<u>13</u>


    And if, in that roused and expectant capital city, Fate snipped a few loose, hanging threads? If, high above in the lair, Vernax the Golden rumbled a final breath and then was reborn; fearsome and angry, recalling no friend and no master? What of it?


    If (all at once) every road and alley in Karellon led to Magister Serrio’s ticket booth, how was that different than other years? Everyone went to the fair, after all.


    If the divine linchpin at the heart of reality nudged a wild vortex, making the storm hurl its passenger into a Low Town slum… Well, these things happen when Chaos sets in.


    If a fated sword hauled its bearers to Five Points, pushing all other magic aside in its hurry and terrible need, who could prevent it?


    And what if a pair of monstrous assassins closed in on their quarry, surfing the rooftops of Karellon? Weren’t they simply completing their mission? Who could point to anyone’s meddling hand in all this?


    It was a long, dark night at the end of the year, when anything at all might come to pass.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Up in the cliffside lair, Ildarion sent away all of the guards and possible witnesses, barring even Korvin, his only remaining son. The egg phase of his dragon’s rebirth was terribly short, giving the emperor little time to prepare.


    He was old, while Vernax was ever reborn. Sick at his heart, and he felt it. Facing this nightmare for proud tradition, and because gifts of the gods always came at a very steep price. That shining gold egg appeared from the corpse of his friend, taller by half than Ildarion. As the emperor readied himself to approach, the egg’s surface mazed into a network of bubbling cracks. Then the shell burst apart in a shower of mucus and blood-tainted yolk, spattering Ildarion and ten-thousand years’ worth of hoarded treasure.


    If he had one more good fight left in him… If he could subdue a ferocious young monster just one more time, all would be well. Ildarion summoned his magical sword, then a faerie-pocket stuffed full of rotting meat. Next, he stalked cautiously forward, watching as Vernax uncoiled itself. The dragonet rasped like a saw, stretching its neck and those crumpled wings. Its eyelids creaked open, venting a bit of the fire within. Wobbly, still covered in birth-slime, Vernax was as vulnerable as it was ever likely to get. Soft-scaled, confused and ravenous.


    Ildarion opened his faerie-pocket directly over the dragonet. A torrent of slippery, reeking, purple-red flesh gushed forth. It all but buried Vernax, whose furious rasping soon turned to slobbering gulps and low snarls. Wisps of flame jetted out of the pile. That slimy heap stank to the ends of creation, but Ildarion’s offering succeeded. The feast diverted attention away from the emperor. He edged nearer now, scattering coins, gems and meat with each careful step.


    “Vernax the Golden,” Ildarion crooned, right hand white-knuckle tight on his sword hilt, left hand scribing a very old sigil. “Mount and companion of emperors, gift of the Dawn, Lord of the skies!”


    The dragonet’s wedge-shaped head burst from that mountain of offal and flesh. Its slitted red eyes found Ildarion, but there was no friendship contained in their fiery depths. Only hatred, rage and rejection.


    “Just one more time, Lord of the Dawn, make it so!” thought the emperor, as Vernax lunged violently forward, scattering meat, roaring,


    “<u>NOOOOOOOO</u>!”


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Down by the seediest dockyard in Karellon, Not-Jonn and Murchison had to admit their defeat. Five times they had done their best to reach the street of provisioners, only to have their path bend, snap around and deposit them squarely at Five Points. Meanwhile, Magister Serrio’s fair overflowed the main plaza, glowing like sunrise, blaring “The Emperor’s Ride” over and over.


    Not-Jonn sighed and rubbed at his bristly chin, grunting,


    “Guess we ain’t getting past it, Wizard.”


    Murchison nodded thoughtfully, clearer in mind than he had been since waking up back in this place, again. Not that it helped.


    “Certainly looks that way,” he agreed, plucking and smoothing his rumpled blue hoodie-turned-robe. They stood in the shadowy arch of a Low Town burrow, somehow shifted to reach the center of Karellon. “But maybe we do what it wants, and we get what we need, Authority Figure.”Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Not-Jonn squinted over at Murchison. Shook his head in disgust, muttering something under his ale-scented breath. Then he spoke louder.


    “What kind of world can it be, where you’d pass for normal?” demanded the greying half-elf. Murchison chuckled.


    “Oh, I’ve never been normal, Alias Guy. Neuro-spicy and always out at the fringes, that’s me… But a dab hand with the synchrotron. No one flings photons like ego, myself and us.”


    He tugged the blue hood up over his head then, shuffling both sandaled feet in the grit of that misplaced alley.


    “I don’t like crowd scenes, Lotsa Rank, but I also don’t think that we’re going to get out of this one.”


    Not-Jonn shrugged, all at once acutely missing his uniform and the tilting deck of the Falcon.


    “Best we get on with it, then,” he decided. “And might be they sell double-strength water at Wizard’s Row.”


    Murchison’s bearded face split in a sudden sly grin.


    “Yeah. About that… If you mean ‘deuterized heavy water’, some kind of back-mass-ward way… I gotcha covered, Big Brass. It’s not that hard to accelerate fermions with a spell, you know. Kid stuff.”


