Homecoming
by Hallan Mirayas
Heartbeat. Falling. Joy. Rage.
I know you were waiting for something.
Heartbeat. Falling. Glee. Sorrow.
Hoping for something.
Heartbeat. Falling. Obstruction. Shattering.
Find it.
Heartbeat. Falling. Pain. Fire.
And when you find it...
Heartbeat. Falling.
Kill it.
Impact.
May 19th, 708 CR
The day closed unspectacularly in the city of Lik, the sunset obscured with
a dull overcast and a clammy drizzle that set the ground squishing underfoot.
The hard-won flickers of late spring's warmth washed into the gutters like the
blood of killed prey. Aside from an occasional grumble, no-one remarked on its
passing. This was the edge of the Giantdowns tundra, in the shadow of the
Great Barrier Range, and spring was always late in arriving. This was normal,
and there were more important things to do than wish it were otherwise. The
vampires emerged from their crypts, attended by their retinue of skeletons and
zombies. The werewolves shrugged out of their human forms, preferring their
shaggy lupine coats. The moondogs prowled the forest edges, keeping watch for
prying eyes. The drakes and gargoyles patrolled the skies for the same
purpose. The lutins and men honed their weapons and burnished their armor.
The army prepared for war.
For that is what Lik had become since the collapse of Nasoj's empire: the
home camp for a growing army of invasion. Lilith, daedra goddess of predation,
had visions of succeeding where the prince of the daedra had failed: the
destruction of Metamor Keep, and the army she'd gathered at Lik was her weapon.
It was almost ready.
In another world, it might have struck hard and well. In this one, it
would not live to see the dawn.
-----
The same evening ended in a clear, gentle twilight a few hours later in
Marigund. Lamplight glowed golden in the courtyard of the World Bell as a
productively busy day neared its successful conclusion. Workers heaved on
thick hempen lines attached to pulleys hanging from an iron frame, straining to
settle a silvery statue of a toga-clad woman onto a tall ivory pedestal.
"Blast, this thing's heavy!" grunted one of the workers over the creaking of
the ropes. What's it made of, lead?"
"Among other things," replied a man on the scaffolding that encircled the
pedestal. "Down a little more... A little more..." The statue settled into
place with a muffled boom, and artificers immediately set to opening panels and
connecting linkages in its lower reaches. More began installing ten metal
dragons into recessed alcoves in the ivory pedestal, generating a hive of
activity now that the basic assembly was complete. Each dragon sat with its
tail curled around its hind legs, and each clutched a pearl sphere in its front
claws like a prized possession, held up before its slightly bowed snout as if
contemplating its beauty. The dragons, and the pearls they held, grew in size
as one circled clockwise around the pedestal. An eleventh dragon, a
bewhiskered old drake cradling a pearl the size of a man's head, completely
encircled the pedestal. His body and tail formed the base.
Seeing work progressing neatly, the man climbed down from the scaffolding
and clasped the hand of each member of the lifting crew in turn. "Gentlemen,
the Mage Guild thanks you for your help."
Most of the work crew dispersed, but a few of the more curious ones stayed,
including the foreman. He asked, "Just what is that thing, Guildmaster
Demarest?"
"It's a temporary replacement for the World Bell. More accurately, it's
the predecessor to the World Bell, made during the latter days of the Empire.
Master Thadeus has studied the device in detail and can tell you more than I.
Thadeus?"
A yellow-clad man buried chest-deep in an opening in the pedestal replied.
"The World Bell worked by sound, and by interpretation of the ripples caused by
that sound in the pool below. This statue, on the other hand, is an automaton.
No, not the 'living', self-actuating kind, like Madog or Salona, but a
measuring machine. I'd give you an overview of the inner workings, but it's a
bit cramped in here." The mage backed slowly out of the access port, making
connections as he went, each move precise and carefully planned. "It's not as
sensitive or accurate, but it will keep us informed of magical events while the
Bell is being recast.
Arms still deep in the pedestal's inner workings, Thadeus turned his
attention to the workers making the last adjustments to the statue and the
dragons. Already, the scaffolding and iron framework were starting to come
down. "Are all connections made, checked, and double-checked?" the mage called
to the last of the artificers still working within the statue. Receiving a
chorus of agreement over the sound of closing panels and descending workers, he
asked, "Acolyte Marcus, are you finished with that last pearl?"
