The Reaver watched Alacomenius from as great a distance as his eyes could handle. The organs were superb, but alas, still mortal. Next to the Reaver squatted a doppelganger in its true form, pale grey incarnate. It looked ridiculous, with its spindly limbs and bulbous head, but looks could be deceiving. It was almost as dangerous as the Reaver himself.
Just like the fallen angel, doppelgangers could read the minds of those they encountered, so that when they took a stolen form they would know all the secret thoughts necessary to carry out their charade.
They couldn’t control the minds of others however, and none of them could resist the Reaver over the long term. This one, Jasepsi, had fought for years before eventually succumbing to the dominating psionic influence. For all the strength of his resistance, his current loyalty was now even more solid.
“He is an idiot,” Jasepi projected. The creature preferred to speak telepathically rather than waste precious tissue forming such organs as required for verbal speech.
“Powerful, though,” the Reaver projected back. In fact, Alacomenius was far stronger than he’d expected, stronger than even the Regent likely knew. There he was, walking among the humans he should be terrorizing, healing the sick and crippled instead.
The Reaver had already watched him cure two cases of influenza and heal three crooked legs that had broken and set incorrectly. Such old wounds required more than simple healing cantrips. They required mastery of regenerative magic, something priests and clerics took decades to achieve. And here the angle was doing it naturally, despite his relative youth and inexperience.
“Powerful men are just as vulnerable to poisoned daggers in the heart.”
“No, Jasepi. We’re not going to kill him. The orbs may already be watching him, and if so, I won’t risk losing my bond by angering them. We’re going to help him mature, just like the Regent wanted. But we’re going to do it my way, and have some fun with him.
“I want you to sneak into his mind and take whatever you need to assume his form, but first…”
Jasepi bowed his colorless face in respect as the Reaver mentally communicated the details of his plan. Genius though he considered himself to be, Jasepi realized he never could have thought of such mischief so quickly.
Alacomenius struggled to cure a minor wound, nothing more serious than a three inch gash across the forearm that was mildly inflamed. He’d done far more serious healing already, but his powers were depleted and would require a full night of rest before he could use them again. “I’m sorry,” he finally gasped. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
The farmer looked disappointed, but not particularly surprised. Everyone in the growing crowd could see that the angel had pushed himself past exhaustion, expending far more magical energy in a single sitting than he’d ever done before. Despite his massive frame, he now slumped and gave off an aura of extreme weakness.
Alacomenius wished he could do more, but he was still pleased with himself. He’d gained the trust of the villagers as intended, and could now sleep securely in the small church that he’d spotted from above. The building appeared to go largely unused except as an additional grain storage, but hopefully his visit would change that.
And even though he hated to stop his ministrations while the sun was still hours from setting, he couldn’t deny that he’d channeled far more power than ever before. The Regent had been right about leaving the tower. It really was a growing experience. Alacomenius had feared the Regent might be bending the truth, that in reality this was more an expulsion for some failure, than a true quest for spiritual growth. Now he knew his worries were foolish, that he would be welcomed back fully when he learned to truly tap into the powers granted by Celestia.
A cry of sudden pain caught his attention, more for its location than its intensity. It had come from almost straight above. Alacomenius looked up, immediately spotting the pair of dueling angels. The one who cried out must be another like himself, temporarily leaving the tower as part of his education. His wings were still white, unlike the plumage of his attacker.
The other angel had the darkest wings Alacomenius had ever seen, something that should have been impossible, for they shone with a prominent gloss. And yet, it was as though the absence of light was reflecting off. The equally dark hair, contrasted with the pale, perfect face, matched a description every angel knew by heart. This was the Reaver, their arch enemy.
All trace of exhaustion vanished as adrenaline surged through his system. He’d barely begun his pilgrimage through the human lands, and already he had the fortune to encounter the most hated foe and traitor of his kind. He knew he wasn’t ready to face that enemy alone, but if he hurried it would be two against one. The angel currently in the air was doing an impressive job of holding his own, even if one of his arms hung bloody and useless.
Wings, both dark and light, flapped heavily as the two battling duelists clashed again, their enchanted swords striking and rebounding with sparks of magic shooting through the air. It made an impressive sight, and Alacomenius realized he’d have an audience for this encounter. The entire village would be watching as he either perished, or assisted in the destruction of the greatest villain ever known.
The two combatants drifted away as Alacomenius shot through the sky to meet them, and he wondered if the Reaver were actually attempting to retreat. He drew his broadsword, climbed above the battle, and then swooped towards his enemy’s exposed back. His sword began glowing as he dived, indicating the presence of evil. He’d been told of the magic that infused the blade, but he’d never seen it in action before now.
