Missing Elements

[Ashiakin]

This will be what I had previously intended to be my Main Quest for this chapter. Since I'm no longer running the FQ, just role-playing in it, it's just a regular thread. I'm still going to use all the NPCs and do all the things I had planned to before. How cannon it is will be up to the FQ mods. This thread is a direct sequel to Scaling Heaven. It will be a solo unless someone is interested in joining in, provided I think it will work.

"For Warre, consisteth not in Battell onely, or in the act of fighting; but in a tract of time, wherein the will to contend by Battell is sufficiently known: and therefore the notion of Time, is to be considered in the nature of Warre; as it is in the nature of Weather. For as the nature of Foule weather, lyeth not in a shower or two of rain; but in an inclination thereto of many days together: So the nature of Warre, consisteth not in actual fighting; but in the known disposition thereto, during all the time there is no assurance to the contrary. All other time is Peace."

-- Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, 1651

Ashiakin's bedchamber was awash in gray, northern light that crept through the room's lone window. It saturated everything: the mahogany desk looked like a metallic workman's table, the rows of leather bound books looked premature with age, and cheeriness of the room's foreign embellishments was cast in doubt. Ashiakin stood before a large mirror, running a white drake-bone comb through his white hair. His movements were precise and methodical, but his eyes drifted with his thoughts, his mind ambling through an archive of memories.

It had been months since Iorlan Rathaxea, the King of Salvar, had dispatched him and two companions, Aerran Ivkinik and Yesirvn Jaicnec, to break into Saint Denebriel's Cathedral and slay the Justice of the Ethereal Sway. They had accomplished their task, but Denebriel shown herself in public and taken command of the Church. The course of the war had changed. He spent the months since as half-prisoner, half-guest within the Cathedral. Aerran was held prisoner as well, though he had only seen her twice since the assassination. Yesirvn had escaped three days after their capture. Dorian, the composer they had encountered while on their mission, was missing. Despite his captivity, Ashiakin felt he was likely better off than all of them.

A knock at the door ruptured the atmosphere of the room like a murder. Ashiakin composed himself, strode over to the door and opened it. Denebriel was there, greeting him with a cool grin.

"You haven't forgotten that I need you to do something for me today, have you?" she asked. She slipped past him and closed the door behind her.

"No," he said, turning to look at her. "I didn't know that you were going to come by so early."

"I missed you," she said with an uncertain amount of sincerity. She walked over to his dresser and ran her fingers over the cold prongs of the comb. "Besides, you never would have minded all those years ago. You're out of touch. This place, this time... It's so difficult for us. We have to be careful. You've been too long without me."

Denebriel was as tall as Ashiakin and thin to the point of nearly looking gaunt. Her hair was red, long, and wavy and her skin was as pale as eggshell, though dotted with freckles. She looked so out of place in Salvar, but no place had ever been more her home. Thousands of years ago, during the Wars of the Tap, she had raised him up from nothing and he had devoted her life to her service. Now their failure, their millennia of seclusion and imprisonment, were over.

"Perhaps I have," he said.

He walked over to the window and opened the curtains all the way, soaking the room in haggard light and unveiling the cityscape beyond in one swift act of legerdemain. The gardens around the Cathedral were dotted with scorched pockmarks and silent cannons, cadres of ecclesiastical militants trooping through the ornate greenery. Beyond the dry moat, royalist forces had stationed ballistae where the streets of the Shifty Man's Run opened like mouths before the bounty of the Cathedral. Snipers watched with doleful eyes and cocked crossbows from the mercantile highrises across the way.

"You know, Ashiakin..." She walked over and stood beside him, slipping her arm around his waist. In her grip, he felt that electric intensity, that sense of eternity, that no mortal could her fathom. "You still haven't asked me what it is that I want you to do."

Ashiakin said nothing at first. His eyes were on the grim scene below them, watching the soldiers oscillate like pieces on a game board, denying stalemate. Then he closed his eyes and asked her.

