<u>24</u>


    The peak of Lone Mountain was barren and wind-swept; a spire of grey, frigid stone with streaks of bright snow cupped in its hollows and crevices.  The ruins of Rainbow Bridge clung to its summit, cratered and trailing dark smoke.  A shattered attack drone lay in pieces on the slope below, staining the landscape with puddled fluids and ash.  Nor were downed aircraft the strike’s only casualty.  The acrid stench of burnt flesh hit them whenever the wind shifted.  Miche had touched down facing the way-station’s grand entrance, just behind a low ridge.


    A long, very thin cable slanted down and away from the building’s smoldering top.  Vanishing clear out of sight, the cable hung in a sagging arc, sparking faintly, striking a mournful note from the wind.  Its free end was somewhere down the Lone Mountain’s leeside, or off in the misty plains, far below.


    “It was a space elevator,” said Erron, drifting across to hover half in the rock beside Miche.  “That line was attached to a great rock in the void, overhead.  There was one in my time, called the Ladder.  Decommissioned or taken by the light-wall now, I suppose.”


    The younger male nodded absently, crouching to touch that impossibly long metal cord.


    “What is it made of?” he asked, feeling energy gather, then flee from his questing fingertips.  He was no elf, now.  No hero at all that Rainbow Bridge would acknowledge.


    “The first was constructed of mithral and adamantine,” replied Erron, whose brown hair didn’t flutter or stream in the wind, except when he thought about it.  “But this feels more complex.  There is some mineral here from the corpse of a star.  Ripped from a dead god, in a manner of speaking.”


    Miche rose, dusting snow and ash from his hands.


    “Well, if there is aught to be salvaged, we’ll find it inside,” he said, turning back to that crater-pocked building.  “It was attacked recently, from the look of things,” added the former elf, drawing the shreds of his cloak a bit tighter.  His shield spell was up and gleaming; Firelord fully awake and ready, inside.


    Erron did that flicker-thing once again, scanning their surroundings.  Then,


    “One living person within.  Watching us, I think.  No mechanical activity and few functional electronics.  Nothing else but corpses, animal life and the Cloud, inbound.”


    Right.


    “Should be walk in the garden, then,” said Miche, counterfeiting a smile.  He found himself missing Nameless’ weight in his cloak hood.  Not its claws or that reek, though.  Those could stay gone.  “We’d best get moving.”


    The data-ghost altered his own semblance, looking all at once like a shining hero of legend.  He winked at Miche from under that glittering helmet, saying,


    “If nothing else, I can draw fire.  I’ll make a big, flashy entrance up here.  You cast a simulacrum to accompany me, then conceal yourself and find a hidden way in, if… umm… the “Lord of Battles” doesn’t object to a bit of subterfuge, that is.”


    He did not.


    “This is a scouting mission,” Miche clarified, forming a second self with a muttered spell.  Though he’d tried for a tall and fair-haired elf, this auxiliary Miche came forth just as shadow-stained as the original.  He turned away, refusing to meet his own burning-gold eyes.  “So long as I announce myself and do not strike from behind, the Shining One will not desert us.”


    Next, Miche covered his body and disappointment with an invisibility spell.  Noting Erron’s continued gaze, he frowned.


    “You can still see me?” he asked.


    Erron nodded.


    “Of course,” said the elf-lord’s recording.  “In a very real sense, you are transmitting me, Miche.  This simulation springs from your power and mind.”


    “I’m talking to myself?  I’ve gone mad?” wondered Miche.


    “I hope not,” replied Erron, laughing a little.  “I’d like to think that I’m actually here, and we’ve much more important matters to deal with, including repairing this way-station.”


    “Right, right…” the shadow-elf muttered, giving himself an all-over shake. “Big, flashy entrance, you.  Sneak in from the back, me.  Meet inside, by whoever’s still in there watching.”


    “Meet inside,” agreed Erron.  “And may Lady Fate smile on our doings, for once.”


    Miche signed: Good fortune.  Then he turned and loped off at a crouching run, leaving no footprints and scuffing no ash; still as light-footed as an elf, if nothing else. Made his way around the side of that big, cratered building, finding breaches aplenty, most blocked by smoldering plastic or void-tendrils.


    A short search turned up a half-open emergency exit, glowing a bit at its edges.  That the door had been well-defended, he could see from the crystallized blood and charred bodies within.  Animal folk.  Wolf- and cat-stock, from the smell of them.  Very dead now.