The Reaver deflected a weak slash and kicked his opponent in the stomach sending him tumbling backwards. At the very last moment he recovered his balance and spun, parrying the mighty blow that Alacomenius had aimed for his head. The sheer momentum transfer pushed him downward but he easily surged back in pursuit.
The battle continued in a similar fashion for several minutes, with the two pure angels attempting to converge and synchronize their attacks, while the Reaver managed to escape every trap by a hair’s breadth. Alacomenius eventually began to suspect that his enemy could read his mind, so perfectly did he seem to anticipate every move. He’d heard about that traitor’s psionic powers of course, but hadn’t realized he could control them while having to fight an aerial battle.
As the battle drifted ever further from the human village, the Reaver became more bold. Eventually, deciding the time had come to make his move, he unexpectedly changed course. He’d predicted the path Alacomenius would take just as he began climbing for another dive, and he had no hope of changing trajectory and catching his foe before the other angel struck.
The Reaver and the unnamed pure angel clashed, but this time the fallen one easily parried his opponent’s thrust and deflected the blade far from a defensive position. The Reaver jabbed his own sword outward in a quick counterthrust, piercing a wing. As the wounded angle began to drop, the Reaver twirled to face Alacomenius. The dark angel gave a quick, mocking salute, and shot away at a speed impossible to match.
Alacomenius dove to catch his falling comrade and assist the wounded man before he crashed to the rocky ground below. Pursuing the Reaver was out of the question, even if no one required his assistance. That last maneuver had been so much sharper and deliberate than previous moves, giving away the Reaver’s full competence. Even more frightening than the idea that he could read minds while in combat, was the truth. The Reaver had been toying with the pair of angels all along. He was simply that good, something none of the Regent’s warriors understood. He was seen as a competent foe, but only exceptional when using his psionic powers to his advantage.
Alacomenius swooped under the descending angel just in time to aid him in controlling his fall, turning it from a disastrous crash to a controlled landing. Two pairs of ankles groaned under the impact, but they held.
“Thank you, friend. I’m sure he would have finished me if you hadn’t come along to chase him away.”
Alacomenius shook his head. “No, I don’t think he wanted to kill either of us. He wanted an audience, so he could show off I think. If he’d been serious, he would have killed both of us.”
“We’ll never know for certain, I suppose. But you did save me from a nasty fall, so I still owe you my gratitude for that. I’m Verd, a member of the diplomatic corps. I don’t recall your face from before I left for assignment, so I imagine you’re from a different caste?”
“I don’t have a caste yet,” Alacomenius answered. “The Regent suggested it would be a good idea for me to see the outside world. He thought there were mental barriers preventing me from reaching my full potential, and that I could break through them if I left the safety of the tower. So here I am. I’m Alacomenius, and I’m honored to be of assistance.”
“That’s quite a name. I hope you don’t take offense if I just call you Al. One thing you learn, out here among the humans, is that time is precious.”
“I don’t mind at all. How is your arm,” Alacomenius asked. “You were favoring it from the moment I first looked up, and I never got a good idea of how bad the wound was.”
Verd grimaced. “Worse than I’d like. Looks like the bleeding has finally stopped, but that’s probably because I’ve got none left. He clipped me just below the shoulder, and the whole limb sort of shut down. At least it wasn’t my sword arm, or the fight would have been over right then.”
“I wonder if the Reaver was watching me below, even as he fought you,” Alacomenius mused. “It feels like more than coincidence that I had just exhausted my power to heal, when I heard you yell. As good a fighter as he is, he could have picked you off at any time I believe. So it looks like he purposely waited until I was depleted, before striking. The bastard was toying with us from the start, in more ways than one.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” Verd replied. “I heal fast. I’ll be flying again in a couple days and the arm will be better shortly after. I’ll just camp out here for the night. You’d better get back to that village before the sun sinks any lower if you intend to stay there though. Humans have a tendency to shut everything up as soon as it gets dark. Not that I blame them. It’s a dangerous world out here.”
“They were doing fine before I came along. I think they’ll manage another night. I’ll stay here, and as soon as I get some rest, I can heal you. Then, at dawn, we’ll fly to the town together.
The angel calling himself Verd didn’t offer any resistance. He wrapped his wings around himself and pretended to sleep, waiting for the exhausted Alacomenius to finally succumb and pass into unconsciousness. He didn’t have to wait long.
Mere seconds after Al’s eyes closed for good, the Reaver dropped his glamour. Blackness rippled across his wings and hair, and he almost sighed in relief. Holding the spell so long, during the strain of combat coupled with maintaining his mental link to Jasepi, had all dragged his endurance within inches of the breaking point. If poor naïve Al hadn’t been so tired and distracted, he might have noticed brief bursts of color, as the Reaver almost lost his enchantment at various times.