[Ashiakin]

* * *

Ashiakin stood alone in a dimly lit stone chamber, examining the weapon Denebriel had given as best as he could in the flickering torchlight. It was a sword with an ornate handle and an oddly shaped, discolored blade. One of the blade's edges appeared to be lined with teeth in the fashion of a key. What he had been instructed to do with it did not sit well with him. She would have never suggested something so reckless during the War, he told himself. She certainly must be testing my loyalty.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. It was a drab, overlarge grayish thing that did well to hide his nobleman's traveling clothes. He had even discarded his typical shoes for a pair of heavier boots. Apart from the sword, however, he was devoid of any of his typical weapons. He found the newness of it all disconcerting, as awkward as the unfamiliar weight of the sword in his hand. His body, however, did not communicate this.

A hatch in the ceiling swung open and a shard of white light thrust into the chamber. A tall, blond woman with the olive skin of a Coronian climbed down the ladder and turned to face Ashiakin. She wore a short, hooked sword at her side.

"Aerran," he said.

"Ashiakin," she replied. "I trust you've been well."

"Yes. I've not been harmed, if that's what you mean. Though I never expected to be. I've been treated as a guest, more or less."

"I've been working in the kitchens."

Ashiakin appeared taken aback. "What? What on earth for?"

"Denebriel assures me it was a clerical error," she said coyly. "Although this is the only time she's spoken to me since we were imprisoned here... We were imprisoned, Ashiakin. There's a damn war on. This isn't a guest house, it's enemy headquarters."

"Right. No, you're right."

"Anyway, she relieved me of my duties to help you with your little errand. I assume you've already thought of a way for us to escape. She gave me very little information, but I trust you have more..."

Ashiakin sighed quietly and turned away from her. He slid his strange sword into its sheath and pressed his hands against the cool stone of the far wall, running his fingers along the cracks between them. The movements of his fingers were quick but inquisitive, searching for some unknown quantity.

"You're not going to do as she says, are you?" Her voice was less certain now. "You haven't forgotten everything Iorlan ever did for you?"

Ashiakin found an anomaly in the masonry and pressed the stone in, questioning. There was a subdued click and a hatch in the floor sprung open, revealing a dark, narrow hole. It was lined with rusty rungs, an ancient spinal column that plunged down into mist and shadow. So many people have been kind to me in my long life, Aerran, he thought. Many in ways that you simply wouldn't understand.

"Come on, Aerran," he said. "We need to go." He slipped into the hatch and began the long climb down.

Aerran hesitated, biting her lip. But eventually she climbed into the hatch and followed Ashiakin into the uncertain dark.

[Ashiakin]

The scrape of flesh on rust echoed up and down the tunnel, the sounds growing into some wet, organic creature being birthed in the dark. For most of their descent, they did not speak to one another. As the flickering torchlight from the chamber now far above them receded, the gray glow below bred, nourished itself, slowly opened like the maw of some devil. What could there be to talk about in such a place?

It was Aerran that finally broke about the silence. Her voice ricocheted through the hollow spine like a ray of light: "I cannot be sure, but I heard rumors that Iorlan has returned to the city. Yesirvn has been gathering militia from the paupers and the peasants around the city, it's said. It seems that he and Iorlan intend to attack the Cathderal directly, to retake Knife's Edge. It could be that the fighting as already started somewhere above us."

"Yes," Ashiakin said, ever climbing down, "Denebriel expects as much. She expects to lose, from what I could gather... She intends to flee west if it comes to it. She's been losing support from the rabble in the area."

"You sound sad," she said, disappointed. He did not answer her, so she adopted a different approach. "Where are we going, Ashiakin? What is it that Denebriel wants you to do?"

"We're going to Vha Khotur. There's a... a church of sorts down here that will allow us to teleport to Vhakh, the little town below the fortress. It's not on the usual Church network. That's too dangerous for our purposes right now. We could be monitored. This connection is, well, off the map."

"But what does Denebriel want us to do?"

"Denebriel did not ask us to do anything. She asked me to do something for her there. I asked her to free you and allow you to travel with me. I tried to get her free the composer we met, Dorian, but she swears that he has been missing for some time. I hope nothing ill has befallen him. Iorlan seemed most interested in him... I will regret having to inform him of our failure in that regard."

Aerran did not speak again, not even to give Ashiakin the thanks he did not expect for freeing her. Aside from the echo of their hands and feet on the rung, the rest of their descent into the gray light below was silent.

[Ashiakin]

As the rungs on the ladder began to run out, cold, damp air curled up inside the metallic tube like tentacles. Ashiakin dropped down into the chamber below, a gory squish echoing up the tunnel from his boots. He turned around to get his bearings and was taken aback by what he saw. Aerran dropped down behind him and her startled gasp articulated his feelings all too well.