    Miche edged his way through the door, shield spells up and energy blade in hand. Glanced around at a small, charred room packed with contorted bodies. Though he was meant to be stealthy, he paused long enough to speak words of release.  Summoned fire to burn them with, but his flames came forth a dim, sullen blue, edged in black.  He knelt anyhow, cupping a clawed hand in the fire and pouring wine into his open palm with the other, by way of an offering.  The alcohol burnt away, hissing and fizzling, but the flames were stubbornly tainted.  Just like him.


    “May we meet in Lord Oberyn’s hall… If he’ll have me,” Miche whispered to the dead, watching their smoke drift away on the breeze.  After that, he doused the flames, put on a pair of armored gloves and then checked his surroundings.  Found himself in a small oval room with darkened lenses and a ring of energy weapons that sagged in their mounts.


    “This building was functional until a short while ago.  The attack can’t have happened more than a few days past.”


    And whatever had struck, might be lurking somewhere inside.  Miche ignited his energy blade, causing three feet of crackling light to project from its hilt.  Readied a few spells and then started forward, moving like a ghost or a drift of cold air.  There was a door at the room’s far end, past scorch marks and fallen ceiling panels.


    His boot nudged one of those dropped panels, freeing an oval null-grenade to roll off in a wobbly circle.  Miche froze, feeling his insides contract as it arced back around.  It wasn’t blinking, but also not dead.  Quickly, the former elf used Mage Hand to scoop up the grenade and faerie-pocket it, shoving that vile thing as far back into his stash as he could; back where nothing could change, decay or… hopefully… detonate.  Exploding inside of his faerie-pockets, the bomb would probably blow him to shreds from within.  More to not think about.


    He moved on, first reaching that inner door, then forcing it open the hard way.  Its electronic lock resisted him for the same reason that the grenade hadn’t gone off.  Miche was an elf no longer; he was nobody’s hope, and an absolute magnet for Chaos.  Also invisible, except in extra-dimensional light.


    Right, so… he forced the door open, disguising his efforts and grunts with Cone of Silence.  Squirmed through after a bit, having musled the door back into its threshold mount.  Dropped to a crouch inside the main hall, just a wavery shadow with “Exit” flickering over his head in faint, sparking symbols.


    There was a powerful burning smell in the shattered main hall. Broken skylights and windows let in some light, revealing a stone floor covered in broken glass, carbonized plants and dead, frozen fish.


    “Aquarium,” thought Miche.  “There must have been a grand aquarium here, destroyed in the attack.”


    The ruin of innocent beauty angered him… but then, so did everything else.  Besides, he had no more time to spare for the dead, because…


    “Get out!  Go away!” someone shouted, near the front of that once-splendid hall.  Miche half-rose and loped forward, past long slivers of broken glass, frozen puddles and charred bodies.  Reached the entry, where his own simulacrum and Lord Erron were taunting a very large and ponderous warrior.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Grey-skinned and muscular, the giant defender was wearing a scorched green coverall with “Steen” printed on the left side and across that table-wide back. Steen slashed and cursed at the mock-elf and data-ghost with a makeshift club, raising a great deal of wind.


    “No entry!” roared the beast-man, whose thick, rectangular head bore a long nose-horn.  “This way-station is out of order!” it bellowed, almost sobbing.  Not a natural fighter, clearly.  Just a cargo handler or security guard; the shrine’s lone survivor.


    Miche could have slaughtered the creature. He was fast enough, had a blue-black firebolt prepped and ready, but he could sense Erron and Firelord telling him no.  Right.  Waste of time, but…


    “Wait,” he called out, dropping his invisibility spell and dissolving the simulacrum.  “There is no need to attack, Steen.  We seek only to…”


    <u>SWISH</u>! went the beast-man’s club, as the creature pivoted to strike at Miche’s head.  The shadow-elf dodged, bringing his energy-blade around in a hissing arc that bisected the crude metal weapon.  Sent its pieces clattering off across the stone floor.


    “Stop!” he commanded, fighting for patience as he backed away from the monster’s lunge.  “We’re only trying to…”


    “Dark one!  Liar!” thundered the beast-man, shedding spittle and tears.  “She is dead, but I won’t let you take her!”


    The creature stooped to seize the end of a fallen roof-spar, rising again to wield ten feet of steel like a hollow reed.


    <u>CRASH</u>! The beam-end cratered the floor beside Miche.  Didn’t hit him, because he levitated, swooping up and around to land just behind that furious guard.  Steen whirled around, swinging its heavy steel spar like a wand.


