct pattern, amplifying some signals while attenuating others. Microscopic capacitors began to charge, but nothing woke immediately. Protections were built in against flukes, random bursts of altered consciousness. So Raishe held his mind steady while minute voltages climbed, his thoughts flowing effortlessly in his heightened state of awareness.
Organic fuzzy logic transistors finally flipped states, resembling nothing so much as firing neurons as they closed old circuits. All that remained now was to wait.
As simple as the process was, it was even more anticlimactic. The nanocytes, for all their cleverness were still unaware. They could only follow hardcoded instructions, and those commands fell into a strict hierarchy. There was no sudden burst of strength, no surge of awareness as various sensors integrated with Raishe’s brain. That would come later. First came damage control.
Raishe’s DNA had changed over the past decade, picking up epigenetic tags on a daily basis, as well as the occasional mutation of nuclear or mitochondrial base pairs. Those changes were being reversed, cell by cell. Over the next few hours, Raishe’s biological clock would effectively roll back. Only when that was complete would the more advanced, and less critical, features begin to activate.
A scroll suddenly popped onto Raishe’s desk, fed from the pneumatic tube below. Several seals had been pressed into the wax, telling the common man nothing, but telling Raishe that this was a message from outside the agency, already viewed and approved for transmission by his superiors. Without even breaking the seals and opening the scroll, he knew this message originated from one of his contacts, and had been directed to one of his official aliases.
Raishe didn’t feel like dealing with any side projects at the moment, be he knew it would be at least several hours before he could activate the computer inside his brain and run its analysis programs. He might as well take advantage of any distraction that came his way.
The message turned out to be a request to meet in person, ASAP. The original had been copied and transcribed with flawless penmanship, but Raishe could almost see the sloppy strokes that must have come before. The language suggested great haste, and not a small degree of anxiety.
A minor informant called Kormash claimed to have proof of a plot against the emperor, and would only hand it directly to Pellis, the name Raishe always used with him. Kormash was a flighty drug addict, slightly paranoid even when sober, but he’d always had a way of stumbling upon information. He naturally went unnoticed, and people had no problem having candid conversations while he twitched and jerked on a dirty alley floor just ten feet away.
The man might be paranoid, but he wasn’t prone to exaggerating his own importance. If he said he had proof of a plot, he really believed he had it. Whether his “proof” amounted to anything was a different story.
The message didn’t say where to meet, but it didn’t need to. Despite his delusions of persecution, Kormash was highly predictable. It was just past dusk, halfway through the week, which meant there was only one place he could be.
Less than ten minutes later Raishe had donned a new face and its matching persona. It was amazing what an experienced hand could accomplish with nothing more than makeup. Some of the other agents preferred fancier disguises, but Raishe detested reliance upon memorable suits and paraphernalia. In a pinch, those agents were stuck with the identity they had chosen for the day. Raishe, however, could duck into the nearest shadow with nothing but the small kit in his pocket, and upon emerging five minutes later, nothing on this godforsaken backwater of a planet would recognize him.
Half an hour after finishing with his kit, Raishe settled into a corner of the opium den, keeping both eyes out for Kormash. He had chosen the face Kormash knew, Pellis, but the addict might be too preoccupied with his own demons to notice anything beyond his nose.
Officially, the empire didn’t tolerate these establishments, and the emperor himself would crack down hard whenever one came to his attention. So Raishe and the other agents did their best to keep its existence deep within the dark. If all such businesses were razed, the citizens would keep getting high. They’d just do it inside their own homes, where agents couldn’t overhear the secrets they murmured during the grip of their deliriums.
The internal division of the Secret Service didn’t need this particular venue though, not when others would do just as well. They kept it around because the owner was smart enough to know this. Even if he recognized an agent, operating at this location, he would never give it away. Other entrepreneurs, less keen to the balance of power, tended to suffer horrible accidents.
Raishe took a long drag on his custom pipe, inhaling little more than scented water vapor. The device was more than just a fake. A push of a button would shift practically microscopic passages within, instantly rendering it serviceable, in case some hypothetical contact should get his hands on it. Raishe/Pellis had never needed that trick, but it was better to be over prepared than under. If he never used half the preparations he made, he’d die a happy man.