Right about now, the second phase of the Reaver’s plan should be just beginning. The angel could have slipped away to watch, for his wounds were far less serious than they had appeared. In reality, they were mere scratches, enough to be shaped by his glamour. So he could fly right back to the village and watch his handiwork unfold, but he wouldn’t. He would stay in case Al woke, to ensure the foolish young angel remained. He would be patient, and take all the delicious memories straight from Jasepi’s head in the morning, full to bursting with all the saturated details that big doppelganger brain could hold.
While his master had struggled to keep up his role during the mock battle, Jasepi had accomplished his portion with ease. Once he’d taken the form of the Reaver, it required no further concentration to maintain it. He even moved like the dark angel, naturally copying his reflexes and mannerisms. His long affinity towards the angel made such a role feel natural, almost like a true form.
During the fight, he’d had ample time to scan Alacomenius’ brain, as the target expended all his mental energy on the swordplay. He now shifted into that form, his wings whitening and his body slightly morphing into a taller frame. It would be impossible for the simple peasants to tell that he wasn’t the same creature that had just been healing them.
Jasepi had managed to acquire all the angel’s recent memories, enough to identify every recipient of healing magic. He didn’t know where those insignificant pawns had gone to ground for the night, but that wasn’t necessary. He walked through the sleeping village, scanning all the minds that passed through his range. He acquired a deeper picture of the recumbent dreamers than mere sight and conversation could ever convey, far deeper than necessary to simply identify them.
To an observer, he was simply a wandering angel roaming aimlessly, perhaps exploring the streets of a foreign city while he guarded his new flock. In reality, he was absorbing knowledge, gaining everything he needed before initiating the final phase of his master’s plan.
During the remainder of the night, Jasepi entered the abodes of everyone Al had healed, and reclaimed the tissue that had been mended. Limbs, eyes, skin… it was all ripped from the doppelganger’s victims. He moved quickly, striking and moving on to the next target so rapidly that no effective resistance could be organized until he had completed the list.
None had stopped him, and few had even tried, but many had witnessed his actions, even discounting those now bleeding out. Like a lord of The Nine Hells, the angel had brought healing magic only to tear it out, leaving broken husks behind.
Al knew none of this of course. He would have no inkling that anything at all was wrong, until he returned to continue his service to these villagers and came under attack for his efforts.
Jasepi and the Reaver would be watching closely of course. Just in case, to make sure some lucky rock didn’t strike the angel in the head and kill him. That couldn’t be risked. Now that the Reaver had truly warmed to his self-appointed mission of tormenting the younger angel, not even the fickle mood of the orbs mattered to him. It was a personal campaign of confusion and agony, designed to ultimately break the powerful being that had the misfortune of threatening his ego.
“Where do you live? That camp with the skeletons looked more like a temporary shelter than anything permanent. That well you were working on wasn’t even close to reaching the water table, and you didn’t have any dew traps. You’d run out of water in a week at most.”
“Why should I tell you?”
Meth hadn’t expected her to answer, and he already had his reply prepared. “Why not? I’m not risking Eltore’s anger by heading back alone, so I have no choice but to follow you now. We’ve established you won’t stop me, so it isn’t as though he can keep it a secret much longer.” He mentally kicked himself for mentioning Eltore by name, but tried not to let the slip distract him. It was a minor detail that shouldn’t matter today, just a matter of forming proper habits for the future. Eltore claimed certain magical creatures could exert various levels of control over you if they heard your name, so it wasn’t recommended for mages to blurt out their identities before establishing a certain level of trust.
“You think you’re so smart. You think you’ve got me! What do you know? That wasn’t even a well!”
Meth recoiled, caught by surprise by her sudden anger. Something, either her home, or the pit she was digging, must have triggered the emotion. “You’re right. I don’t know anything, I’m just guessing here. I’m like you, just someone being told where to go and what to do. They never even told me why we were marching into the desert.
“What I can tell you, is that the man in black leather is a powerful mage. A necromancer to be particular. He could have dominated those skeletons with a thought. He could kill with just a word. We’re not here to hurt you. Now why don’t you tell me what you know, and maybe we’ll be able to figure out what’s going on.”
Silence stretched for minutes on top of minutes, but Meth didn’t break it to push any further. He just waited, and eventually the girl began talking, proving his instincts correct. Her voice was low, barely a whisper, but quite clear in the soundless, lifeless landscape.
“I heard what the skeleton said to that man, Eltore. It told him that my father caught the attention of a Houndmaster and was gone now, trying to prevent it from coming here. They thought it would come anyway, looking for me.”