    <u>Hiss-CRUNCH</u>!  The beam smashed into the stone floor, making debris jump and glass shatter.  Again and again, it struck, as Miche and Erron distracted and harried the shrine’s last defender, trying to wear the beast out.  Firelord helped as well, lobbing balls of flame at stubborn, overmatched Steen.


    Miche used Misty-step to get and stay out of its reach, spotting ten different ways to kill, roast, bisect or joint that blubbering obstacle like a gamebird.  He didn’t do it, because time was not more important than life, for some reason.  Finally tried something else, dropping the great lout with a powerful sleep spell.


    “Nooo…!” wailed the hulking grey worker.  Though it resisted the spell hard, Steen collapsed like an empty sack, fighting past its last conscious thought to reach Miche and Erron.


    Its weapon struck and cracked the stone floor, raising a chorus of loud, booming echoes.  Steen’s tiny dark eyes shut slowly, unwillingly, as it once again rumbled,


    “Nooo…” Sagging from hands and knees to face-down; tongue lolling out, broad fundament high in the air.


    A few heartbeats later, the beast-man plunged into a twitching and restless sleep.  It hadn’t recognized him, thought Miche.  Would have died trying to stop him from reaching the damaged shrine.  Steen had considered him an enemy, akin to those who’d attacked Rainbow Bridge. It was only a dumb, stupid, worthless brute… still weeping despite being forced unconscious.


    Erron flashed out of sight, then reformed beside Miche, who’d extinguished his energy blade.


    “You did well in not slaying that creature,” said the data-ghost.  “It was only fulfilling its purpose.”


    Miche nodded, working to match Erron’s calm.


    “Steen was no actual threat,” he grunted, turning away. “Waste of manna to fry it, and my sword has better uses.”


    But… Had he done something like that in the past?  As “Valerian”, had he burnt scores of helpless defenders to ash? If so…


    Erron placed a glowing hand on his shoulder, breaking Miche out of his thoughts.  The sensation of being touched was all internal.  A mock-up of pressure and warmth, but it felt good, anyhow.


    “There is work to be done,” said the elf-lord, gently.  “And sometimes memory cripples.”


    Right. Except…


    “Erron, what if only the outside has changed?” Miche demanded.  “What if I’ve always been like this, willing to kill whatever got in my way?”


    “Then, you do better the next time.  You do the right thing, because it’s the right thing to do, not because it saves time or makes the most sense.  And there’s always tomorrow, for both of us.”


    Erron’s elaborate armor had vanished, leaving him simply dressed in a dark-green uniform tunic, breeches and boots. He looked very elvish, glowing a bit at the edges.


    “I will continue to do as you say,” Miche told him quietly. “Though I have as little hope for tomorrow as I did for yesterday, and I don’t think we’ll find much to salvage.”


    Which… yes and no. They had to descend a broken mechanical stairway (“Escalator”, Erron called it).  It was a narrow tube lined with scorched advertisement panels.  Miche floated down, not touching those half-melted steps.  The data-ghost vanished to reappear at the bottom, scanning again.


    There was a lot to see, none of it good.  A void-bomb had gone off in the way-station, its seething chaos filling up nearly the whole round chamber.  Deep red sigils crawled over its surface like shadows on water. Tendrils of darkness spread from the void’s pulsing center.  Reaching.  Devouring.


    None of the remaining machinery lit up at Miche’s arrival, which shouldn’t have hurt him as much as it did.


    “First job, deal with that,” said Erron, indicating the creeping dark void.  “Second, try to restart whatever remains of the system.”


    Two very tall orders, but he had… there was… He’d dealt with one of these monsters before, recalled Miche, seeing a frozen courtyard and ruined mansion.  Sensing that Erron had been there as well.


    “Just like before,” he said aloud, feeling a surge of confidence.  “Channel whatever power you can to me, and I’ll manage the rest.”


    The data-ghost flared and then vanished, all of his manna and strength reverting to Miche.  The former elf remembered the spell he had used somewhere and elsewhen.  Just had to reach in with his mind and reverse a few sigils, causing that bubbling void to suddenly, wildly contract.


    It snapped in on itself, recoiling as the light-wall had done, disgorging all it had taken.  Furniture, walls, an arched ceiling and piles of dead animal-folk appeared, along with a cracked marble pool and the goddess’ podium. Crushed by his magic, the void shriveled to hand-size, then thumb-claw, then speck; writhing as it devoured itself.  So far, so good, but he still had to restart the shrine.