A bicep cramped suddenly, electrical impulses contracting the muscle to the verge of internal mutilation. Raishe/Pellis ignored the pain, never letting a hint of the discomfort cross his face. He knew there would be moments like this, as his augmentation system rebooted various chemical storage clusters and inadvertently released their remaining contents in a few cases. He was just lucky the sodium imbalance hadn’t struck his heart. The transient dip wouldn’t have killed him, but it would have incapacitated him for a minute or two.
At least he knew his augmentation restore was proceeding smoothly, if it had reached this stage. ChemoStorage was a non-vital system, barely higher in the hierarchy than the processing algorithms he wanted.
A pair of men talked loudly at a nearby table, their conversation unusually lucid, and Raishe felt compelled to listen. Instinct sought to turn his head, but training kept his eyes on the door.
“If it barely has any military, how does it maintain its independence? We have a major highway straight to it. Why doesn’t the emperor just march an army over there and claim the city?”
“All his advisors know it’d be a bad move. The city is a great trading partner because it’s such a horrible match with our customs. If we tried to draw it into the empire, Tralgar’s economy would collapse. We’d have to prop it up, defend it and send it aid. It would instantly turn from an asset to a liability. Everyone knows this, so they just leave it alone.”
“Everyone certainly doesn’t know this. Since when are you such an expert?”
“I have a cousin there, a dentist. He tells all his clients that their teeth are weakening due to lack of protein, and that they should eat more meat. The butcher shop next door gives him a cut of their business. The whole city is like that relationship, and we’re the butcher shop. If we march next door and take over that office, we lose a lucrative partnership and gain a business we have no idea how to run.”
If Raishe hadn’t been watching so carefully for Kormash to arrive, if he hadn’t been trained to always maintain awareness of exits, he might not have noticed the newcomers in time. As it was, he had only an instant to spot the crossbow pointed his way and dive to the floor.
The bolt missed his head by inches, a surprisingly good shot for such a rapid approach. The attacker had barely opened the doorway when he fired.
Raishe jumped to his feet with his longsword drawn, planning to disable his attacker before the man could reload. Intuition caused him to change plans and whirl, just avoiding the thrust from the man behind him. It seemed the two speakers were part of this ambush, their elevated voiced intended to distract him.
The man in the lead came armed with a long dagger, while his partner carried a short club. Both moved like they’d had some military training, but neither was as strong or fast as Raishe. With his augmentation system just beginning to boost his physical abilities, their deficits were even greater. It took only a moment to cut them both down, a single swipe taking out the first before he could recover from his lunge, and a reverse swing catching the second in the ribs as he raised his club.
Raishe side-stepped the weakly descending weapon of the dying second man. Then he turned back to the door, spotting the shooter with less than a second to spare. Again he threw himself towards safety, trying to reach a nearby wall. This time the bolt tore into his left arm. At least it hadn’t been his chest.
Raishe danced back the way he had come and charged the doorway. The sniper was armed with a variant of crossbow he’d never seen in the Empire of Rose, a design slightly less powerful, but far easier to reload. The man was firing at least once every three seconds.
Raishe reached the doorway before the man could reload for a third attempt, swinging his sword down at the weapon. Strings and wires snapped, but the device remained largely intact, well-made for a foreign weapon.
The attacker shoved his now useless crossbow at Raishe and turned to run. The agent could have skewered the fleeing man right then, if he’d gambled everyone on a lunge. Gut instincts saved him again, as he instead ducked and rolled through the doorway. Axe blades struck from either side, just missing him. One buried itself in the wall of the opium den, while the other bounced off the cobblestones.
Raishe regained his feet already turning and slashing. Even with just one good arm, he was far faster than the two axe warriors. His first cut went to the man who still wielded a free weapon, slicing into the man’s shoulder and reaching bone. His second cut tore out the man’s neck, ending any fight that remained in him.
The other fighter had given up trying to free his axe from the surprisingly greedy wood, pulling the knife that was his backup weapon. He lunged for Raishe, but was no where near fast enough to close the distance. Raishe easily slid away from the man, his longsword striking out once more and finding yet another throat.
Raishe turned, his first thought to pursue the crossbowman, but to his surprise the assailant had already vanished. No regular soldier could melt away that quickly and silently. So that meant he’d been ambushed by four soldiers and a foreign assassin. It was no easy feat, requiring far more resources than would be possessed by any of his known enemies.
A ping that only Raishe could hear began to sound within his head. His analysis program was finally online.