Vetch was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she continued, having finally decided to begin trusting this stranger. “Whatever he did, wherever he went, it didn’t stop it. I’m not sure what it was, but it was adaptable. Rather stupid and uncreative, but that didn’t matter. It could reach right into your mind and pull out whatever it needed.”
“Mind control, or just telepathy?” Meth hadn’t meant to interrupt, but his curiosity overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been able to make out Eltore’s conversation with the undead and hadn’t thought she would have heard any better.
“A little of both. I think it uses a combination of ultrasonic and microwave bombardment to map the firing of brain cells, and even selectively activate them. It started with radio waves, and I don’t think it would have even detected me right away except for my… well it’s not important.
“It’s dead now. I tricked and trapped it while my home burned down around it. Nothing could have survived those temperatures. I just don’t understand why the skeletons are suggesting my father may have stopped it from coming here. They definitely know about it. It killed plenty of them and used their bones to create doglike creatures.”
Meth struggled to follow along. He considered himself a reasonably smart man, but the girl was using far too many words that he’d never heard before, words that probably didn’t even exist in the common language and were just being copied from another. It almost sounded like artificer talk, something not heard since their great incursion ages ago. “I don’t know what micro and radio waves are. Can you back up and explain that part?”
“You know how there are sounds we can’t hear, really low or high pitches? Light is the same way, essentially colors that we can’t see. That’s what it used.”
Meth nodded, putting the pieces together. It both saw, and projected beams of invisible light. If the skin and skull were transparent to those colors, it could shine a light on the inner workings of the brain, and read thoughts from the reflections. It wasn’t such a far fetched concept, at least not for someone long used to invisible fields of energy and their uses. Any mage would be able to grasp the idea, even without the benefit of hundreds of hours cutting into cadaverous tissue to better understand it.
This girl clearly wasn’t a wizard or even a wild adept though. She spoke like one who used technology in place of magic, like one of the artificer doppelgangers in fact. Not only the strange words, but the accent that wasn’t quite right. There was also the matter of her physical superiority. Strength, speed, and senses beyond those of a normal human, all rolled into the unthreatening form of a young girl. Like an Ozymandias. Meth shuddered, wondering if the thing whispering just a few feet away might actually be far more dangerous than the horror she described.
“It’s dead though,” the girl continued. “But why are the skeletons acting like it never arrived at all? I understand that pretending it hasn’t arrived yet is less frightening, but if they didn’t want to panic you, they could have just told the truth. It’s dead.
“And even if they didn’t want you to know that I’d killed it, why mislead you? They usually just clam up when they don’t want to tell you something. They’re hardly ever actively deceptive. It’s like it doesn’t matter that it’s dead. They don’t want to admit that it was ever here at all. What was that thing, that they’re concealing its brief presence?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Meth answered. “I’d never heard of it, but Eltore had. He said it was something out of legend that he didn’t even believe in until now. He was scared, terrified even. He acted like it was unstoppable, like it would just chew through anything in its path until all our guards were dead and then it would chew through us.”
“That was my father’s archeological dig site. But whatever he found that started this, the skeletons must have reburied it. That’s what I was digging for, answers. Not water. I want to know what really happened to my father.”
“Come back with me then,” Meth coaxed. “For now. The soldiers will escort us back to Tralgar, the most vital city in the world. There are libraries with thousands of books, free even to the non-registered mages. That’s where all the answers will be. You can find out what Houndmasters are, and where they’re from. Maybe you’ll learn what attracts them. Meanwhile, I’ll continue learning every Eltore will teach me about magic. Then, when we’re ready, I’ll come back here with you. We’ll bring a whole excavation team, and turn over ever inch of this desert if we have to. I promise.”
“How do I know your promise means anything?”
Meth grinned. “We’ve established you’re much stronger than me. If I betray you, you could just kill me. I’m the one taking all the risk here, bringing you back. I’m only braving that danger because the alternative is sitting out here until I die of thirst. And if you really burnt down your home, it sounds like you’re out of other options too.”
Silence returned, and Methaneumar’s eyes smiled in the darkness. Part of him still wondered whether she might be an Ozymandias, if this were all part of some complicated artificer scheme. But that was nothing compared to the mystery he’d been given. His promise wasn’t just words after all. He really was determined to learn what a Houndmaster was.
Aelthi and Hyacinth sat across from each other, staring into the small cooking fire and the spit above it that was conspicuously empty. They could have continued on the road, staying comfortable and safe indoors at night, but Aelthi had insisted they leave the highway several miles to the south and trek through the wilds instead. Hyacinth had fought the proposal, but the boy wasn’t ready to really challenge anyone. The birdman had ultimately gotten his way, even without giving his reasons.
“I want you to play, like you did in the inn before, but quietly. Keep your eyes focused on the flames this time.”