They stood in an expansive hall, its cavern walls so far away that they were barely perceptible, so uncertain they might be a lie. The vast chamber was awash in a soggy gray light that seemed to emanate from somewhere far above, though there was no ceiling of any sort visible. The most lurid and obvious thing about the hall, however, was the eyes: Mound upon mound of fleshy spheres, millions of irises staring into the dull gray light, consumed the room like grotesque furniture. Every now and then, a few eyes would fall from the bleakness above like raindrops and wetly collide with the piles below. About twenty silent creatures--hideous, ashen, naked men deformed over uncertain eons--milled about the fields of eyes, sorting and pushing them with their long, bony hands. They had no eyes nor sockets for them.

"Saint Denebriel protect us," hissed Aerran, immediately regretting the irony of her words. "What... What the hell is this place?"

"It's the Church of the Eyeless Men," said Ashiakin. "No one can remember how it was started, or what its original purpose was. But they have been down here since long before the Cathedral existed above them. You know how every clergyman in the Church who dies has their eyes removed? They all go here. The Eyeless Men--the ones you see here, they will not hurt you if you don't disturb them--can use them. They can... draw energy from them. It is said that they can see far afield, look into other times, other worlds. Teleportation is one of the more practical services they provide to the upper echelon of the Church, in exchange for their privacy. And the eyes of its holy men."

Aerran said nothing, so Ashiakin simply urged her forward. There was a path that wound its way through the mounds of eyes, the smoothed over stone slick with some grayish fluid, and it was on the path that they walked, careful not to disturb the Eyeless Men in their work. Just at the edges of his vision, Ashiakin could make out an altar of some sort. He knew they needed to go there, but the goal did not make the journey any less disconcerting.

It took them nearly an hour to navigate the path, careful not to crush any stray eyes or make inadvertent contact with the Eyeless. When they reached the altar, the harrowing experience of their journey made it seem pitiful in comparison: It was a small stone platform surrounded by four teen foot columns, open except where its back pressed against the cavern wall. It was adorned with no markings, holy or otherwise. Ashiakin stepped onto it quietly and Aerran followed after him.

For several moments, nothing happened. Then a section of the wall seemed to ripple, doubt itself, test whether or not it was real. A dark gap opened and the upper half of one of the Eyeless Men spasmed out, twisting itself so that it hung upside down. Its bony arms hung limp and its deformed jaw dropped open, as if to utter words, but none came forth. Finally, the thing extended one of its gaunt, grayed hands toward the pair.

Ashiakin turned toward Aerran. "Hold onto my hand as tight as you possibly can. Under no circumstances let go until we are on the other side." Aerran took his hand, appearing unshaken--or perhaps just deadened by their journey through so many artifacts of the dead.

The Eyeless Man's fingers flexed and Ashiakin reached out and grabbed hold of them hard, sickened by the feel of the slimy, rubbery skin against his own. Steadily as he could, he looked into the eyes the thing did not have and spoke: "We two friends of the Church of the Ethereal Sway, ever its faithful servants, seek safe passage to the town of Vhakh. In return for this, we, upon our deaths, be they timely or not, pledge to you our eyes and all that they have seen and will see, for the Eyeless see all."

Aerran seemed startled by Ashiakin's promise, but she did not have time to reflect upon it. The gap around the Eyeless Man flexed. His fingered tightened their grip around Ashiakin's arm and Aerran clung more closely to Ashiakin. In one swift, grotesquely orchestrated moment, the thing shot back into the wall and pulled the pair behind it, sucking them through the gap like morsels down a wet throat.

[Ashiakin]

Ashiakin staggered forward into what appeared to be the common room of a tavern, blinking his eyes and shaking his head in bewilderment. Aerran, who was just behind him, let go of his hand absently. They were behind the bar, whose stock was strangely low, and far away from the windows at the opposite end of the room. Light flooded through one of them, giving a clear view of the haggard northern town of Vhakh, but the other opened to what appeared to be a sheer cliff face of gray rock. The bar was devoid of patrons and its probable owner, a lanky man in his fifties with an overlarge gut, sat calmly on a stool before them. He had an ornate blunderbuss aimed squarely at them.