Melissa Marcus, a dark-furred cat-woman from distant Metamor Keep, finished
closing the largest dragon's claws around its pearl, pausing in her reply only
long enough to buff a spot of tarnish from the old drake's face. "Yes, Master
Thadeus." Her whiskers arching into a faint, playful smirk, she brushed the
drake's articulated whiskers into place with the backs of her fingers and then
playfully kissed it on the cheek. "There, Grandfather. Now you look properly
dignified."
Thadeus chuckled. "Good. Everyone get clear. When I let go of these
control rods, the activation switch will swing shut, and the statue may move
quite abruptly if it detects something. I want everyone back behind the
ten-stride line. Elizabeth, would you signal for the calibration pulses to
begin, please?"
"Calibration pulses?" echoed the foreman as a green flare streaked skyward
from the magess Elizabeth's extended hand.
Master Demarest took over the instruction, Thadeus' full attention now
devoted to the statue as a red flare arced skyward from somewhere to the north,
well outside the city limits. "Watch the dragons," said the Guildmaster as the
statue rumbled round to face the flare, its arm rising to point directly at it.
The smallest dragon looked up from contemplating its pearl, turning its head
to look in the direction of the flare as well before returning to its original
position as the light faded and the statue's arm came down. A second flare
lofted to the east and the statue turned to point at it in turn. This time,
two dragons looked up, the smallest and the second-smallest. The pattern
continued for the third, and then the fourth, each successively brighter flare
drawing the attention of the next largest dragon.
"I think I understand," chimed in one of the other workers. "It's a
measure of strength, isn't it? The more powerful the magic, the more dragons
will react."
"That is correct. It's a one-to-ten scale, each step ten times stronger
than the last."
Unseen beyond the courtyard wall, low on the distant northwestern horizon,
a flickering light began to dance, so faint as to be almost invisible against
the moonlight.
"Ten steps, Guildmaster? But there are... eleven..." The workman trailed
off as the statue's pointing hand swung round, ignoring the blue flare rising
in the northeast to lock steadfast facing northwest. One by one, the dragons
awoke. One, two, three, four... Eyes began to widen. Five, six, seven...
Was it broken? Eight, nine... It had to be broken! A ninth-level event
occurring the moment the statue activated? Ten... Tenth level? A breathless
pause followed, and then the old drake roused himself and lifted his head,
casting his gaze to the northeast along with the others. Alarmed gazes all
across the courtyard turned as one to Guildmaster Demarest. "What does it
mean?" asked the workman.
The statue's arm stayed locked to the northwest, refusing to acknowledge
the flares still being lofted skyward. Demarest and Thadeus shared a worried
frown. "All eleven dragons activated means one of two things: either it has
broken, which I doubt, or the readings have gone off the scale."
"Where is it? How far away?"
"That's the biggest problem with this in comparison to the World Bell...
all it tells is direction and strength. I only hope the one we sent to Metamor
is complete enough to triangulate." Guildmaster Demarest turned. "Elizabeth?
Contact your brother. Thadeus, plot that line on the map. Even if Metamor
isn't ready, we might at least get some information from a direction."
-----
When Elizabeth's image appeared, not in her brother's quarters where she
expected, but in a strange room full of people, her eyes widened. They widened
further when she recognized them. She dropped into a curtsey from quick
reflex. "Duke Thomas. This is an unexpected honor."
The dark stallion shook his head, his tousled mane still rumpled from a
recent and hasty waking. "This is an emergency," he corrected. "Before you
ask, your brother tells me that the detector your Guild sent is not yet
operational. However..." He gestured, and a double door was opened in the
side of the room. Beyond lay an open balcony from which Madog and the Duchess
of Metamor watched a storm raging over the mountains to the north-east.
"Something tells me we won't have a problem suggesting a direction." Cascading
lightning exploded across the storm, turning night into day for more than a
quarter of the sky.
Guildmaster Demarest stepped into view just to the side of Elizabeth,
appearing seemingly from thin air as he moved into range of the transmission
spell. "That can't be right. Is it that close to you? Our direction-finding
suggested the event was far to your east."
"According to our weather mages, Guildmaster, that storm is over a hundred
miles away. I shudder to think what it must be like beneath it."
-----
Hailstones like clenched fists pummeled the life from any Lik resident too
slow or unlucky to quickly find shelter. Lightning bolts thick as tree trucks
detonated much of that shelter into flaming wreckage. Blinding rain drowned
those fires... along with many survivors pinned in the rubble. Worse was
coming.