“What am I looking for,” the boy asked, sounding more contrary than actually curious.
“You will know if you see it.”
“If? You dragged us out here, maybe for no reason at all!”
“Please do not shout,” pleaded the birdman. “I saw goblin tracks several times during the day. Traveling alone, I could have concealed my passage from them, but that was not possible for the pair of us. They will likely travel through the night, trailing us. They may attempt to sneak up on one, and they may not. If you are loud, I will not be able to hear such an attempt.”
“Don’t sleep in a bed Hyacinth. It’s too dangerous. Better to sleep on the ground surrounded by goblins. Don’t be noisy Hyacinth. Oh, but go and play some music for the goblins. And stare into the flames to ruin your night vision so you can’t see the murderous little creatures sneaking up on you. Anything else, wise and benevolent one?”
“Play.”
Hyacinth didn’t know whether Aelthi failed to hear the sarcasm, or was just ignoring it. Either way, the avian’s terse reply unsettled him. After a minute of mumbling he finally gave in and began to comply, gently plucking the first notes out of his harp.
After a few minutes Aelthi broke in. “You are not focused. You were better when you played before. Play better.”
More minutes slipped by, perhaps half an hour even, and Aelthi began to grow impatient. He didn’t show it yet, even though it bordered on agitation, but he was only seconds away from reprimanding the young half elf. He might have even struck the lad, who clearly was not playing to the best of his ability, when he caught a glimpse of the face he’d been expecting.
Aelthi didn’t move, didn’t eve dare breathe. Had the boy seen it too? Or was the crazy world outside his canyon home driving him mad?
Hyacinth continued playing for a handful of seconds. Then the melody drifted away and his fingers grew slower and slower until they stopped completely. “Gloria,” he whispered. “That’s what you wanted me to see?”
“She is the pariah of the gods, killer of Stagmite and hated by all. It is not very dangerous to have caught her attention. I do not think you should play any further.”
“I disagree. She was once the patron of musicians and her showing herself can only be good luck.” The boy said it forcefully, but not loudly. It was the first manifestation of confidence Aelthi had seen from him. “My master taught me some ancient lore, barely preserved from that time. Gloria didn’t do anything wrong. Several of the gods realized the war would continue to escalate until nearly all of their followers were dead, and they decided only a demonstration of mortality would drive all factions to the bargaining table before it was too late.
“Stagmite was captured, and it was decided they would render him inert, as near to death as a god can get, without ceasing to exist. The plan was to draw out his blood, and to return it only when a treaty had been signed. Gloria was assigned to guard the captured dwarven god until the appropriate magic could be found. It was believed one of her favored bards could do it, with the help of a god or goddess to boost his power of course.
“But Gloria was betrayed. Her favorite bard was stronger than any of the gods imagined possible. He drew out Stagmite’s blood by himself, and used it to further amplify his own magic. Then he absconded with it and disappeared.
“Gloria had done exactly as she was supposed to, but the other gods refused to believe it. Their egos couldn’t stand the thought that a human had killed one of their own, with his own power. She was careless, they said. She must have let him have some of her own power. Or worse, she was stupid and disobedient. She had initiated the process alone, to hog the glory, and had set up no protections to prevent the human from stealing the blood afterward.
“She was shunned by all the others of her kind, something none of the sun gods can endure, and it broke her. She withdrew her patronage of the arts, and all music has been lacking something ever since.
“I’ve never told anyone before, but I silently dedicate my music to her before every performance. It’s such an honor to have pleased her. I never even expected that she heard me.”
Aelthi pondered what the boy had said, wondering how accurate it could be. Was the attention of this goddess actually a totem of luck for them? He was naturally suspicious of all powerful beings, but the young man’s confession about dedicating his music was a strong argument. That simple gesture made this more akin to the relationship between a cleric and his deity, and Aelthi knew not to underestimate the divine power such warrior priests could wield.
While Aelthi contemplated, the first barrage of rocks flew into the camp. They were irregular of size and poorly aimed, suggesting the attackers were just throwing whatever they could find. Other than being distance weapons, they had little in common with the stones for Aelthi’s sling.
The birdman jumped to his feet and scanned the darkness, easily picking out the nearest goblins as they scavenged for more rocks to hurl. They should have swarmed and tried to overrun him rather than softening him up with ranged attacks first. Their cowardly reliance on this tactic had been a mistake.
Aelthi slipped a smooth stone into his sling, twirled it rapidly, and released. Before the goblins could register the counterattack, he was already spinning a second missile towards its target. Both struck exactly where they were aimed, shattering a skull apiece. One of the diminutive creatures shrieked, realizing what was happening, but still they hesitated the charge forward.
