<u>17</u>


    A series of brief vignettes:


    But of course, it was a trap. Naturally, the witch was cheated and slain. Or, she should have been.


    Having beaten the ghoul (as its final shriek still troubled the air) Ulnag turned to face the one who had called them both there. Turned to a throne made of twisted metal-scraps, wire and bone. On it, a skull had been nailed, at the level where a tall man’s head would rest, were he to sit on that razor-edged seat. The skull wore a riveted iron crown. Its jaw hung loose, attached by a shred of flesh on the moldy left hinge. Gave it a mocking, sardonic look.


    The eye-sockets lit up with green corpse glow as Ulnag straightened out of her fighting crouch. A faint and flickering image covered it, forming the outline of a tall, seated man. Over the throne, against a backdrop of pour-stone and metal, a spiral of shining red light flared to life. Looked very much like the mark on the chest of her slave.


    “Come, Servant of Darkness,” whispered a thin, reedy voice, the echo of greatness and cold, fierce command. “Approach the throne.”


    The circular chamber was only some ten yards across but littered… carpeted… with eons of bone and withered, dried corpses. Flies buzzed and swarmed as the witch started forward, one hand clutched hard to the festering wound at her side.


    For the first time, Ulnag noticed a second, narrower stair, in shadow behind the dark throne. Its angles were strange. Shouldn’t have worked, but the witch had no doubt at all that the stairway led to another chamber; one holding something this phantom would hide.


    She shuffled across, keeping her emptied dagger in hand. True evil accepts no allies. It uses, betrays and discards. Ulnag was fully aware of that. Thus, when the stone floor trickled upward to clamp and imprison her legs… when a million death-screams congealed to form icy-tight ropes… she wasn’t surprised. Fought back, even; hurling her dagger and unleashing spells that did no harm at all to that crowned, enthroned ghost.


    It laughed at her efforts, not batting aside but absorbing them, then her, drawing Ulnag’s lifeforce in great, lusty gulps. Through her, it also drained those she’d slaughtered and eaten while getting there.


    The process took time, leaving the agonized witch further shriveled, the phantom more solid with each consumed soul. At last, mostly sated, nearly alive, the corpse-king rose from his throne. Dark-haired and icily handsome, he was. Tall, merciless, awful. His eyes remained skull sockets, glowing pale green, but the rest of him seemed a whole human man of old, noble lineage.


    He wore an elegant uniform, topped by a shimmering, buzzing cloak of black flies. Clasped with a red, pulsing gem, the cloak draped and swirled as the Fallen One stood. He descended the dais-steps a bit slowly, seeming to savor motion. Wasn’t entirely free, though. A faint tendril of energy led from his cloak brooch, back to the pinioned skull. No matter. He could move about now, thanks to his recent meal, and he clearly relished doing so. Circled the chamber once, still sipping at Ulnag, enjoying the dregs of her strength.


    “You should be honored,” he mocked, brushing at Ulnag’s withered grey hair with idle fingers. “For you have, indeed, served darkness, Hag. You have slain many, yielding not just your own soul and power, but theirs; providing an opulent feast.”


    Only, there was a part of her that… try as he might… the prince of ghouls could not drain. Something that shone through the mud that was Ulnag. Something that would not yield to the Fallen One’s pull. She hadn’t the strength left to scream as he gouged at the last bit of power inside of her. As he dug for a star that forever receded.


    “So…” mused the nearly whole man, leaving Ulnag to weep in her bindings. His voice had filled out along with his form, resounding with power and health. “You have fed on the blood of an Old One and tasted his soul. Somehow, that bit of the wretch protects you. That is truly amusing.”


    He left her to crouch on the floor, drained to a husk but unable to die. Smiling, the Fallen One went to the chamber’s lone window. Leaned on the stone sill and looked out, musing,


    “I thought I had ended the Old Ones and all of their works… then rumors surfaced of broken stone and a freed elven warrior. I paid little heed, for desperate people will clutch any hope, and there have been ‘saviors’ before. I have slain and consumed every last one of them, Hag.”


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    Oddly, that glowing tendril seemed to gain substance, pull harder, the further he got from his throne. Now, it was nearly an adamant cable.


    Turning back from the window, he followed the binding’s unbreakable pull, stopping once more beside Ulnag. She was a papery shell by that point; each painful breath, labored heartbeat, providing her captor fresh substance.


    The Fallen One lapped at those bottomless dregs, causing unspeakable torment, turning the witch’s soul inside-out. Kept talking as he did it, as though they were met over drinks at a tavern. Indicating the sullen red spiral that hissed in the air by his throne, he said,


    “Then, yon Chaos-mark flew to my tower, bringing with it a trace of dark goddess and Old One. Now, you… who have supped from a near immortal.”


