5


    Lady Alyanara crossed through the portal from Faerie to her own realm with a sigil and soft, murmured word. She''d intended moving onward, meaning to reach their visitor''s homeland, having brought back what she could of his grandmother. This other Valerian, bereft and embattled, had come to their world and freed his alternate self from drow slavers. To Alyanara''s thinking, she owed him at least as much help in return.


    Only, matters had changed very much in her absence. Before, the high-elven camp had been starting the day. On her way through, she''d seen cook fires kindled, watches changed over and reports given, as roving scouts returned to their base; the things you''d expect while out in the field. The day had dawned chilly and streaming with clouds, but pleasant enough for people not overly troubled by cold. Now, though…


    As the tingle and flash of transport faded, Alyanara stepped back through that broken stone archway to utter chaos and ruin. The fire that never goes out burned on the northern horizon, consuming whatever it touched. Clearly, a dragon had somehow awakened; was maybe still near and a threat. Alyanara stepped further forward, looking sharply around.


    High overhead and well north, a vast hole in the overcast sky dropped tumbling chunks of cloudstone like boulder-sized hail. As the sorceress looked on in shock, an entire floating island plunged slowly downward, crumbling as it fell. With a deep, booming groan, the long-hidden citadel crashed to the ground. Its slanted, impaling grey bulk struck hard, raising concentric rings of bare stone. The constant loud creak-rumble-smash of falling debris rocked the heavens, as well, raising high winds and great shock waves.


    Nor was that all. The corpse of a titan lay sprawled on the shuddering ground, looking like a mountain range from this distance. Its head had been torn off and then flung many miles to the west, perhaps by the vanished dragon. Having apparently blasted a crater on impact, the metal-clad head seemed to stare at its twitching body, which already swarmed with scavengers. Very clearly, a brief, savage battle had taken place in Alyanara''s absence.


    The stench of burnt flesh, hot metal and blood filled the air, as did the screeching cries of the monsters and constructs born of the titan''s felled corpse. As Alyanara summoned her magic, more of the creatures took shape. Gobbets of flesh and metal, wobbling orbs of dark blood, rose like smoke from the enormous cadaver. Twisting and writhing, they budded limbs and gained life, for the corpse of an ancient one could not lie quiet. Like a fallen tarrasque or netted world-serpent, the titan would not decay, simply breaking apart, instead; shedding countless foul offspring in death. Would do for centuries, if the process were not interrupted.


    Newly born ithjars, bat-winged horses and half-metal chimeras fought overhead, dropping poison and offal like vile, stinking rain. Metallic assemblers sizzled and clicked, forming larger and better-armed hives. None of them reached Alyanara, whose reflexive shielding spell warded the creatures off, but she wasn''t alone here, or mostly concerned for herself.


    Away to the south, the elven camp was on high alert, battling monsters and taking in refugees. The Tarandahl griffin banner still circled aloft; tattered and burning, but present. Galadin still lived, then, and Alyanara had returned in time to prevent further disaster.


    She strengthened the wards on the high-elf encampment, while casting safe travel for those who struggled to reach it. Sent a warning to Filimar, as well, urging the young elf-lord to seek shelter, for his party of wood-elves and Snowmont folk would be vulnerable to attack.


    Then, calling upon She-of-the-Flowers and all of the Tarandahl gods, the sorceress sprang into battle. With sigil and word she shot upward, cleaving the rippling air. Called "Stop time", freezing everything in mid-act, mid- raging struggle, mid-strike. Able to see many miles in every direction, the sorceress detected no dragon, but that didn''t mean that the victorious monster wouldn''t return. Best to have everything sorted before hand, and pray that its fate drove it elsewhere.


    In a clear, calm voice, Alyanara started a greater chant of unmaking. Glowing symbols swirled all around as she sang, cloaking the sorceress in magical energy, making her shine like another sun. The chant required absolute concentration; utter centering, for her target was no mere wyvern or vampire. This time she faced a fallen, still highly dangerous ancient one, and such things were terribly hard to unmake.


    The sorceress pushed aside everything else but those chanted words, giving herself to the magic. Finally, she came to the key word: Aketh. At her whispered command, a pulse of raw manna surged from the sky-borne elf like a bubble of light. Everything not protected by shielding exploded to dust at its passing, filling the land with scorched craters; the air with smudges of ash. Even the fleshly parts of the titan dissolved, leaving only its metal and gems.