Aelthi picked off another, and would have finished a fourth, except that it jumped from its crouching position at the last second and took the stone to its chest instead. It fell, and rolled backwards screaming in pain and anger.
The band finally surged forward, forgetting their caution and giving in to rage. Avenging their fallen brethren was enough motivation to overcome their natural cowardice and selfishness. So they rushed the avian, brandishing sticks and stone-tipped spears.
Aelthi dropped another with his sling before switching to his own spear. It had been lashed back together after his previous battle, but he knew he could only count on one sure thrust before it split apart again. He aimed carefully, and drove it right into the throat of the first goblin to enter his range.
The spear creaked, but held, and Aelthi used it to slash away at the flurry of sticks being swung in his direction. The blade caught one of the goblins on the arm, disabling it. Aelthi then twirled, expecting to catch more of the creatures sneaking up behind him. To his surprise, there was only Hyacinth, playing again.
The few remaining goblins turned and ran, demoralized even before the magic aura attacked their nervous systems and filled them with fear. The last thing Aelthi noticed was a look of confusion, just before the ugly goblin head turned away.
As was his habit, Aelthi kept that observation to himself in the aftermath of the battle. The goblin might have been confused by the terror washing over it, sensing on a subconscious level that magic assaulted it, but Aelthi didn’t think so. He looked at the crude weapons of the goblin tribe, and thought back to the clubs he had been beaten with before.
There was a noticeable lack of metal blades being employed against him so far, and he didn’t think that was a simple coincidence. There was a purpose, or a meaning behind that fact. But what the meaning was, the birdman had no idea.
“We have a fey in the main room, spending an extravagant amount on drinks so far, even though he hasn’t touched any of the women yet. The containment spells are active and ready, but none of the wards identified him as one of noble blood. Because of his common heritage, and the fact that he’s intentionally drawing our notice, I haven’t made any moves to capture him yet.”
Montby began to steeple his fingers, then remembered that contrasted with his persona and changed his mind. He twitched and drummed his fingers on the table instead while he gave the matter some thought. Neldrum had made the right move of course. Blood of even the lowborn fey races had some value in the right hands, but information was worth far more. Getting the information out of a captive wasn’t a problem, as Montby had yet to meet the man who wouldn’t break during torture. It was filtering it for the truth that was hard. People would say anything, believe anything, just to make the pain stop.
“Thank you, Neldrum. You were right to bring this to my attention. Do we have any idea what the scope of his abilities are?”
“No, Count. Two Null Generators are being brought into position even as we speak though. They’ll have gauged his capacity momentarily.”
“Double the guards on the Nulls. It would take a very clever man to set all this up just to kill the demons, but we can’t afford to underestimate the fey. Once that’s been done, I want to meet this man face to face, with your sword by my side of course.”
Neldrum bowed and slipped away without another word. Count Montby knew it would only be a matter of minutes before man fulfilled his orders. Neldrum was nothing if not efficient. But that meant Montby had only minutes to order his thoughts and bring his emotions under control. A day ago he had been ecstatic. Now, he felt awash with anxiety, almost swelling to full blown panic. He had the sensation that everything was coming to a head, events moving faster and faster as they neared a singularity of purpose. He felt as though, despite all his plans, he was losing control, and he didn’t know why.
Eltore’s rebellion was over before it had even begun, with all the necromancer’s top level men compromised during his absence. Montby’s debts to the skeletons of the desert were about to be purged. The elf had finally broken and begun putting together Montby’s machine. Even the elusive Cirgal had shown up, with Yassil the elf no less. He had revealed his identity and goal, asking to serve Montby in exchange for the eventual opportunity to achieve his ends. He wished to kill Gonzogal, his own father.
Now that was information worth a fortune. True Demons were known to be sterile, so the mere existence of that fluke of a half breed could throw whole worlds into chaos. And he was the son of not just any True Demon, but the very creature Montby was working with. This was better leverage than Montby could have ever dreamed of, and it had just walked into his lap. Was it a trap? An elaborate ruse? Sure, it had to be. And yet, whatever else was going on, the truth candles had never wavered. So mister Cirgal was exactly who he said he was, and he was currently contracted to serve full time.
And now a random fey blundered into Montby’s most popular brothel, walking right into the invisible cage. It seemed nothing could go wrong. Maybe that was why Montby felt so perturbed. Nothing should ever go this smoothly. Fortune should never line up so perfectly.
Had he been outthought? Had he been set up from the very beginning by a grander, older intellect? Was everything about to be turned upside down by an invisible hand as it pulled back the final curtain?
Neldrum’s hand on his shoulder snapped Count Montby back to his immediate surroundings. “It’s done, my Count. I also added extra bowmen to watch the room. If he tries to cast, the Nulls will crush his brain. If he tries to draw, and he somehow beats my sword, a dozen arrows will still rip him down.”