Other alerts were making their way to his conscious awareness now, messages relaying the detection first of damage, and then of a toxic substance introduced to his blood stream. ChemoStorage had already released binding agents to render the poison inert until it could be flushed from his body. He’d soon fall ill from its effects, but he’d survive.
As Raishe snuck away to one of his hidden safe houses, his analysis program running silently, he vowed revenge. He didn’t need confirmation from the computer to know what had happened. The damned Minister of Economics had figured out that Raishe was investigating him, and had decided to act first. If Raishe were any other man, he’d be dead.
But he wasn’t any other man, as that cursed Minister would soon realize. Raishe intended to make sure the looming sunrise was the last one that Vardaman ever saw.
The Reaver walked among scores of his enemies, confident in the power of his glamour. Arrogant even. He stood tall and glorious, his black wings appearing white with a luminous purity none of the other angels could hope to match.
It was an oddly humorous effect, that his powers were strongest in the heart of his enemy’s realm. In his own domain, those with powerful minds could sometimes see through his illusions, and even the weak-willed would eventually realize there was something wrong with their perceptions. His psionic ability required sustained concentration, and his mental power wasn’t unlimited after all.
Right now though, he shaped the sensations of those around him almost unconsciously. Power surged invisibly from his orb, safely hidden thousands of miles away, driving into his being with no regard to distance. His opposite, the Regent, was likewise drawing an increased supply.
Regent, Reaver, light and dark orbs, they were all connected. It was part of the great lie, the fable that set the so called “pure” angels against their “fallen” brethren. The truth was that whether you worshipped a singular God as the Regent preferred, or the Celestial Pantheon as was becoming increasingly popular, no ear turned their way. They were a forsaken race.
The power that flowed through the leaders of the dual factions, trickling down to all the angels at their command, was not divine in origin. It was bestowed by a pair of orbs, ancient artifacts of either high technology or high magic, far beyond the ability of mortal beings to now duplicate.
Despite their physical separation, it was clear to the Reaver that the orbs were a single entity. They were like two halves of a magnet, neither existing on its own. Each half chose a sentient being as its outlet, channeling power into that creature. The two champions became linked with each other in turn, though the nature of their connection was beyond their ability to control.
Now that the Reaver had come so close to his rival, that connection strengthened. It thickened the circuit that they formed, in conjunction with the orbs, and it allowed the mysterious energy to flow at ever increasing rates. The Regent would feel it too, and would know that the Reaver had responded to his summons.
He sometimes wished that he could stay here forever, basking in the might he felt. He was invincible, for his psionic power generated an aura so strong that none could dare oppose him. None but the gods, worthless beings that had long fled this universe, could even look upon him and not love him.
But the rest of the fallen angels would devolve to chaos without his leadership, and he could never guide them from afar. A delicate balance maintained the lie that gave their race hope, that kept it from despair and mass suicide. He knew the Regent would never cooperate with such selfishness, even if the fickle natured orbs would accept it.
The Reaver had long known that the artifacts were sentient in their own way, and he suspected that they had desires and agendas of their own. The continued propagation of his race seemed to play into their plans, for there was a long history of Reavers and Regents who lost their connection after nearly breaking the ancient stalemate.
This close, their power almost visibly arcing as it drew them together, Reaver and Regent could feel each other’s precise location. So the Reaver didn’t need to ask for directions as he walked through the sloping halls of the tower. Fools, he thought. Why had they ever built this structure according to the needs of ground dwellers?
Far away, the Reaver had built his own tower using far more natural designs. There were no closed spaces, hidden away with walls and ceilings. There were no stairs and ramps, spiraling from the ground level to the uppermost roosting areas. No, his tower was an open cylinder, crisscrossed with ropes and chains that supported hundreds of nests. It was a fortress for those who chose not to walk, but to soar.
And that was the dichotomy. Pride. Those who followed the Regent lacked it. They embraced humility, never daring to question the orders they were given or the customs they followed. They couldn’t even be called sentient, in the Reaver’s opinion.
And then there were those who opened their eyes, who realized they were destined for more than mindless servitude. The blood of Archons, warriors of Celestia, ran through their veins. They had the strength to rule, to conquer, if only they would use it.
Once an angel began thinking along those lines, the change was inevitable. He might hide it for a while, plucking the feathers that darkened. But soon, it would be impossible to conceal the changes to his wings, announcing to all the others that he put his own identity before obedience to the collective. The other angels would kill him then, if they could. Often, that was the result.
