She awoke on the shore and remembered. There stood the Fencer, whose real name she
never managed to pry from his lips, those grimly set lips. Placed within his strong features, framed by
cobalt hair, they spoke of a dream she envied.
“It
can’t be,” smiled the Trumpeter, who then lost all sense of joy at the
reunion. The Fencer approached in
uncertain silence, his hands agitated at the loss of his blade.
“You
are defeated,” grinned the Hunting Thing, which sat down to watch.
“I’m
not real,” Clea said at last. “Or, at
least, I’m only as real as you remember.”
“So
I can chop off your head and you wouldn’t mind?” asked the Fencer,
testing. The sorceress flinched.
He
observed this emerald creature. Her
lithe frame wore a diaphanous shift, her limbs wound with ribbons, her long
hair still wild from her awakening upon the shore. All of this, her eyes and hair, like from the
legends—from memory—shimmered crystalline green, a vibrant code which separated
the icebound from those who worked magic.
The
swordsman took her by the shoulders. She
felt solid enough. Her eyes followed
his. A slow, terrible longing rose from
his heart, like ice thawing.
“What’s
the purpose of the journal?” demanded the Trumpeter, breaking the silence.
The
Fencer shot him a deadly glance but the musician just shook his head. He really wished to know.
“I,”
she began with difficulty, “don’t know.”
Some
hours passed, it was difficult to say.
Without day or night time seemed a lost world sunk this endless sea. Ruins interrupted the view, jutting through
the hazy distance. The reunited couple
set camp down the shore while the musician had a staring contest with the cat
beast, which kept guard over this low, flat island’s only feature: a monolith
of slick, blue matter some five meters high.
“Who
is she?” asked the creature, adjusting itself without blinking.
“A
ghost,” replied the wild man.
“What
sort of ghost will you have?” continued the creature, speaking in the mind, as
they all did here.
“A
continent,” he said, quite bored.
The
monstrous snuma fought a blink. A tremor
went through the thing as it recomposed itself.
Down
the way the two were reunited but unhappy.
Clea lay back and watched the sky shimmer. Chords of gleaming metal, or the like, wove
through the cloudy atmosphere in layers and bands, parallel to the ground,
occasionally vibrating as if struck. And
the Fencer watched her, unable to relax, sitting close, afraid to touch this
sorceress he had known only a few short hours, but whose legacy had sent him
across the far reaches of Barant.
“You
don’t remember why you kept the journal?” he asked again.
“Show
it to me,” she replied, now more confident.
“Why else does one keep a journal than to remember?”
“It’s
lost,” he explained, “and there are certain pages missing.”
“Maybe
they left because they were no longer useful.”
Conversation
was a puzzle with her, just as he remembered it. Her moment of innocent confusion now gone.
The
Fencer frowned and lay down close to Clea where her warmth met his and she was
all flesh and blood and immediate. He
couldn’t feel her heart beat, but she couldn’t find his either, and when they
spoke it was with their minds and not their mouths.
While
the swordsman drowned in confusion the other couple glared through each other,
madness against beast.
“You
said we were beaten,” mentioned the Trumpeter.
“Why?”
“Oh,”
sighed the creature, “the past is the surest weapon; it always aims for the
heart. Ha! You lose!”
The
Trumpeter had turned his head to see his friend. Beside his dead lover the Fencer lay framed against
a horizon of cloudy memories and liquid communication, islands of fossilized
dreams and the flickering hives of the long dead nobles of Nysul. The sky strummed its noiseless tune, like a
harp playing creation into being.
Rising,
the Trumpeter made for the shore while the beast chortled and began to clean
itself. Down amongst the shoals the
water gave a shock of cold as he touched it.
Ideas like fish swam in close and a low, easy wave lapped against the
island.
Growing
strange, his eyes watched the blue chemical sea in action. To drown here was to be drowned in
memories. All of Nysul’s history, lies
and all, waited within. The clouds ruins
were simply part of the inner system of the Blue Which Flows.
“What
is that thing?” asked Clea just as the Fencer was about to fall asleep. The witch gestured towards the monolith and
its keeper.
“A
cat who would be queen,” he murmured without opening his eyes. Hell or a dream, he would make the best of it
until it killed him.
“It’s
coming closer.”
Clea
stood to greet the ruler while the Fencer refused to move.
“What
do you want, cat?” he asked when her padding stopped.
“Are
you well acquainted with your treasure?” demanded the Hunting Thing.
The
man grunted in answer.
In
this moment resided a crystalline peace set between warmth and cold. The Fencer knew that the sky was false and
the beast a menace, but kept the moment anyway.
It couldn’t last. Suddenly, he
was surrounded by green.
He
snapped upright to stare out across the sea.
Nothing ahead, nothing to either side, he demanded an explanation from
the horizon and what he feared it harbored.
There, a ghost haunted the place beyond the clouds.
In
his moment of clam he hadn’t heard the cat pounce. Clea lay in its embrace, weakly fighting back. With a cry the Fencer struck the thing and it
released the woman with a snarl.
“Fencer! Fencer!” cried the madman from the distant
shore. He had caught a fish which
gleamed with gold.