“Okay, let’s not keep our guest waiting any longer. If he has to spend all his gold to get my attention, it might put him in a dour mood. That’s the last thing we want added to surprise negotiations.” All these precautions weren’t really necessary for Montby’s protection of course. He suspected any being powerful enough to kill him would have no trouble dealing with the hapless soldiers who got in its way. The point was, instead, to maintain Montby’s image and continue to conceal just how invulnerable he had slowly made himself.
Montby strongly believed that life was a compromise between two dangers. There was the danger of being small, and the danger of being large. If you were small, you were easy prey, a typical victim for every highwayman, and the heel of every petty tyrant. If you were large, you had a different class of worry. You were a threat, and other people, not quite as large as yourself, might strike first, before your heel could fall upon them.
The trick was to be manage appearances. Be larger than anyone knew, so that the only men who felt threatened by you were those you could easily manage, those that had already fallen far below your descending shadow. Conceal your power. Let slip just enough that you didn’t need to bother defending yourself from every ignorant thug who crossed your path.
Montby made eye contact with his undercover observers as he entered the room, instantly learning the identity of the fey. Then he practically skipped to the practically empty table sitting in plain view. He threw himself into the chair opposite the lone patron, wishing for the thousandth time that he hadn’t chosen such a flamboyant persona. He’d give half a kingdom just to be able to stand stoically like Neldrum once in a while.
The fey creature, which to all appearances was simply a rich old man, nodded in recognition of Montby’s arrival. Then he continued drinking what smelled like fey wine, the magically infused beverage that had a chemically impossible degree of potency.
“There are cheaper ways of getting my attention. Safer ones as well. Writing a letter comes to mind.”
The old man chuckled, almost spilling his drink. “You get straight to the point and don’t waste time beating around the goblin camp. That’s the single thing I like about you Montby. You won’t waste too much of my time.
“Time, of course, is why I didn’t send you a letter. Before even opening it, you would have investigated its origin. You would have spent days learning that I’m one of the fey, more days preparing defenses in case the letter contained hidden spells, and even more days looking for leverage against me before granting me an audience. You know, that I know, what you do to my kind.
“But revenge is not why I’m here.” The old man glanced around the busy room. “May I cast a sphere of silence around us? I can feel your Null Generator nearby, dampening my abilities until I can barely think. Will he relent, for a moment?”
It was a reasonable request, exactly the sort of thing Montby would say if he had planned to sneak some offensive magic in. Montby’s Null Generators could conceivably react fast enough to block the spell in mid cast, after detecting that it wasn’t the precise pattern of magic they were to allow through. But would they? They were slave creatures after all. Sure, they wanted to live, and so they served Montby. But would they hesitate, if his life were potentially in danger? Would they even believe he was in danger, or could they learn enough from their detection of magic to see his defenses?
It was a fucking simple question. Could the damned fey create a shell of silence so they could speak privately without having to spend half an hour tromping through secret tunnels to reach a shielded room? To refuse showed fear, which might undermine whatever negotiations lay ahead. To grant it, might be walking into a trap.
Maybe this was the moment of his death, the moment his invisible antagonist drew all the lines together and finished his mysterious tapestry of manipulation. Maybe this was the moment it all came apart, the instant Montby had been dragged towards every moment that he thought his own plans were coming together.
“Send one of the guards to bring the nearest mage, and send two more to make sure the Nulls know what’s happening. Our guest and I shall wait here, until the mage arrives, at which point he shall do the casting.”
The old man sighed. “That’s why I said you wouldn’t waste too much of my time. I never expected you to grant my request, though I had hoped. While we’re waiting, why don’t I introduce myself. You won’t ask of course, since that reveals your lack of knowledge.
“I’m usually called Cablin. I’m sort of a mongrel among my kind, and unfortunately not one of the super powerful ones. No hybrid vigor for me, I suppose. Still, I’ve lasted a long time, and I’ve earned a deal of respect for my cleverness. The Fey High Council listens to me. That’s why I’m here before you.”
Cablin ceased talking, but only because he began to down the last of his wine. Without the slightest appearance of drunkenness, he raised the empty bottle and waved it in the universal call for another.
If anything, Montby became even more nervous as he waited. Maybe the plan hadn’t been to trick him into disengaging the Nulls. Maybe his caution had been anticipated and accounted for. This delay, that was the real point of it. He was stuck at this table, watching this old fool of a fey drink, while the real agents of reality were moving across the board. At least it was no longer an effort to make himself fidget.
Montby almost laughed, startled by a sudden realization. If he’d been made of living tissue, he’d be sweating right now. That was something to add to his disguise. Pores and a saline solution he could exude when appropriate. Otherwise, he could never convincingly look nervous.