A few escaped before any noticed the change. Those outcasts either lived short lives as solitary wanderers, or they joined the rebel army of the Reaver.
It was the job of Regent and Reaver to lead their forces, to continue an endless war and ensure that actual bloodshed was minimal. Minions were maneuvered like chess pieces, but very few engagements actually occurred. In this way, they kept their followers busy, filled with false purpose. They kept them from the realization that had once broken so many of their kind, all while their numbers slowly grew and their people slowly adapted.
The current Reaver-Regent pair had led for only a few decades, a fraction of the time that most reigned. This Reaver was more ambitious than most, with plans that might upset the balance of power and anger the orbs that chose them. This was something the Regent constantly worried over, and the Reaver expected this to be yet another pointless meeting spent reassuring the tiresome angel.
He walked past the two armored angels standing guard at the door to the Regent’s chambers, not even bothering to shove them aside. They moved out of his way of their own accord, for decorated and disciplined as these veteran warriors were, they were no match for the supernova of power radiating from him. Even had they recognized him as their sworn nemesis, they would have been helpless to stop him.
The Reaver stepped into his counterpart’s chambers, half dismayed to find the other angel seated at a desk of all things, and half excited by the emotions pervading the room. Practically touching, he and his rival were so powerful that their thoughts almost sprouted physical shape. The Reaver already knew this was no mundane scolding. The other was too emotional for that. He’d found something, something positive.
“I’d ask you to sit, but I know you’d only take it as an insult. You’re too obsessed with height, in all it’s forms, Callahan.”
The Reaver bristled at the use of his name. That had been his moniker when he was young and stupid, before he’d realized that all the teachings of his so-called superiors were lies. His wings had darkened with record speed, changing from pure white to obsidian black in the course of a single day. There hadn’t been time to plan, or prepare a departure, or even to contemplate hiding the shift to buy time. His “sin” had been detected almost at once.
He had escaped of course, killing three renowned soldiers in the process. During the months that followed, he honed his psionic talents as one of the wanderers. When he finally found the tower of fallen angels, his course was set. Pushing through the minds of those he encountered, taking all the knowledge they retained, he quickly saw through the final layers of the great charade.
He flew straight to the dark orb and opened his mind to its touch. He allowed the alien essence to judge him, never doubting the outcome. Minutes later, minutes that could have been an eternity, he was the Reaver. His predecessor, no longer able to safely contain the remnants of power trapped inside of him, was instantly destroyed. Callahan would soon realize this had killed the matched Regent as well, throwing his childhood home into chaos.
From that moment on, he had been the Reaver, settling into the title like none before him. Only the current Regent would dare call him Callahan. He could retort back of course, digging into the mind of his opponent to learn his previous name, but that would only legitimize the insult. No, despite the fury building inside, he would have to ignore the jab.
“What has you so excited? Are you going to share your discovery, or are you waiting for me to strip the knowledge from you? Perhaps you secretly enjoy the idea of such an invasion, of having your brain penetrated and ravaged. Is that your purpose?”
The Regent looked calm, but he couldn’t quite conceal his anxiety. There had been a moment, just half an instant really, when he worried his rival might actually succumb to madness and attempt such an act. He clamped down on his emotions, banishing all trace of fear before it could encourage the lunatic towering over him.
“I’ve discovered great potential in one of my students. I’ve tested him by strengthening my connection, and he has a natural affinity for the energy. He could bind with the orbs far more strongly than any angel ever recorded, and I’m sure they’ll sense it. He might even be able to bind with both of them.”
The Regent cleared his throat, pausing to wonder if Callahan understood the importance of the moment. He looked into the other’s dancing eyes, but all they returned was blazing hate. “He could be the one to recombine out factions and end our term of penance.”
The Reaver emitted a short bark, not quite an actual laugh. “You still believe that nonsense, despite everything?”
The Regent shrugged. “I believe that we are not originally of this plane, and that one day we shall return home. The Creator may not speak to me, as the majority of our people must be led to believe, but that doesn’t mean it’s all lies. Our punishment will end eventually.
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe that or not, Callahan. My pupil has the potential to be far stronger than either of us, and the orbs will sense this sooner or later. Unless we want to be destroyed like our predecessors, we must prepare for an orderly transfer of power.
“That’s why I’ve called you here. I’m going to send my student, Alacomenius, into the world for one year, as often happens. No one will suspect it’s really a temporary banishment to buy us time. I need you to shape his experience while he’s away, ensure he learns the truth, but too quickly.