There
was no time. A monster tensed, blood on
its muzzle. At their feet the emerald
alchemist seemed dazed, her throat open to reveal tendons and bone and shredded
vessels steeped in red.
The
Hunting Thing moved as a blur, streaking the air purple, yellow eyes searing
tracers. Grappling the Fencer, together
they rolled across the harsh stone.
Hands held back fangs as legs and claws struck and tore. The combatants and their thoughts melded into
a ball of rage and cold predation.
Struggling
free, the beast put a few paces between itself and the Fencer. There was a confusion of blood on each of
them. The snuma charged and the man just
barely dodged away. Looking about there
seemed no object he might use as a weapon.
Again
she charged and again he dodged aside, but not quickly enough. One claw opened up a red line from his right
shoulder down all the way to the back of his thigh.
“It’ll
be ok Fencer!” smiled the musician while Clea sputtered on the ground. Now the air glittered with the light
reflecting from the Trumpeter’s strange fish.
Clouds
billowed closer and the sea rushed like blood in the ear. The cat grew indistinct, her thoughts merging
with her prey. The green witch laughed
despite her throat and she got up without much difficulty.
“Clea,
Clea do something!” demanded the Fencer, his wound screaming cold along his
body.
“What
can I do?” she laughed, painted with blood.
“I
knew you as a witch, an alchemist,” he began, following the hungry eyes of the
Hunting Thing with became lost in the growing haze. “You can do anything.”
Though
he couldn’t see it so well the Fencer could hear the creature’s growl as it
circled through the cloud to strike. Any
moment it might come, a ghost out of the fog.
“I
can’t,” Clea said, with sorrow in her voice.
“It told you.”
He
focused. To one side laughed Clea, to
another gleamed the indistinct glory of the Trumpeter. Choosing, he slunk through the cloud towards
the gold.
She
followed in a leap. Now transformed, the
Hunting Beast was an arc of pure color, a splatter of cat-shaped ink whose
jagged edges sought the swordsman’s throat.
He split apart into victim and victory.
His hands at the beast’s throat, twisting her neck, under her claws,
blood pooling into a sea.
Impossibly
slow, time itself bleared away as fragmentary possibilities. One last curtain and gold waited. A twilight man. A coronation.
She fled back to death and the cold returned.
“So you are rightful sovereign of Nysul,”
pronounced the giant known as Dominion.
Jaal wondered if it was a question.
No, a challenge.
“Where
is your crown?”
Definitely
a challenge.
The
mortal didn’t answer immediately. He
considered the monstrous titan’s words as might a man of unhurried ambition. Thoughtfulness was a luxury for the rich and
powerful and as a noble he had an obligation to waste time.
“That
is why I am here,” he began at last.
“Along with stopping these two miscreants at their burglary I came to be
anointed. The upper nations are thrown
into chaos, you know this. My own realm
is an empty tomb full of thrones which beg for even a ghost to keep them
company. Here, in this…realm, the last
emperor held the seat of power and even today power radiations from this place. It fits tradition to rule according to an
implement of the past.”
He
moved as he spoke, circling the monster, circling upon the highest rim of
treasured dunes he though reasonable.
While his voice was steady, direct, his perception was keyed all about,
searching for the Regalom and salvation.
That power he spoke of, that was fear.
“Miscreants,”
said Dominion.
At
first Jaal didn’t notice but the word tickled into his mind. He wasn’t being spoken to. Glancing back he saw the thing eying the
sleeping forms of the Fencer and the Trumpeter.
It
was a wonder they could sleep at all.
Dominion’s words boomed in Jaal’s head like an avalanche. Theirs was a deep, strange sleep.
“I’ve
caught them,” said the actor with as much bluster as he could manage, “and I’ll
try them in my domain.”
Dominion
strode towards the helpless men. Shivering,
Jaal followed as fast as he deemed a noble would. Inwardly he sighed with relief as the giant
stopped short.
Above
them Dominion loomed like the sky, that single eye glaring angrily from its
cerulean head. Just a step and they
would be crushed under the weight of empire, more individuals smashed against
the state. Dominion considered them and
now Jaal saw that the mighty being was hollow, with seams around its side
showing within. There a dead face, that
of the infamous Duxess Emphyr, stared out, half-absorbed.
“Their
minds lie within the Blue,” it said at last, glancing over towards the jellied
emperor. Shaking free of the dead
woman’s gaze Jaal saw the ultimate tyrant was recovering. It seemed to have regained some structure,
standing taller, its protoplasm crystallizing.
“The
true ruler of the badlands? Them, in
that thing?”
“Yes,”
said the grim tyrant. “They are within
the eternal court, where all past nobles of Nysul go to dream and wait for the
restoration of empire. All who drink of
this land have a place within the feudal body.”
Jaal’s
heart beat furiously. Hatred filled his
limbs. If only he could destroy the
thing, all this royal nonsense could stop.
The Children would forge a new day through such revolution. It didn’t matter which kind, they had enough
of ghosts, of unfinished magic, fighting with each other for scant prey. If they had any madmen it would be of a new
sort.
“You
are glad?” asked Dominion. For a moment
the young man had let slip a smile.