"You two don't look like churchmen," he said simply, his north Salvic accent thick as sludge. "The Eyeless only work with the Church. Denebriel led me to believe you'd be magistrates or something. But I guess Our Lady has Her reasons."

"Yes, well..." said Ashiakin, rubbing his head and trying to get his bearings. The casualness with which the man held his gun disturbed him. "We were sent here by Denebriel. We must go to Vha Khotur."

Aerran stepped forward, eying the gun. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sir Eogman Moore. I'm... a scholar of sorts. I study the Tap. Or the pieces that are left of it, anyway. Not study in the sense of the Raiaeran Schools... Concerns up here are far more practical. You know how the Wars of the Tap left scars on Salvar, how strange things, dangerous things happen all the time, especially this far north?" He did not wait for an answer, obviously excited about what he was saying. "I study their... weather patterns, so to speak. Try to predict and prevent... occurrences. And, of course, I'm an old friend of the Church."

Ashiakin frowned. "That's very interesting. We'll be sure to inquire about your opinion if we ever have a problem of that nature. My companion and I have a very pressing matter to attend to up in the fortress, however..." He began to walk away from the bar and Aerran followed after him.

"Hold on a moment, friends," he said, standing up and swiveling the mouth of the blunderbuss toward the pair. "There's this thing that's been bothering me. Ever since Denebriel came back, all it's brought is war and unrest. She's been greedy and cruel... Not exactly saintly qualities, wouldn't you agree? Not watching after her flock. Lots of them have been leaving her. Myself included, I'm afraid. You see, when I say I'm an old friend of the Church, I mean I'm an old friend of the Justice. Lev Testhan. And from what I hear, you two may have had a hand in his untimely end."

"Oh, fuck," murmered Aerran, reaching for her sword hilt.

As Ashiakin reached for his own, the door at the far end of the common room burst open and two mercenary guards rushed in, Salvarans in chain mail and fur armor, one armed with an axe and the other with a mace. They started forward. The only sounds in the room were the click of boots and Moore's chuckle as he caressed the stock of his gun.

[Ashiakin]

"Quick, against the counter!" said Ashiakin.

He crouched down and pressed his back against the bar, momentarily putting himself out of the line of the blunderbuss, Aerran quickly following his lead. Moore leapt on top of the bar and swung the mouth of his gun down toward them, but Ashiakin's hand shot out and grabbed the barrel, wrenching it so that it was aimed away from them.

"Hold off the other two!" he cried, his voice strained.

Aerran sprung to her feet and drew her hooked sword, moving toward the advancing mercenaries with a determination that spoke little of nervousness. Ashiakin grabbed the barrel of the gun with both hands and used all of his strength to jerk it out of Moore's grasp. Moore rose to his feet on top of the counter, but Ashiakin rose as well and swung the firearm like a bat at Moore's kneecap. The metal connected with bone sharply, painful vibrations wringing Ashiakin's arms, but Moore stumbled backwards off the bar and his neck collided awkwardly with the far wall. There was an ominous snap and he slumped to the floor unmoving.

Ashiakin whirled to face Aerran and the two guards. They were circling her, but she had managed to keep her distance well enough: Though she appeared to have taken a grazing wound to her side, one of the mercenary's arms was thick with blood and he seemed to be having a difficult time wielding his axe. Ashiakin strode toward the wounded guard, flipping the blunderbuss around in his hands. He attempted to thrust the barrel of the gun toward the guard's head, but the man mustered enough strength to block it with the haft of his axe. Ashiakin staggered back, arms throbbing.

Aerran dodged a blow from the mercenary with the mace and hooked one of her boots under a chair and flung it at the wounded guard. The thing struck him square in the chest and he dropped his weapon, gasping and winded. It took Ashiakin only a moment to place the mouth of the gun against his unprotected face and pull the trigger. The chainmail coif the man wore contained most of the splatter, but some hit the floor, dark as wine.

The remaining guard seemed unnerved by this turn of events, but decided to hold his ground. He dodged a blow from Aerran and lunged toward Ashiakin, attempting to catch him off guard. Ashiakin managed to just dodge the swipe, stumbling over a chair in the process. Aerran moved in and intercepted the man, however, skewering him through his middle. She removed her blade from his stomach and he fell the ground, coughing.

"Shit," said Aerran. "Fuck. Fuck, everyone around will have heard all of this. We have to find some way out of here."