“You understand that it’s in your best interest to help me, don’t you Callahan? Alacomenius needs adversaries to pit himself against, to bring out his latent abilities, but we must ensure he doesn’t come to harm. We have no idea how the orbs might react to such an event. Nor do we know how they’ll react if he learns the truth too quickly and it shatters his mind.”
The Regent’s mask slipped, showing great sorrow for a moment as he remembered all the angels who had killed themselves in the throes of madness, almost always through the same method. Nearly invariably, they would seek the nearest orb and throw themselves against it. Unable, or perhaps simply unwilling to connect with unstable minds, the orb would attempt to repel the clinging creatures with bursts of energy. The screaming angels would hold tight until they disintegrated, leaving only a slowly falling cloud of dust.
The Reaver noticed his rival’s pensive look, and his own gaze shifted from hate to contempt. There was nothing pitiful or regretful about death. The weak were culled, as it ought to be.
A strange thought occurred to the Reaver, the sort of brilliant scheme that only a madman can conceive of. “I’ll help. But I want something in return. You have a student with psionic potential, called Eve. I felt her mind as I passed through your degenerate hallways. Send her into the world as well.”
The Regent shook his head, but it was pity rather than disagreement. His rival thought his plans to create a dynasty were secret, but one didn’t always need the Reaver’s powers to see into a man’s mind. Some men, like Callahan, practically wore their ambitions on their sleeves.
“I’ll send her.” He knew the cost of that act. Callahan wouldn’t bother attempting what was essentially an impossible task, converting his target to the side of the fallen. He would just hollow out her brain instead, using his power to break open all mental barriers until he could reach inside. He’d scoop out all shreds of personality and free will, leaving a blank husk for his physical needs. Progeny guaranteed to inherit his psionic talent. That was what Callahan really wanted.
And the Regent would give it to him. He’s betray one of his own for the greater good, just like his Creator must have betrayed the angelic race thousands of years ago. The comparison was not lost on him.
The Reaver fled from that claustrophobic prison of a tower, not moments later. There was nothing more to say after all, and potentially much to lose, should he slip and reveal his thoughts.
Poor, predictable Regent, unable to change course and seek new paths. He must never guess what the Reaver had just realized. He need not be linked to the orb when Alacomenius finally fulfilled his “destiny”. He could withdraw, weaken his connection until he could survive the break. Let another then take his place, a patsy to briefly reign before the conflagration.
Alacomenius would become the Regent, and he, the true Reaver, would regain his connection to the dark orb. There was just one thing he needed first. A drug, sallin, that would boost his powers when he broke the connection, and ensure that even with the orb’s energy, his pawn could never pose a threat.
The Reaver took to the skies, but he flew not to the tower where he ruled. There was an island, home to a secret breeding program he’d uncovered when he scoured the mind of the previous Reaver. There, was his drug, his “just in case.”
Aelthi glided over the mangled corpses of his kindred, shocked into temporary disbelief. Scores were dead, the entire contingent of guardians who had been on duty at the time of the attack.
The birdmen, Raptorans they were called by the other races, lived exclusively in a single valley, nesting in the cliffs. Despite their meager territorial range, and their limited numbers, they were a prestigious race. They were old, in a way that could not be measured, for they had come from outside the normal flows of time. And they had a purpose that no other race came close to matching.
The narrow valley was known as the Bloodtime Canyon, named for the realm it bridged. Bloodtime, and the connected Silvertime, were the final remnants of a collapsing universe, one that no longer obeyed rules of space and time as were commonly understood.
At one end, the mountains faded to hills, faded to nothing, and the canyon opened up. At the other end of the V, the ranges combined, pinching together. Here, at the very limit, was a cave that could only be reached by one who had traveled the entire length of the canyon. Attempts had been made to scale down from above, but those explorers saw no opening. Parties that split and approached from multiple angles never met, or even more confusing, they did recombine but had divergent recollections of what they saw.
As far as anyone knew, anything leaving the Bloodtime to enter this universe, had to pass through the canyon in its entirety as well. No one knew what alien creatures attempting to fly above the cliffs would find, but none had ever been sighted.
It was the perfect bottleneck. A long canyon that had to be traversed. It would be nearly impossible to get past any defensive force that wished to block access. For hundreds of years, it had been impossible.