“What
better place for justice,” he replied, composing himself.
“Indeed,
their minds may never return,” it stated and began to move about the dunes of
treasure. “Now we must find the
blasphemous object you speak of, so I might destroy this threat to order.”
Nodding,
the actor fell upon the golden hills.
Wealth beyond imagining grew here, all organs of the most terrible and
quivering thing pulsating at the lowest point of the badlands.
Jaal
scattered away a layer of gold only to reveal silver. He kicked through a tangle of jewelry and
toppled a chest full of platinum.
Amongst that pale metal he saw a flash of red and scrambled, only to
pull up a handful of rubies.
Tossing
them away he sighed and took stock of the cavern as a whole. The edges of the room had taken on a haze
from the cascading waterfalls. Soon he
wouldn’t be able to hide his true nature from the giant any longer.
Going
back to the hills he saw Dominion off in the distance and shuddered. There was no defeating such a thing with
violence. It was too unreal to kill, to
noble to murder and too watchful to surprise.
He had his countrymen to blame, in a way.
An
hour passed, maybe more, time indistinct amongst the growing fog. His hands bled from pawing through precious
metal and his back ached from stooping.
Frustrated, he went to see if the miscreants still lived.
They
slept, barely breathing, their souls elsewhere.
The emperor jelly was almost returned to its full stature, its strange
fungoid crown now lustrous and metallic.
Jaal
began skipping coins across the liquid while his mind worked to free himself
from assured death, or worse.
Plink,
said the coins. It didn’t sound quite
like water. Then he saw the gleam.
The
platinum Regalom sought his attention from the shallows. It was an enchanted thing, sure enough. It wanted to be worn, it wanted heads,
skulls. Ancient magics demanded
attention and use. Perhaps the last
emperor, who had so covered himself with sorcery, had been just as much a
victim as he was a fool and despot.
Jaal
made to go for the thing, but stopped short of the bluish pool. If he entered, Dominion would feel his
thoughts and know his scheme. He had to
have a wish in mind the second he waded in and there was little time. Plots like fevers shook through his brain.
“Have
you found it?” asked Dominion. It was
only a few meters away and its booming psyche startled the false noble.
“No,”
he began, but then stopped and hoped it wasn’t already too late. “Not until you woke me from my fatigue. Sometimes all it takes is another set of eyes. There it is, in the shallows down there.”
Jaal
pointed and it saw and without hesitation waded out to the crown. There the liquid came up to its chest and
from the blue rose a thing of beautiful platinum and red stone, gleaming, eager
for more skulls.
“It
buzzes strangely to my spirit,” grumbled the giant as it strode out of the
pool. “Not of Nysul. Power though, strange, built of words and
therefore infinite. Language of the
stars, dark matter against white space, towers laid in succession.”
As
if in response the Blue Which Flows quivered.
Truly, Dominion seemed stunned by the device, somehow able to sense its
power in a way none of its mortal wearers could.
“Aren’t
you going to destroy it?” smiled Jaal.
“Join
me and we can rule beyond the Blue, beyond Nysul,” it said after a long pause.
The
monster indicated the seam along its side, just large enough for a person to
clamber within. By now the Duxess was
fully digested.
“How
would we do this?” The false noble made
no move towards the terrible aperture.
The
giant didn’t respond.
“You
place it upon your head,” explain Jaal and the thing did so. Power hung silent in the air as imperial
clouds drifted in. “Now say, say what
you wish for. Speak it true, protect us,
all of Nysul, from that which is most terrible.
The crown knows the spirit of language and will make the world
accordingly.”
Again
Dominion was silent, as if frozen by the awful possibilities. Jaal knew the toxin of power well. It was a heady narcotic, but its results were
deadly.
“What
do you desire?” he asked simply.
“To
defend Nysul,” came its automatic reply.
Now nature and desire were at odds.
It wasn’t a wish or a demand, so the words held no change.
“Then
speak it as a pure dream of language and the Regalom will remake the future
according to your poetry.” The actor
smiled, his act going away.
“I
wish that I might control the badlands, the empire, the whole peoples and realm
of Nysul in the most perfect manner.
I. Myself. Alone,” blared Dominion who then vanished,
the crown falling with a clatter upon the golden shore.
The
orb of clouds exploded in freedom, blasting the chamber and rumbling the
ceiling. Massive blocks of stone fell
into the azure pool with a splash. In
this confusion the actor lost sight of the crown.
“You
just have,” said Jaal of Night as he considered his wager won. “Now you rule alone.”
He
gave himself a smile, and a smirk, and then a laugh. There wasn’t much echo as the chamber was
once more filling with azure fog which soaked up his voice. With one despot gone he moved to take the
crown and finish the dynasty. There it
was, shimmering through the haze.
The
Fencer and the Trumpeter roused with shouts, like men from nightmares. Voices high, there was a disturbance to the
cloud around them. For the briefest
second monstrous and beautiful shapes adorned their dreamy heads and the air
cleared, as if fearful of these phantoms.
Then they saw Jaal.
He
snatched up the crown against the nightmare blade, against the silver trumpet,
and he placed the thing upon his head.