Ashiakin righted himself and handed her the blunderbuss calmly. "You know how to use this better than I do, anyway. Look, yes, we have to go. But we have to go up to the fortress. The main walk won't be safe. We're going to have to take... an alternate route. Come on."

He pulled his cloak around him and hurried out the door, Aerran following quickly behind him, cursing their luck. Instead of heading out toward the main roads of Vhakh, they went behind the tavern, facing the sheer gray cliff that rose up to the ancient fortress of Vha Khotur. The wind was cold and their cloaks were not quite adequate for weather this far north.

Ashiakin turned to Aerran grimly. "We're going to have to climb up."

"What?" she asked, disbelieving. "It's freezing. We have no equipment. I'm wounded! There's no way we can possibly do this, Ashiakin."

"Scaling the cliff is not unheard of. People do it from time to time, when they have to. Look, holdings have been carved out here." He pointed out the rough holes that had been carved and worn into the ragged face of the cliff, pockmarks on an already hideous visage. "I bet they go all the way up."

"What if they don't?" she whispered.

Ashiakin did not answer her, but turned and began to climb.

[Ashiakin]

They had climbed perhaps thirty feet when the first arrow clattered against the rock, some minor insult thrown errant by the cruel wind. Ashiakin spared a quick glance toward the town below. The roof of the building a couple blocks back--what appeared to be a stone storehouse laden with a crust of snow--was occupied by three figures in winter gear armed with bows and arrows. Below, at the door there was a crowd of guards--royalists by the blue-gray of the tunics under their furs and light armor--were attempting to force their way into the warehouse. At least everyone in this town isn't trying to murder us, he thought.

But his excitement quickly evaporated. He looked beyond the borders of the small town to the roiling mass that was moving inexorably toward it, a congregation of soldiers marching with the red banners of the Church of the Ethereal Sway swerving jaggedly in the wind.

"Aerran," he called out, "we have to hurry, we're going to run out of time."

She did not call back, conserving her energy, but she continued to press on after him. The holdings in the rock were cold and often slippery, frigid uncertainties that had only been carved into the cliff face with a haphazard wariness. The wind whipped along the profile of the escarpment, ruffling Ashiakin's cloak and infusing a sense of vitality into his being that only the weather of the Salvic north could bring. But he knew Aerran, with her wound and her mortal frailties, must be suffering dearly. Luckily, only one more arrow smacked into the crag: a useless, forgettable gesture, far away from its intended mark. He did not turn to look again, uncertain if the height would disorient him, but he knew their assailants had been arrested.

Eventually they came to a long overhang, a thin, snowy ledge that was wrapped around the bluff like a belt. Ashiakin reached down to give Aerran a hand up and stood with her on the ledge, looking over the town and its surrounds. Vhakh seemed so insignificant in contrast to the advancing Church strike-force. But he knew that it was not the town that was the army's goal: it was the fortress of Vha Khotur high above it.

"Let's go," he said. "Vhakh itself won't hold out for long. If our enemies were at the fortress gates, there may well be some in the fortress already."

He turned and pressed his hands against the wall, his fingers searching the cold stone like a musician exploring a long-forgotten instrument. He walked along the snowy overhang, trying to keep steady footing and find the next set of indentures that would allow them to finish the last leg of their ascent to the fortress. It was only after several minutes that he looked to see if Aerran had been following him.

She stood there calmly, a splotch of dark red visible through her frayed cloak, with Moore's blunderbuss aimed squarely at his chest. Ashiakin's fingers quickly fell away from the escarpment and he turned to face her.

"Aerran..." he said. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to ask you some questions, asshole," she said, her voice straining over the sharp whistle of the wind. "What are we going to do once we get to Vha Khotur? Do you intend to betray Iorlan? Have you already?"

"Look, Aerran," he said calmly, "I don't have the time to explain this. I told you. You're... You've always been a good friend. You can trust me. I'm the reason you're free of the Cathedral. There's... No ill will come of this."

"Fuck you," she said, her voice now easily carrying over the wind. "Fuck you, you haughty, arrogant bastard. I can't trust you. Iorlan always treated us as equals--because we are equals--but now that Denebriel's found you, you've been giving me orders like I'm some pawn in your spy network. So fuck you. You drag me through hell and ask me climb up a cliff while I'm fucking wounded and I don't even know what we're doing. I'm not inhuman like you. You could be using me to betray Iorlan for all I know. So if you're really concerned with moving on, give me some fucking answers."