    Reflexively, Miche tried to reach for his pocketed memory-stick, but it would not come to hand.  Like the map and his shrine-access, the artifact was unavailable to a servant of darkness.


    The last shreds of void disappeared with a rending <u>POP</u>!  Erron applauded, stopping when he noticed his young friend’s expression.  Must have guessed at the reason for Miche’s clenched fists and harsh breathing.


    “Try the spring,” he suggested.  “If it can heal you, Miche, you’ll be able to access the system again.”


    “Spr… what spring?!” snarled the transformed elf, whirling on Erron.  Pointing to that cracked marble pool he raged, “There is nothing left!  The water is gone!”


    But Erron shook his head, leaving a faint blurry trail in the air (or in Miche’s vision).


    “There’s a handful, and it can’t hurt to try,” coaxed the data-ghost, gently. “Over there at the back.  Look.”


    Right.  There was just a bit of water at the pool’s very bottom, in one tilted corner, but only the drunken or generous would have called it a handful.  Miche shook his head and then shrugged.


    “Whatever you say,” he muttered, wafting himself down and across to land in the pool like a dried and skittering leaf.  The water was just an icy puddle, crystalized at its edges, not even one knuckle deep.


    Feeling stupid, he knelt down on cracked marble with a rattle of armor and leather.  Stripped the glove from one clawed hand, scooping what he could into his bone-white palm.  Didn’t breathe.  Didn’t think: please, please, please…!  Just, shaking a little, brought that sip of bright water up to his mouth.


    …And very nearly spat it right out again.  It burned, tasting like thunder.  Like a sword-thrust.  Like nuclear fire.  It sounded like starlight and looked like a volcano’s deep roar.  And, if it killed him, good.  Maybe part of him wanted to give up and die.  But maybe the rest of him couldn’t.


    Miche collapsed, feeling silvery rootlets spreading out from that poisonous drink.  Felt them burning him hollow.  Didn’t fight.  Didn’t shield.  Wouldn’t let himself drop unconscious this time.  Just coughed and wretched, heaving up the last vile stain from inside himself, casting out the final vestige of Chaos.


    The entire building shuddered and groaned in response.  Machinery beeped, flickering wildly at first, then settling back to normal.  The marble pool leveled itself and then began filling again with a thunderous roar.  Not from outside.  Not from a faucet.  From a droplet of water that shimmered, wobbled and grew, expanding to fill the stone basin.


    It floated and spun the young elf, armor, weapons and all.  More than that, Rainbow Bridge thrummed to life, extruding a very long cable that fired upward like a celestial bow-shot, striking a rock high above.


    Down at its base, Miche climbed out of the healing spring, fully restored.  A goddess materialized, pale-haired and smiling, dressed in flexible space-armor.


    “Welcome, traveler!” she greeted him, pretty as moonlight and starshine.  “I am Skyla, your hostess. Rest, take your ease before ascending the Rainbow Bridge.  There have been technical difficulties, and most of my staff are absent, but the matter-replication unit still functions.  You have only to speak your desire to have it fulfilled, Valerian.”


    “Miche,” he corrected her, shaking his head.  “Valerian is not who I choose to be, any longer, Goddess.”


    He gazed into her beautiful silvery eyes.  Skyla, not Seralfea nor Hana, either.  The restored hostess of Rainbow Bridge shrine.


    “As to desire… I would like my friends back,” he said to her, as screens popped up all around them, shilling a myriad fleshly delights.  “I would like to tell Marget, Nameless and Glass-cat how wrong I was, and…” Miche glanced over at Erron.  “What can your matter-replicators do to give that worthless freeloader a physical body?  I am heartily sick of his presence in this one.”


    Turned out, there was a lot that Skyla’s system could do, and that Lord Erron had a crushing, back-pounding embrace.  Erron came close to breaking his spine, once that replicated body was joined to the transferred data file.


    “Oof!  Idiot!  You’ll kill me, then have to manage this midden-heap on your own,” laughed Miche, as they separated, still clasping hands.  “Worth risking paralysis to pry you out of my head, though.”


    “Yes, well, you were no bargain as a host, either,” Erron shot back.  “May I never again be forced to hide my face as you fumble your way through…”


    The elf-lord was punch-able, now, and did not get to finish that statement. Had to defend himself, instead. It was a scuffle, not a real fight, between two transformed elves and best friends.  A pair of dark shrines and the Fallen One lay before them like spiders… their ship and crew had yet to arrive… but then and there, for a bit, all was well.