    For an instant longer, Alyanara shone in the sky like a goddess. Then, drained to her core, she dropped to the ground. Time surged forward again as scouts alerted and warriors found themselves lunging at nothing but dust. Lord Galadin sheathed his sword and rushed to his unconscious wife. Stooped to the ground, taking her into his arms. Blood-streaked and battered, himself, High Lord Tarandahl bore her back to the family pavilion.


    "Reston!" he shouted.


    "Here, Sire," answered his half-elven son, falling into step beside Galadin.


    "Take Valerian. Establish and secure a perimeter. Full wards and no questions, until I return. If it isn''t ours, it dies."


    "Yes, My Lord," said the half-elf, saluting his father. Then, fumbling around in his faerie pockets, Reston pulled out a half-empty flask of glowing pale liquid. Life essence.


    "For Milady," he said, holding it out. There was a healer, of course... but Galadin surprised him by magically seizing the bottle, anyhow.


    "I thank you," said the elf-lord. Making full eye-contact, he added, "Later, perhaps, we might find time to talk."


    With emotions too mixed for words, Reston bowed low. Saw his father safely into the family pavilion, then sped off in search of Valerian


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    Not quite meanwhile, very nearby:


    He''d tempted chaos for thousands of years; baiting the serpent, trying to force a too-early shift in that uneasy balance; working to free someone trapped for so long, that his worship had fallen mostly to mumble and dry, empty rites. His motives were good, every one of them, but the steps of immortals often crush those who huddle below, and no one would thank him for doing what had to be done.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Karellon burned with the fire that does not go out, attacked by a freed and wildly enraged golden dragon. With its lashing tail, fiery breath and tornadic wingbeats, Vernax first leveled the Imperial palace, then started in on the city, pausing its rampage only to feed and draw manna.


    The city guard fought back with great courage, firing mighty, wall-mounted crossbows and power gems at a lightning-fast, highly evasive target. But they rarely got more than a shot or two off, before Vernax incinerated weapons, fighters and guard posts.


    Not everyone was surprised. Being an oracle of tragic, awful power, Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin had known for some time that disaster was coming… but she''d have had to see the Emperor or Sherazedan in person to fix it as fate… and nobody trusted a seer of death.


    Here and now, though, as the City rumbled and blazed, Meliara did what she could to assist. Able to scry out safe paths and spot underground shelters that wouldn''t collapse, the oracle directed fleeing people to places where death did not lurk. It was a backward use of her curse, but this day it worked, saving hundreds from fiery, crushing destruction.


    Then a young human paladin rushed to the oracle. Tall, raw-boned and dark-haired, wearing the sunrise colors of the Constellate, he carried two crying children and led a crowd of low-town refugees.


    "My Lady!" he called to her over the war bells, "Here are others in need of protection. Please, Seer, where may I send them?"


    In her mind, Karellon was a tangled, clotted-up knot of darkness and terror; filled now with ghosts and last shrieks. But, some places were safe, still. Some shone with warding and peace.


    "The mage trial arena," she told him, "but your way must not be direct. Avoid the Grand Plaza and Avenue of Triumph, for there is much slaughter to come, therein."


    Meliara could feel the purple glow of the seer''s eye burning anew on her forehead, seeking the paladin''s fate.


    "Go," she said hoarsely. "There will not be many more saved, boy. Hurry."


    Surprisingly, the young paladin shifted his grip on the children to reach out and clasp her arm.


    "Come with us, Milady," he urged. "He has seen your deeds, and He wishes you well."


    ''He'' could only be Oberyn… but there were very few who still heard the Shepherd of Stars, Lord of the Dawn, anymore, while dreamers and false prophets abounded. She might have said so, but the dragon roared overhead just then like a thundering torrent of gold, dragging its tail through a row of tall buildings. Stone blocks crashed all around as their binding magic failed, sending the small crowd diving for cover. Meliara cast distraction and darkness, hiding them all from the dragon''s sight.


    Mind made up, she lifted a weeping small boy and nodded once, saying,


    "Follow me, then, but stay close and be quiet. My spells are brief, as I have not much manna left."


    The paladin actually smiled.


    "I have some magic remaining," he said to the oracle. "Draw upon me at need, My Lady. What I have is yours."


    Meliara looked away from him, before fate''s awful window could open again.


    "This way," she said, setting a crooked and scuttling path. Paused only to let the little ones rest and to dig out those who called for help from the rubble, because the paladin... Brother Arnulf... would leave no one behind. Another time, because they came upon all that remained of His Imperial Majesty. The Paladin covered the Emperor''s scattered body as best he could, speaking words of rest and release. Something happened, then. A faerie pocket opened, dropping a bluish long-sword. Sea-elven work, from the look of it, and terribly old.


