47

  They found themselves at the edge of a rumbling spherical void, deep in the heart of that churning and pounding machine. Or… not quite void, for at its center hung Sherazedan’s withered body, held in place by strands of hissing and crackling force. Their goal.

  The distance across seemed to vary as they turned to scan their surroundings, being sometimes a few hundred yards, at other slants nearly a mile. There was no walkway. No bridge. Worse, that silver-haired lich’s thin face held something akin to a satisfied smile.

  An oily black tendril had its root in his bare, bony chest, flowing outward and through the machine to the worlds beyond. Val’s former master was terribly wounded, they saw; slashed and punctured in all the ways that his simulacrum had suffered, outside; somehow still alive. Not a pleasant or comforting sight. High overhead, an array of vast, glassy orbs rolled and clicked. Most seemed to follow their own lazy arcs, but three were now almost together.

  Valerian, Cinda, Filimar and Mandor “the charmer” looked around at what faced them. Val cast Cone of Silence again, so that they could speak and make plans.

  “I could fly across,” said the vampyre's floating head. “But it is not given to me to strike this blow, nor have I any weapon mighty enough to do so.”

  Raven-haired Filimar sorted through his faerie pockets, coming up with his crossbow, Joker.

  “It is a very long shot,” he remarked, attempting to sight on that slow-spinning elven wizard. “And not a direct one. Parts of the space between are… not connected, if that makes any sense.”

  The ranger snorted impatiently.

  “No one expects sense out of you. Put that thing away, before you hurt yourself, idiot. For all you know, any bolts that you fire will enter an eddy and come straight back at us. Only something with an actual brain can get through that web of dimensional thorns.”

  Valerian nodded.

  “I can levitate,” he mused, “and I still have my sword and bow…”

  “He’ll expect that, and odds are he’s shielded himself against all of your spells,” Cinda cut in. Her brown and her blue eyes were equally hard and fiercely concerned. “I can turn into an owl again and fly you across,” offered the ranger, “if you’ll take a small enough shape. A mouse or a squirrel would do.”

  Right. Val felt himself reddening. Started to say something, then changed his mind.

  “Yes, of course. I am sure I can do that,” he replied stoutly. “Changing forms is quite simple. Been doing it all my life.”

  …which wasn’t quite true, but she wasn’t to know that. Besides, with everyone watching, time growing short and no better plan, what else could he do? The blond young elf cleared his throat nervously. He knew the spell and had manna enough to empower it. Easiest thing in the world. One of the first skills an elven wild child learned, besides the use of a sling.

  Val nodded once more. Rubbed both palms on the sides of his breeches and reached with his mind for an alternate shape. Something small, she’d said. Only…

  He was Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, of Ilirian, third heir. Or, Valerian Valinor, now, somehow in line for a throne he didn’t want. But those were the wrong thoughts entirely. He had to become something else, quickly. Be a different creature in mind and instinct, as well as in form. Sure. No problem at all.

  Those three glassy orbs aligned overhead with a deep, ringing chime that they felt, rather than heard. What had been a tingle of presence became a very strong mental connection, as everything happened at once.

  A wave of terrible lassitude swept over Valerian. An urge to forget all his troubles and sleep, but also new skills, including another shape. Just for a moment, Val was a hulking orange cyborg-tabaxi, then a very startled explosion of striped, yellow cat.

  He yowled, hissed and batted as his perspective dropped from over six feet in height to ground-sniffing level. Then again, when powerful talons took hold and jerked him off the rumbling steel floor.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Maybe elves liked to fly, but cats didn’t. Worse, he couldn’t work magic without hands or a proper mouth. He could still recycle, though, hurling his mind all the way off to their back-alley den at the fair. Used the respite to come up with a counterspell globe and a couple of possible strategies. Looking for something Sherazedan wouldn't expect.

  In the meantime, progress across that varying distance was slow, for the owl had to pass through swirls and tangles of trans-dimensional space. As they swooped amid timelines, he could feel Firelord, Miche and Pilot, all of them deeply in trouble. His other selves were trapped in sleep that Val fought against; time and again losing concentration and starting to dream.

  Cinda could sense it when he began to lose consciousness. Her sharp, curving talons pinched hard, as much for fun as to keep him awake, Val suspected. He sent that fierce nipping, that wind in his face and dangling flight through to Pilot and Miche, trying to free them from magical sleep. Maybe it helped, but he had too many problems of his own to find out for sure.

  XXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Outside, in the meantime, things had changed for the worse. That dark, slimy creature laughed wildly, then began snapping in all of its tendrils and bodies. Most of the defenders were dead or terribly wounded, with Alexion, Hallan Gelfrin and Villem the paladin among the few left standing. There was almost no manna. The gods were mere husks, and more folk writhed in puddles of blood than were able to fight. She-once-a-goddess hurried among them, using her own final magic to bind up the cuts and slashes of others.

  Alexion loped across to join her. Kissed her bruised, bloodied face, then jerked his head at that fiery portal, saying,

  “I don’t think that the fight can be won out here, milady.”

  “The heart of reality is a place of dread peril, love,” she replied, still wrapped in young Valerian’s cloak and her own long hair. “You must have protection to survive there.”

  Vernax and the young griffin were high in the air, harrying retreating tentacles, diving and snapping at a tendril that held the dark sword. And that gave the exiled prince an idea.

  “Vernax, to me!” called Alexion, adding, “Golden One, give me a ride to the rift, and you shall be freed. My oath before gods and powers and Fate, herself!”

  The dragon shrieked like a hawk, turning its wedge-shaped head to stare down at Alexion. Hallan and Villem came racing over, as did Zibeg the very surprising gnome. All were battered, but wild with the need to fight on.

  As the black sword was hauled to the rift by an arrow-pocked tentacle, Vernax roared back,

  “You have spoken! All have heard! I accept!”

  The golden dragon and russet griffin had become friends. Now they swooped low enough to be mounted, their wings churning up whirlwinds of dust and battle-debris. She-once-a-goddess kissed Alexion, packing every possible blessing and undying love into her desperate, lingering touch. He kissed her back, too full of conflicting emotions… too unused to speech… to say whatever it was that he felt.

  Leapt onto the dragon’s gracefully lowered neck instead, swinging Zibeg the mine-chief behind him.

  “Hang on,” he advised Zibeg (using his own mouth and lungs) “Whatever’s inside there is going to be rough.”

  “Meh,” shrugged the wild-haired and grinning gnome, giving her friend a wink. “I seen worse. Let’s go, Chatter. Time’s a-wastin’, and I ain’t gettin’ no taller.”

  Villem and Hallan had meanwhile vaulted onto the squawking griffin, who had more heart and courage than experience bearing a rider. Then, while flew ever faster toward that rift, another gate opened up overhead. Like a torn sack, it disgorged dozens of armed and screeching Quetzali warriors. The feathered serpent folk were led by a beautiful, rainbow-winged princess.

  Alexion saluted her as Vernax soared into the air, jetting flame.

  “This way!” he shouted, clinging tight. The dragon’s muscles bunched and surged underneath him. The ground dropped away like a stone, revealing a nightmare of death and destruction. “Into the rift, where we capture that sword!”

  Maybe the blade could be wrested back to the service of Order, if held by himself, a Quetzal or the paladin. Maybe they’d have to destroy it. Either way, the fight was no longer outside, at the wreckage of Magister Serrio’s fair. It was there, in the heart of reality… and what could Alexion do but give in to Fate?

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Deep within, meanwhile, Sherazedan’s body suddenly seemed to erupt. A forest of dark, slimy limbs burst from his blood-streaked chest.

  “Very good, boy,” mocked his voice, seeming to come from everywhere at once; from all of those thundering noises combined. “You have brought yourself straight to the altar of Chaos!”

  Two of those tendrils developed sudden sharp blades, whipping around to impale Filno and Cinda, hoisting them into the air by their straining ribcages. (Not Mandor, though, for the vampyre had disappeared, leaving not even a streamer of mist.) Then,

  “Let us dispense with disguise,” purred Sherazedan, using the machine’s mighty power to turn Cinda and Val back to normal. Dozens… scores… of slimy dark tentacles wrapped themselves around the struggling elf-lord and tightened. His ribs cracked. His arms were pinned to his sides, his fingers laced up and then broken, his mouth stitched magically shut.

  “There will be no more treachery from you, boy,” Valerian heard, through a haze of throbbing red agony. Slick tendrils next twined over his arms and legs, pulling them joint-straining taut.

  “You will serve your last purpose, ‘apprentice’. You will die, in every world you’ve infested, at once.”

  Val could not speak or move. Could barely think through the terrible pain. But… the plan. His hastily pocketed spell-globe…