    He lowered his head, hands clasped at his back, thinking. Then, looking up again, posture erect, he remarked,


    “If this hero exists… if that goddess yet dwells in him… then I will have all the power required to leave this prison, forever. I would be free, Crone. I would cease battling the weapon’s advance and allow this dark world to perish. Only, escape must be purchased through sacrifice. Not mine and not yours. Fouled coin pays no passage, Witch. But an elf-lord and goddess…”


    He smiled, the corpse-light forming eyes in those empty sockets. Eyes that glowed with a fierce, greedy sheen.


    “Their deaths would power the gate. Would open the way.”


    He studied the huddled witch for a moment. Then, coming to a decision, the Fallen One freed her, dissolving stone shackles and harsh, last-cry ropes.


    “You will regain your strength, to seek out and capture this Old One. You will then bring him to me, along with his in-dwelling goddess. Do not think to resist my command or to flee, Hag, for your soul is mine.”


    Weakly, filled with horror and loathing, Ulnag stared up at the Fallen One. Met his dead, hollow gaze and knew he was right. Unable to fight him, all she could do was to whisper,


    “Yes, Lord…”


    …and plot.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    In an old and tumble-down manor house, at the northernmost end of Winding Road in Milardin, Lady Faleena collapsed, sobbing. Tormun… his last thought of her, of their son… was dead.


    She’d felt his light go out in her mind, as part of her heart stilled, forever. For half a candle-mark she’d lain curled up on the floor, trying over and over to reach through their bond to her lord-husband… But Tormun was dead, and Lady Faleena in spiraling free-fall.


    Could not give in or give up, though. Couldn’t just die because, somewhere, Filimar had surely felt the death of his father. He was going to need help. He’d been with His Lordship’s fleet, on the Vancora. Not anymore. Now, Lady Faleena could no longer feel her son’s presence. He’d moved. Alive, thank Oberyn, but elsewhere.


    Faleena forced herself up off the sitting-room carpet and back to her feet. Gathered her needlework and put it away in a faerie pocket. Smoothed her brown hair and dried her eyes before summoning one of the servants.


    A young half-blood page arrived moments later, weeping openly. Like his mistress, the boy had felt Tormun’s death. And like her, he mourned.


    “Milady,” he whispered, turning a tear-streaked face up to look at her. “M- Milady… Lord Tormun...”


    Faleena took a deep and shuddering breath. Touched the boy’s tousled blond head, briefly, saying,


    “I know, Ander. But… there are others to think of. My lord’s death was a murder, and his last thought a warning. Send word to Sandor, Kellen and Arien, if you please, that I would speak with them in all haste. Then, pack your belongings. Have Lydia do so, as well.” There were only two servants, beside the family’s guard… and all were in danger. Biting her lip, Faleena pushed Ander’s shoulder, urging,


    “Hurry, Child, and pack nothing but what you can easily carry.”


    “Yes, Milady,” he answered, finding some hidden steel and squaring his shoulders. “I’ll go get young master’s friends and… and I’ll protect you, Milady. See if I don’t. Me and Lydia and Gort… nothing and no one’ll get past us, Milady. I promise.”


    She laughed and cried in response, too wild with sorrow to do more than kneel and embrace the brave child. Then,


    “Go. Hurry,” she said to him, rising once more. “We have little time.”


    Tormun… oh, Tormun… No body to burn and no way to release his trapped soul… Tormun had warned her to flee; sending all of the love and courage that would fit into thirty fast heartbeats.


    Faleena was riven with a pain and grief too deep for words. Would have joined her lord in death, only… only somewhere, Filimar needed her. He was in terrible danger, and all but alone. That kept her breathing. Helped Faleena put one foot in front of the other, pack and then… when her son’s companions arrived, at a dead run… helped her to give them their orders.


    “Listen,” she said to the young elves, (after embraces and tears) “Here is what you must do…”


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Elsewhere, far ahead in a different timeline, the orbital station was no longer under attack. The Draug fighters had all withdrawn, lured away by the strange actions of one malfunctioning mech-core.


    V47 Pilot and craft had flickered and jumped through void-space. They’d used the motion to enrage and draw off that rampaging alien fighter wing. Twelve leaps per tick, according to sensors and video.


    OVR-Lord parsed the available data, spreading this innovation network-wide. As for V47, its current location and status were unknown. There was a 72.61% probability that the asset and mech had been destroyed. Standard protocol advised decanting another pilot and building V47 anew. Yet, OVR-Lord failed to give the required commands.


    Something was happening that went beyond simple emergent behavior, and the AI… calculating odds, scanning potential world-lines… chose not to intervene. This was much more than aberrant activity, it decided… and even abandoned, war-battered units might cherish some hope.