    "Take it," whispered Meliara, seeing something that Arnulf, once Villem, could not. "Save those he swore to defend, Paladin."


    The young mortal did as she bade him, taking up sword and oath, together.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    High overhead, Sherazedan the Subtle drew power and manna. Timing, as always, was everything. Too soon dealt with, and this plane''s chaos would not spill over into the others. Might not be enough to rouse, or at least shift, cursed Epophis. Too late, and it just wouldn''t matter, as there would be no one left to celebrate Oberyn''s return, or work to reforge the One God.


    Andrax the Mighty had come; intended to find and rouse other dragons. It had to be stopped, but first, the wizard had business in Karellon. Leaving his cracked stone form, Sherazedan spelled himself onto the City''s highest remaining tower.


    Landed safely, despite scorched marble and melted handrails, ignoring the blackened remains at his feet. As he''d told his heedless apprentice, ghosts were fifty a copper. Emperors, on the other hand…


    Stone-faced and icy, Sherazedan lifted his staff.


    "Vernax," he called out, in a voice that seemed to fill the entire city. "Come forth and face me, offspring of Sleena, who dredged up the first land and drove back the raging waters. In Oberyn''s name, come forth!"


    The young dragon banked and wheeled through the air, cutting roiling smoke into tatters; jetting pale flame. One forefoot gripped part of a cart horse. The other was ready to strike, talons spread wide and streaming with blood.


    It screamed defiantly, resisting the wizard''s command. But Sherazedan had watched it hatch, grow, fight alongside one emperor after another, then return to the egg again and again. He could manage Vernax.


    (An ancient copper dragon, however… was a distraction that he would not allow to shake him. Not now. Not this close.)


    Switching to High Empyrean, Sherazedan ordered,


    "Alesar," which is to say "Come".


    The dragon cut around through the air, dropping that half-eaten horse. Used too much flame too early, leaving it heaving and out of breath by the time it reached Sherazedan''s crumbling perch.


    The wizard lofted himself into the burning sky, casting many powerful simulacra with which to surround the rebellious young dragon. They chanted together, fully twenty Sherazedans shining with greenish-tinged light. Twenty staffs inscribed separate parts of a complex, multi-dimensional rune, forming a cage around Vernax.


    The dragonet hadn''t magic enough to resist Sherazedan''s spell. Young, and exhausted by its rampage, Vernax writhed and swirled like a bottled djinn, trapped in a cage of magical force that shrank with every completed line of the wizard''s sigil.


    "Back," commanded Sherazedan. "Return once more to the egg."


    It attacked him, or tried to. The inner surface of that shimmering prison reflected all power and damage back onto its source, causing great gashes and welts to appear on the dragon''s scaled hide.


    Sherazedan didn''t care. Flinched not at all at the struggling wyrm''s frantic cries. He had actually liked Aldarion, first across time and planes out of mind to feel like a genuine brother. In no way would Nalderick ever equal his fallen grandsire. In no way would Vernax succeed in resisting Sherazedan''s will.


    "You shall obey," rasped the wizard, glowing with manna that roiled and seethed. Lifting his staff, he reabsorbed the simulacra, sorting twenty sets of new memories in an eye-blink. The effort drained him, so Sherazedan reached into a faerie pocket and pulled forth the essence of one more forgotten god, letting its substance refill and bolster him. Lost Yevanna, fertility spirit of some buried valley, drowned city, or long-conquered people; it was one and the same to Sherazedan, who cared not at all for those who had failed. As a felled tree feeds the fire, as the sky feeds the stars, so unworshipped gods strengthened the wizard clever enough to find and entrap them.


    This one''s magic… something to do with cave bears and flowers and long nights of passion… melted into her captor. Then, with his power at absolute flood, Sherazedan crushed Vernax back into a large, glowing egg.


    The sigil-cage disappeared with a crackling ''pop'', leaving a bumpy gold ovoid floating in midair over the ruined tower. Victory… of sorts.


    Behind him, the City still burned and the war bells yet tolled. Ahead lay the fight of his life, against an ancient and powerful foe. There was no time for aught else here in Karellon, beyond casting a time-lock spell on that floating golden egg. Now, only Korvin, Nalderick or Genevera would be able to reach the monstrous thing.


    That done, the wizard cast one brief, unpitying glance at the City, then vanished away to prepare.