Thunder shook the ground like a giant's tread, but it was as nothing to the
roar that split the sky. The actinic strobe of unremitting lightning vanished
in a searing blaze as a fireball the size of a house hurtled down on the temple
of Lilith in the center of town. The shockwave of impact obliterated the
temple, blasted every remaining structure in town into matchwood, and ripped a
hole in the clouds. A glowing rift burned in the center of that hole for a
fraction of a second longer, bright as a newborn sun, then collapsed with a
flash and a roar that sundered the storm like a rotten melon.
-----
"Gods be!"
The Metamor war council and the projected Marigund mages recoiled in shock
as the distant storm flared into eye-searing brilliance. The silhouettes and
shadows of the mountains slashed across the valley in knife-edged relief, first
in the light of the storm, then as lingering afterimages in the darkness that
followed after.
Whimpering, Madog jumped down from the balcony ledge and tugged on the
Duchess' skirt with his teeth. "Inside! Inside, hurry!" Almost dragging her
off the balcony, the metal fox then knocked the Duchess down and stood
stiff-legged astride her as if to shield her with his own body. All of the
doors and windows slammed shut, vanishing into solid stone as the Keep sealed
the room. A growing rumble began to shake the building. "Protect the Duke!"
Misha and George yelled at the same moment, and the lord of Metamor found
himself tackled under many bodies and shoved beneath the heavy oak map table as
the rumble outside became a roar.
The room shook like a rat in a terrier's jaws, violent, but mercifully
brief. Once the shaking faded, people began picking themselves up off the
floor, the Duke and Duchess' bodyguards only letting their own charges up once
the Keep reopened the doorways and windows, signaling that the threat had truly
passed. Duchess Alberta swayed slightly as she rose, one hand on her midriff,
an uncomfortable moue souring her face, but she waved off any concerned
questions with assurance that she was fine. The Marigund mages were gone: the
focusing figurine, to Misha's dismay, lay shattered on the floor next to the
table. But the spectacle beyond the mountains ultimately drew all eyes back to
it. The cataclysmic storm, nearly horizon-spanning mere moments earlier, had
been shattered into pieces. Flickering remnants fled in all directions,
leaving a widening circle of open, starry sky behind. "What in the Nine Hells
was that?" gasped the Duke, shocked into a momentary lapse of profanity.
"Not in the Hells, your Grace," replied a dark-clad figure who, until now,
had remained silent in a corner. The crescent moon medallion of a priest of
Nocturna gleaming silver on a chain of gold around his neck, Malger Sutt picked
himself up off the floor. "Not in," he repeated as he tugged his disheveled
waistcoat back into place. "Out of. Doom has come, but for once not for
Metamor." Dark musteline eyes narrowed and fixed on Misha. "Not unless you
fail to get there first."
"Get there first? Who else is coming?"
"Only those too mad or too hungry for power to heed warnings from both
aedra and daedra."
"Warnings from daedra and aedra?" Lothanasa Raven challenged. "I have
heard no such thing!"
"You will."
"What are we facing, Malger?" Misha's remaining ear had gone flat, eyes
narrowing in turn. "You seem to have so many answers. What has happened, and
why are you so specific about me?"
"One answer will satisfy both questions, Misha, and it is this: the War
Wolf of Revonos is un-leashed, and has been ejected from the Hells." Malger
paused just long enough to let his very deliberate phrasing sink in, and then
stabbed a finger into Misha's chest. "Prepare well. Know without question
that you will not overmatch him in a direct contest of strength, so choose your
companions wisely. And above all, do not be late."
-----
What remained of the army at Lik stirred only slowly in the sudden silence,
deafened ears just beginning to register the moans of the injured and dying.
The werewolves and the vampires, gifted by Lilith with supernatural strength
and healing, were the first to push free of the wreckage and even they,
hardened killers through they were, gaped in shock at the absolute devastation
they beheld. The city of Lik was, quite simply, gone. Its buildings had been
almost uniformly leveled into smoldering ruin. Of the temple at its center,
only a smoking crater remained. Still, discipline under pressure and obedience
to hierarchy remained fundamental to Lilith's ethos, bred into the very marrow
of her servants and slaves, and a chain of command was soon salvaged and put
into action. The werewolves, with their sharp noses and sharper claws, started
searching for survivors. A pair of giants who had survived the bludgeoning
hail, the searing lightning, and the rending shrapnel heaved themselves from
the rubble and began digging where the werewolves indicated. The vampires, in
imminent need of shelter from the coming dawn, investigated the smoking crater
where the temple had been. Perhaps somewhere amidst that sulphurous haze, some
remnant of the catacombs had survived.
Some remnant had, but that was not all to be found there. Something
stirred, hidden in the haze, battered by a long, pain-filled fall, but blazing
with power from back-to-back victories over two hated foes. The pain was
ignored. Ears pricked in anticipation. Devastation incarnate waited for his
third battle with golden eyes alight.