"Aerran," he said sharply, anger rising in his voice, "we don't have time for this. The damn gun's not even loaded. I fired it in the tavern."

He started forward to disarm her, but the crack of gunfire tore through the hiss of the mountain wind. The noise, that bursting explosion, sounded so wrong to him that he knew it could only be a lie. But the bullets, burning through the frigid air that enveloped him, wove their way into his chest like molten splinters. He staggered backward, a look of bewilderment occupying his face as he stared at Aerran. She was already turning to descend the ridge.

Ashiakin coughed and fell to his knees, fingers running over his chest and the rich blue blood that was spilling through his cloak and winter tunic. Darkness was seeping into his mind as if it was some intruder that the bullets had opened the gates for, beckoned in. He collapsed into the snow, a confused, pitiable creature, and for him all things ran together.

[Ashiakin]

Wind swept into Ashiakin's wounds like floodwater pouring through a ravine. Pain crystallized inside his drying blood like frost, invigorating him as the healing process began. He knew that it would likely take a full week or more for the wounds to completely heal, but his body was now undergoing a temporary revision: it would hold together well enough until he could sequester himself so that his flesh would have time to rebuild. It was true that he had spent the last months in hiding, but the thought of another week of it sickened him. Too many things were happening too fast.

His fingers ran over the holes where the bullets had burrowed into his chest, the thick, blue blood that congealed there staining his fingers. Why the hell did you do this to me, Aerran? he wondered. Why now?

Slowly and carefully he forced himself to stand on the rocky, snow-laden ledge on which he had lain. He stretched, grimacing at the pain that echoed throughout his body, knowing that it would be with him for a week. He was uncertain how long he had spent on the ground recuperating, but Aerran was gone and there was no sign of her moving up or down the cliff face. The Church militants had edged closer to Vhakh, however, and their red banners hung in the gray sky like harbingers of blood. The defenders of the town--the Vhakh militia and the elite Royal Guardians of Vhakh--were already assembling, preparing to defend the sleepy village below the fortress. While Vhakh might fall eventually, the great fortress above it would likely not. No army in history had ever taken Vha Khotur.

The arrival of the Church strike-force and Aerran's betrayal had set Ashiakin on edge. He could now rely on no one's advice but his own in the difficult thing he must decide. He pressed his hands against his head and pulled at his hair. What the fuck am I supposed to do? he wondered.

"Fuck!" he said, turning away from the town below.

He crouched down to his knees and tried to clear his head, breathing deeply and pushing his concerns about the betrayal he had experienced an the arriving army away from him, trying to forget it like the cold pain in his chest. There was no time for it now. He would climb up to the fortress, enter it, and decide what to do about Denebriel's task from there. He had come this far and would not abandon it now, even if he was alone.

Standing again, he found the notches in the cliff face that would lead him up to Vha Khotur. He did not bother looking back again at the small town below. There would be plenty of time to see it later, whoever ruled it.

[Ashiakin]

The climb up to the fortress was long and painful. Even though the rush of the cool wind acted to soothe his wounds, he could not move as quickly or as ably as he had been able to on his ascent to the ledge. There were no longer thoughts of betrayal or impending war in his head. It was all the feel of the freezing nooks in the rock under his fingers, the dull ache of his injuries that crept around inside him, the knowledge of the place above him.

When he finally crested the top of the cliff and scrambled down the scree-covered slope that connected with the fortress wall, his pain and exhaustion greatly diminished the awe inherent in the site before him. Vha Khotur was a city in and of itself, dwarfing the town far below it. Pristine white walls and towers stretched out before him like some perfect, impossible thing torn out of a child's imagination. A holy quiet dominated the fortress--even the wind had reverence enough to be silent in sight of Vha Khotur. The place was older than Salvar itself, older even than Ashiakin. For that reason it always made him nervous--there were few things in this world older than him, and this place was an enigma that he would never comprehend.

No guards, stoic figure dressed in ceremonial armor dyed red and blue, challenged him. He did not understand how this could be, unless Denebriel had gained their trust and they intended to allow the Church army below inside the fortress without a contest. His heart quickened at the thought.