Montby breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Mathus and a minor mage entering his establishment. The exhalation was so powerful, he feared for an instant he might have damaged the bellows system.
“We’re ready, my Count.” Neldrum tapped Montby on the shoulder as he spoke, having appeared almost magically at his side.
Cablin took a final swallow from the bottle that had just arrived, and wiped his mouth with a grimy sleeve, his manners and appearance contrasting starkly with the funds he threw about. “How good is your man?”
“He’s good enough,” Montby answered. The reality was Montby had no idea whether the mage was competent or not, and would have guessed his abilities were severely limited. The true spell casting would be done by another man who had entered moments earlier, someone now hidden among the crowd. Montby didn’t know why everyone expected wizards to wear brightly colored robes and starched pointy hats, but they did. So he took advantage of that expectation.
“First off, I know about the machine you’re trying to build, and I know why. You plan to summon Castle Brannigan so you can use its forge. The fey don’t care. The nobles and the elders are convinced you’ll never find all the pieces of the Staff of Command, so it doesn’t matter to us.
“But it means our concerns do matter to you. You’ll never control the castle while the original Brannigan walks the physical realm. So it’s in your best interest to assist us in our plans to kill him.”
Montby leaned forward, his glass eyes somehow burning with inhuman intensity. The Brannigan, a legendary hero that gave his life stopping a demonic horde from sweeping across the universe, had been dead for centuries or even millennia. “You know, that I know, that this hero is long dead. I suppose this is where you tell me otherwise?”
“Correct. We’re not sure how, but he’s returned. And so has the Desert Scarab, the only legendary figure comparable in popularity.”
Montby rubbed his chin. “Two men, who both died in epic battles against the Imperial Demonic Empire. I doubt it’s coincidence. The demons must have obtained and preserved tissue samples. It wouldn’t be the first time they uncovered ancient technology and used it for cloning purposes. Why should you want to kill one of them though? If the demons are stupid enough to clone their greatest enemies back to life, let them.”
“Because whomever is in charge is familiar with the ‘like me’ bias. People flock to one hero or the other. Then, all those who chose the other become their enemies. Followers of one keep fighting with followers of the other, and the battles are growing in scope. As far as we know, the two heroes are attempting to keep peace. They’re almost certainly unwitting pawns in this.
“Whomever is really in charge, wants a war. A colossal war, the likes of which will consume all inhabited worlds. The demons will sweep up after, rolling over the survivors like the tide.”
“You don’t think the gods will get involved,” Montby asked.
“The last time there was a war like this, they were the pawns that kicked if off. It only ended because one of them died and another took the fall. No, they’ll stay clear. We’re on our own. But if we could take out one of the heroes, it would completely reverse the situation. Rather than two antagonistic forces, we’d have a single rallying point. We could unify multiple worlds, field an army capable of taking on the demons for the first time since the Asperils created that empire. We’re talking the glorious days of the Talnacs, but without all that inbred master race shit.”
“You want to use my machine to kill the Brannigan.”
It was the simplest, most obvious solution. It followed logically from what the fey had revealed, and provided the neatest possible answer. It was, of course, completely wrong.
“Don’t even think about it. If you attempt to weaponize the sympathetic magic in that machine, even the Old Ones will come down on you. No, we’ve already killed Brannigan twice. New copies just replace the old ones. We first need to discover the chambers where the demons are growing the bodies and infusing them with past memories.
“We have it narrowed down to a likely planet, but we can’t get any closer. Something there can sense fey, and it wipes out our best agents the moment they arrive, anywhere on the world. We’ve had a little luck with other races though. My personal belief is that an agent with the abilities and training of a fey hybrid, but with so little blood that he doesn’t trigger whatever senses us, could locate those chambers.
“I’ve located two candidates, and I’m currently manipulating events to bring out their latent abilities. My first choice of them, Hyacinth, is heading here thanks to my intervention. You kidnapped his music teacher, and you did a masterful job. So I came in later and left evidence for him to find.
“All I ask of you, is don’t kill the boy when he gets here. Help me keep the scenarios running. Kick him back out of the city. But don’t kill him. If you do, you ruin us all. Without him, there is very little chance that we’ll ever be able to permanently kill Brannigan.”
Montby considered everything he’d just heard. Part of him was furious, but another part couldn’t help but liking the crazy old fey. It could have sent the boy elsewhere, laid any of a thousand false trails. But it led him right to Tralgar, and because of that, it now had to bring Montby into its plans.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Cablin. You wanted my help from the beginning, but your council must have shot down the idea. So you force the issue. That arrogance is going to get you hurt someday. Not today though. You’ll have my help.”