The Raptorans turned back the ignorant and the foolish, saving the lives of hundreds of travelers who had no idea just how dangerous the Bloodtime could be. And more importantly, the avian race prevented anything native to that other universe from crossing over.
The birdmen knew the menace posed, for they had come through themselves. Led by the mysterious Blue Man shortly after their dying universe had collided with this one, they had assumed their glorious role. Their species would live here, safe from the accelerating collapse, and in return they would keep this world safe. They would guard the bridge.
Aelthi had only just been inducted into the brotherhood of warriors, having passed trials of combat involving both the short spear, and the sling. Today he was to take his first watch among the exalted watchers at the cave mouth. Only one in ten Raptorans ever demonstrated sufficient skill to take such a dangerous and honored position.
There had been plenty of incursions before, and watchers were often wounded or killed. But Aelthi had never heard of carnage like this. Not once in since his race assumed their duty, had something made it past the sentries. Perhaps they were growing complacent in the relative safety of this world, and their standards were slipping. Or perhaps, more likely and more ominously, the Bloodtime was nearing the end of final collapse. In that case, its denizens would be increasingly desperate to escape. The challenge of guarding the valley would only grow.
Aelthi examined the scene of battle carefully. Whatever force attacked had left no fallen of its own, which meant they had taken their dead with them, or they had somehow slaughtered the birdmen without a single casualty. Most of the Raptorans would have been perched above the cave, ready to unleash a rain of arrows and enchanted stones from their slings.
The birdmen were poor fliers, better suited for gliding and using thermals to ascend. A creature that couldn’t fly itself, but could climb the sheer cliffs, might still be able to reach them and force them from the perches. If the air had been still, they would have ended on the ground before long. Deep gouges in the cliff face above the cave suggested this was the case.
That meant whatever got past here would be on foot, leaving tracks Aelthi could follow. Sure enough, he eventually found a short span of bloody prints on the rocky ground. There weren’t many, but enough for a natural tracker like Aelthi to make a few guesses as to what had left them.
It appeared to be a single creature with three pairs of legs. It was large, at least twenty feet long, and the claws that were capable of digging into solid rock were also retractable, for the prints were almost catlike.
As Aelthi managed to tease out details of the conflict, he began to identify patches of blood that weren’t from one of his kind. So the creature had been wounded, but it hadn’t bled for long, implying regenerative capacity. Aelthi would need to find special weapons to disrupt that ability before he caught up to the creature and fought it.
And he would catch the creature. His decision to track the monster that slew dozens of veteran warriors with ease might seem strange to members of the other sentient races, but the Raptorans had evolved a peculiar psychology. They were bound tightly as a species, yet they were extremely individualistic. Each member followed the established customs of his family and extended tribe, but made all decisions concerning his own honor and duty without input from others.
Aelthi should have been here, with the fallen. His first duty, before any other, was to prevent this creature from harming anything outside the valley. For the moment, this was the sole purpose of his existence. So he turned back and retraced his path along the valley floor, not even wasting energy wondering how the creature had gotten past him unseen.
It took two weeks to traverse the entire valley and enter the host universe proper. During that time Aelthi met several of his own kind and warned them of the threat, but they had chosen different paths. Some had gone to reinforce the cave mouth, others to warn elders or family hatcheries. A few had actually agreed to hunt the creature, but they had sought reinforcements first, and Aelthi had long left them behind.
By the end of the third week he had also long lost the trail. The creature, for all its incredible size, moved like a wildcat, and a hairless one at that. When it passed over hard ground, it left no sign of its passage, and it sought out such places with an almost humanoid intelligence.
Aelthi currently glided across grassland dotted with stunted trees that grew just close enough to suit him. They didn’t obscure his view, but they offered multiple landing and climbing options so he was unlikely to become stranded on the ground. This would be a perfect place to encounter his prey, and test his sling against it from the air. Several of his stones were enchanted, designed to explode upon impact, and he thought enough strikes to the head should be lethal, even for a creature with regenerative powers. If not, if he couldn’t at least disable it long enough to set a fire and burn it to cinders, he could still measure its abilities. Such an encounter would tell him how to proceed.
And such an encounter should be easy to instigate. He knew it was in the general area, for three times it had fed. Twice on wild cattle, and once on an unfortunate merchant and his pair of mules. A giant creature was rampaging through the grasslands, and should be visible from a dozen miles away.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t even leaving a trail of trampled vegetation in its wake. It sometimes felt like it was taunting him, like it knew how much his failure troubled his conscience. Death in battle would be easier to endure.