He found stairs that led from the fortified wall down to the snow-covered courtyard, passing by the guards without speaking to or looking at them. As he trudged through the snow, his head began to spin. Exhaustion had taken residence inside him like an unwelcome guest. His wounds were open again--he was exerting himself too hard in his injured state--and blue blood was leaking from them. Pain was clouding all thoughts of his objective.

I can make it, he told himself. Once I'm inside... I'll... Fuck, what is it? I've just got to make it inside. Everything's fine. Nothing wrong.

But as he reached the great steps of the fortress and began to make his way up them, his mind seemed to be floating in some ethereal sea. His thoughts were detaching themselves from the searing pain of his injuries, the exhaustion in his limbs, floating away from all the hardship. Finally he tripped on one of the steps and collapsed into a heap before the entrance to the great fortress, his thoughts evaporating into the black of unconsciousness.

[Ashiakin]

* * *

When Ashiakin's eyes flicked open, they did so with the cautious intent of a soldier surveying enemy ground. He was lying on the floor of an expansive stone chamber, the austerity of the hall speaking to its long existence though it was clearly cleaned and kept with religious devotion. The far end of the hall opened to a balcony that overlooked the town of Vhakh and its surroundings. Gray northern light and sounds from the battle below streamed in through it. Closer to Ashiakin, the stone hall held a strangely resplendent hue--as if pure, unfiltered light was simply seeping from the walls.

It was only when Ashiakin lifted his head that he saw that the light was coming from the Tap Vault. The Vault stood twice as high as the tallest man, an ancient metallic doorway that protruded from the stone behind it. The colorless, magnificent light that came from the Vault emanated from a circular window at its center, a curious pane of crystallized glass. The door's sleek surface was covered in runes from a language now dead for millennia. The loneliness inherent in the fact that Ashiakin could read them crept into his mind as slowly and as powerfully as age. There were few moments in his life that he could recall feeling so insignificant as this, in front of this artifact of another age, this monument to his ancient defeat and imprisonment.

The Tap Vaults--for there were many of them scattered throughout Vha Khotur--had been constructed in the aftermath of the Wars of the Tap, when the Forgotten Ones and their lieutenants, Ashiakin included, had been bound outside reality after their defeat. The Eternal Tap, the once-unified source of magic on Althanas, had shattered into millions of pieces, forever weakening the amount of magic that could be used as once. Larger pieces of the Tap remained, however. The victors of the Wars deemed that their size would only be a destabilizing factor in the new world they would create and had the offending sections of the Tap sealed behind Vaults. Many had tried to break into Vha Khotur and harness the energy behind them, but all had been arrested or killed before they even came close. Vha Khotur's remote location and impregnable defenses had very real reasons behind them.

That Ashiakin might succeed in doing what so many hundreds across history had failed in doing disturbed him deeply. The option before him was one that he knew that even he, in all his ancient experience, could not truly comprehend the magnitude of. He ran his fingers over his chest absently and noticed something startling--though the blood stains and the bullet holes in his shirt remained, the wounds themselves were gone. Someone had healed him entirely and brought him to rest before the Vault that Denebriel had sent him to open. What on earth does that mean? he wondered.

Were he to open the Vault, even just this one as he had been instructed, there was no telling what would happen. The sky could catch fire, the seas could turn to blood, cities could mutate into broken lairs for the undead, time itself could alter. The energy could manifest itself in all the common folk, turn their dreams and horrors corporeal, paint their deepest nightmares onto the canvas of reality. Denebriel had assured him the all the weather patterns of the broken Tap suggested that any mutations would flow southward toward Knife's Edge and have a limited impact there, but enough to give her leverage in her losing war. But he did not see how she could know the truth of that any better than him. Or if he could do as she asked.

Below the glimmering window of the Vault was what appeared to be a large, unadorned keyhole. It hung empty in the metal door like a missing eye. Ashiakin strode toward it with cautious reverence. When he reached it, he pulled the discolored sword that Denebriel had given him from its sheath. One of its edges was patterned like a key. Though he had never even drawn the sword in battle, he could strike a blow at the heart of the world here.

Slowly, he slid the blade into the keyhole but did not turn it. It fit perfectly. A twist of his wrist would open a chaotic road through a mutated Althanas, a place that could shift beyond recognition. He sighed and stepped back, knowing that he could never turn the sword handle.

"So, what are you going to do, Ashiakin?" called a voice from behind him.