    The second mate spat to one side. There were noises creeping up from behind them, back in that shadow-webbed alley. It seemed their pursuers were closing the gap.


    “Nothing you say makes a lick o’ sense, Wizard… but maybe the gods know what they’re doing this time. Double or nothing. Last one there pays our entry fee. Let’s go.”


    XXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Sheraza tumbled through space and time; first down the streaming dark throat of a sentient storm, then into the primal gate at its heart. There was an instant of nothing. Then the girl rematerialized with a lightning-like flash, a few feet over the reek and filth of an alley. Landed like a cat, lithe and graceful. Ready to fight, too, for she was an elf and a lady.


    Nothing immediately threatened, though, so Sheraza took stock of her surroundings. Pre-dawn darkness… heaped trash… riverine moisture and closely packed dwellings… with far off the jangling noise and glow of a fair. Karellon, for a wonder… And the pull of that weapon was stronger than ever, here.


    Sheraza cleansed herself with a spell. Caused her clothing to straighten and dry, while her raven-black hair re-braided itself. She wore no ornaments and carried no weapons, having been robbed of all that aboard Majesty. Even so, Sheraza stood out in this place for the elegant cut and fine cloth of her gown and cloak. Needed to change… find a way to disguise herself, but the girl’s faerie-pockets had been locked against her, magically. That was a problem.


    Fortunately, there were other means of concealing her nature and purpose. Faint, racing footsteps pattered up from behind. Sheraza whirled to face the soft noise, lifting a slim, imperious hand.


    “Stop,” she commanded, exactly as her uncle would have done. Head raised and voice hard, just as though armies and fleets and strong magic backed up her will.


    A young rogue skidded to a halt, windmilling both arms, panting and wide-eyed. Female and human, which made everything simpler. Too large, but leather armor could be adjusted and straps buckled tighter, while a brace of knives suited everyone.


    “I am in need, and you are in flight,” said Sheraza, ice-cold and ruthless. “My name remains hidden and yours does not matter. You will exchange garments with me, mortal. The value of these should more than repay you.”


    “M- Milady,” gasped the human lass, white-faced and flustered. She tried to beg off, pushing red hair out of her eyes with a hand that shook. “I am being pursued, and the guard will not st…”


    “All the more reason to hasten, mud-born,” snapped Sheraza. “I will have all of your kit save half of the coin and a weapon. I am not without pity. Now,” the elf-maiden shrugged out of her green velvet cloak. “Strip!”


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    Destroyer had turned itself sideways, again, visible only to Villem. The paladin hurried along in the fated sword’s wake, followed closely by Laurol Greenbow, Falcon’s first mate.


    “Where is it going?” panted the half-elf, who was accustomed to striding the deck of an airship, not racing through packed city streets before dawn.


    “I’m not sure,” replied Villem (Arnulf, when out on a job). “Maybe the fair?”


    Simple crowd-parting magic kept the way clear before them, making straight Villem’s path as he and Laurol followed that sparking and glittering black-and-white sword.


    “I think that it’s close to its wielder, though, Ma’am. Please, if… If it’s a servant of darkness it finds…”


    Laurol replied with a grim nod.


    “I know,” she said. “And I’ll try.”


    Should the sword find a chaotic master, Villem wanted her to take it up and use it to strike him, ending its threat. The fated blade could be used only once, for tremendous good or great evil. Killing him would count for both at once, Villem reasoned, if only the sword would cooperate.


    Magister Serrio’s Caravan of Curios jingled and shone just ahead, giving the paladin heart. ‘Surely,’ thought Villem, ‘there’s aid to be had at the fair.’


    XXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for that pair of assassins, Mandor and Fallon had struck down one mark, already. Lord Arvendahl was no more than a stiffening corpse and a head, his spirit drawn away elsewhere. That left the two lordlings, upon whom the will of the gods sparkled like frost on a windowpane.


    “There is opportunity here,” murmured the vampyre to his banshee companion, as they flitted over the rooftops. “Our contract has been altered, and that leaves room for a certain amount of… interpretation.”


    Neither got tired. Nor did they need to breathe. Food was drained blood or the anguish and pain of a victim, though neither was hungry, just then. Tense, yes. Needing to finish things out, absolutely.


    Fallon could move like a grave-wind in any direction while facing wherever she chose. Now, folding phantom arms on her translucent chest, the banshee said,


    “Nobody cares for assassins or monsters, Vampyre. Not even the gods. We shall be ground up and destroyed. Cast to the winds, whatever we do.”


    He smiled as he loped along, reflexively using charm that couldn’t affect a cursed and vengeful dead kitten.


    “It’s all in the choosing, Fallon,” he said to her. “Pick the right side and aid in its victory, then score a boon and escape our eternity. <u>That</u> is the plan, wronged-one.”


    Fallon’s hideous wounds faded somewhat, and her eyes went from hollow caverns to blue, glowing sparks. Almost affection. Almost a smile.


    “It is you who are wrong, but I shall follow anyhow. <u>That</u> is my choice, and the gods can make whatever they will of it.”


    So, everyone gathered together, played like the pieces they were.