Aelthi swiftly rose on a strong updraft, gaining better altitude than he’d managed all morning. As he did, he spotted a thin tendril of smoke, as might be made by a cooking fire. He dipped a wing and turned towards the sight, knowing that his quarry had likely spotted it as well. It would move to feed on the naïve and foolish human who unwisely announced his presence to the world. If Aelthi reached the man in time, he could finally force the confrontation he sought.
As Aelthi drew closer, his sharp eyes made out a single human, a very old one if the wrinkles and grey hair meant what he thought they did. The human sat beside what was indeed a cooking fire, with a large backpack on the ground nearby. There were no companions, no wagons or carts, not even a dog or pack animal. Had the man wandered into the wilderness to die? Was this the human custom for dealing with the infirm? Aelthi could think of no other reason why the man would be out here alone, for he certainly couldn’t expect to survive long.
Aelthi circled the man one, carefully checking the grass between him and the nearest tree. Certain that no surprises hid along that path, and that he could sprint to safety in a matter of seconds should danger appear, Aelthi decided to land.
The old man raised a hand, palm outward, as the Raptoran hit the ground running. A smile filled the wrinkly face, showing no sign of apprehension even though this must be a novel sight. Birdmen rarely left their canyon home.
“I am Aelthi,” he screeched in the common human language. Then he paused, unsure how to continue.
“I’m Cablin. You may sit and join me if you’d like. You make the sounds of our language well.”
The birdmen were slight of build, with hollow bones. Despite his seven foot height, and a wingspan three times that length, Aelthi was at least twenty pounds lighter than the old man. His voice was also far higher, within the range of a human child. Perhaps that was why the old man showed no fear, he thought. If so, it was a stance born of ignorance, for he knew the bodies of his people were far from frail, and their muscles far stronger than those of equally sized mammals. He could snap the old man like a twig if he chose.
“You should be careful. There’s something big and hungry roaming these parts. It passed by not long ago, and I barely had time to conceal myself.”
The stranger’s words threw Aelthi into confusion. Did the old man actually mean the monster Aelthi sought? He squawked and ruffled his feathers for a moment as he struggled to find the words he wanted. The number words were the hardest to remember, probably because the humans used a base ten system instead of eight. Learning the language in its written form first, now became a hindrance. “At least twenty feet long, with six legs, and five digits at the end of each?”
The man shrugged. “I never actually saw it. It was invisible. At first, when my wards started going off, I thought I’d screwed up the cantrips again.”
Despite his unfamiliarity with the word “cantrips”, Aelthi understood that the human meant magic. That was how he survived alone then. “You are a wizard?”
“Oh, no!” The man chuckled for half a minute, his whole body shaking. “I just know a few tricks to detect danger and conceal myself. I can also enchant a walking stick to provide a little extra wallop, but I don’t go around throwing fireballs and bolts of lightning or any of that nonsense.”
“I must find the beast and kill it.” Aelthi didn’t know what else to say at this point. He just stood awkwardly, detecting the aroma of cooking fish, and wondering where it had come from since he hadn’t seen any rivers nearby. He also wondered how the man’s weak magic kept the monster at bay, since he clearly wasn’t concealing the odor of his cooking.
Cablin cleared his throat. “Like I said, I didn’t see it. But I might know what it is. I’ve read about something matching your description. It’s called a Prowler, though we haven’t seen one in these parts for about a century thank the gods. You’ll need help, if you really want to kill it. You’ll need to find a group of people called Wardens. They’re the ones that dealt with the issue last time.”
“Where do I find Wardens?”
Cablin pointed one long and bony finger. “Travel southeast. Keep going that direction until you get a major highway, and that road will lead to the city of Tralgar. Trust me. All roads lead there, and you’ll see plenty of signs pointing the way. Get to that city, and if anyone knows how to find the Wardens, it’ll be someone there.”
“How far?”
Cablin appraised the young Raptoran with far more intensity than the birdman felt comfortable with. “It’s at least a fortnight for a man on foot, but I suspect it’ll be less for you.”
A spark of instinct sent a shudder through Aelthi’s wings, trying to warn him of some eldritch danger that couldn’t be verbalized, but it was no use. The birdman had a quest now, and nothing could stop him.