-----
May 21st, 706 CR
"Somebody killed her. Somebody killed my Alexis. She went in and... and
somebody killed her."
The cold wind of dragonflight stabbed through Misha’s fur, and he tugged
the parka he wore tighter around him to block it. If only he could protect
himself from memories so easily.
"Stay down, Drift! You’re not getting past me!"
"Whatever the price, whatever the cost, give me the strength to destroy my
enemies!"
"Don't follow me, Misha! I won't spare you twice!"
He closed his eyes against the wind, and immediately snow swirled around
him. A red glow pierced the night.
"Stop this madness!"
"No! This isn’t what I wanted! She didn’t deserve to die! She wasn’t
supposed to-"
{Misha.}
"Misha, help me! Help- aaaahh!"
{Misha!}
Saroth’s telepathic shout startled Misha out of his unwanted reverie.
“What? What is it?” he shouted back, pushing his voice to reach through the
wind to the dragon’s ears.
A strong gust of wind buffeted Saroth and the blue dragon Tychicus, forcing
them to swerve out of formation to avoid being pushed into a cliff. {It is
difficult enough cajoling the winds into our favor without the screams in your
mind to distract me. No, I’m not intentionally reading, but please direct your
thoughts to another topic.} The buffeting lessened and the dragons eased back
into a streamlined offset, the larger Tychicus taking the point. {The sky is
in pain, Misha, and the winds off the mountains are even wilder than usual. I
wish Electra were here so I could focus on flying.}
The snow-capped heights of the Great Barrier Range had always served as a
nigh-impenetrable guard to Metamor's flanks. Torturously high passes, thin
air, bitter cold, and sudden, savage storms made crossing in large numbers,
whether by ground or by air, almost unthinkable. Only dragons flew this high,
and not without effort. But it was the safest way to get quickly to the area
where the storm had been, without the danger of running into an air patrol from
Nasojassa or Lik. The 'nobody goes here' mystique of the Great Barrier Range
worked both ways, and Misha's reconnaissance didn't need large numbers. It
just needed a dedicated weather mage to cope with the maze of storms and
shifting winds that barred their path.
Unfortunately, they didn't have one. The storm shield that protected
Metamor's southern reaches, still recovering from the Marzac Shockwave of the
winter before, had had its freshly recast anchors damaged again by whatever had
shaken the skies to the north. Xavier Marcus had abruptly left Metamor for
parts unknown bare weeks after Drift's fall to the daedra, which left the Duke
caught between two fires with only one storm mage apiece. Thus, Saroth had to
pull double duty as flying transport and weather mage in difficult terrain, and
the strain was beginning to show. Even threading their way through mountain
valleys for much of the day, they had not been able to avoid crossing any fewer
than five high passes, and each took a visible toll on the bronze-scaled
dragon. An overnight rest in the forested valley just behind them had given
both dragons a chance to recover before the final push, but even so Misha
fingered the teleport disk in his pocket, glad that he would not have to ask
for a repeat performance on the way home.
Tychicus, who had scouted this route before, promised that this was the
last high pass before the way out. It was also the highest and the most
dangerous: the snowscape buffeted and swirled under the dragons’ wings only a
rooftop's height below, but the air was too thin to climb any higher for
safety. Too thin even for dragons. Misha looked up, up at the mountain peaks
looming still higher above and felt something in him quail. Never in his life
had he felt so small. There was great beauty here: the snow gleamed and
glittered like a field of diamonds in the light of the rising sun. Dark cliffs
and crags lanced through the white cover, carved by time and cold into
razor-edged perfection. But it was a hostile and deadly majesty, and the
mountains guarded it jealously. Outsiders trespassed at great peril. A
mistake now would mean a slow, cold, torturous death.
Arms tightened around his waist as the dragons slewed around another rocky
outcropping. Behind him rode the rat Charles Matthias, his face burrowed into
the back of Misha's parka for protection from the wind. The arrangement
mirrored itself on Tychicus' back with Wolfram and Merai, the other companions
Misha had chosen to bring with him. Wolfram had worried that pausing at Glen
Avery to pick up Charles would delay them too long, but the rat had shown up at
Metamor's gates that very dawn, uncalled-for. "I had a dream, Misha," he
explained when asked. "Shattered manacles, dipped into a crystal pool. They
didn't come out as manacles, though. They came out as a brilliant sword,
gleaming like the sun. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
Misha did. No more questions were needed. They left on time.
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