B.T.V. -- Session 12 Epilogue: Dragon's Loss

A Zi falls so a Dragon Can Rise

Sybermane

Sybermane is in the lounge of his keep on Lake Weird, in the Sparringtons. He can feel the Moon of Khons hanging just above the fortress. Its presence feels oppressive to some, perhaps even most, but to him it is a comfort, as a Master of the Khrescent.


He notices the lunar glow around him changing to a violet colour, an indication that Khons himself is nearby, and Sybermane strides out to the balcony attached to the lounge. His God hovers in the sky, surrounded by a red, misty glow as well as the colour of moonlight. Khons tells him of the strange manipulation of the Realm of Existence that had resulted in the Noble Thoughts of Time and Shadow transforming what had already been the odd world/cosmos of Axildusk into something different. Potential has been frozen outside Axildusk. Only within can change occur, not in the remainder of the Realm, including Miranse, which is home to the Sparringtons.


“They have stopped its forward progress,” Khons says, and Sybermane realizes that, while he’d made many plans now that his keep was established, he’d somehow never gotten around to putting them in action. He can’t say why.


“I myself am permitted some activity,” Khons says, and Sybermane understands that to mean in Axildusk. “And there is my own nature, which has protected me somewhat. I have not taken an active hand. Now, I have been, as it would be had by destiny, I would be given opportunity to join in these doings.”


He tells Sybermane that recently he has taken action, before even he had expected to, but action is required.


“I can act, as you will, out of turn. The action I committed to had occurred. Someone has suggested that this extra I can take would involve yourself, because you are of the Obsidian, of the Outremer.”


Axildusk admitted not knowing what either term meant, despite apparently being one. “These beings who come from Beyond,” the God answered about the Outremer. “But you have a place here as well.”


Obsidian refers to those holding a prominent position within the Outremer, “Those who come from without,” Khons continues, comparing Sybermane to Prince Benedict of Amber, one of the Principles of Humanity. “You are similar. You are a Principle of Obsidian.


“You are aware you have a special gift. That is what has brought you into my circle. The Corne of Moonlight is what stamps you as an Obsidian.”


The God spoke of the Grey Horn that Sybermane could manifest from his equine forehead, as he could a Black Horn and a White Horn, but he didn’t immediately understand.


“A Corn?” he inquires.


“You’ve never heard of a Unihorn, have you?” Khons asks back, with a hint of rarely-seen mirth.


“It is what stamps you as Obsidian. This is also what connects you to me.”


Khons lists for his Khrescent the names of the other five Obsidian:

Asmodeus, who controls the Stylus of Binding, like Sybermane’s Corne but connected to the Runestaff;

Jack of Shadows, who holds the Wild of Arcana, “from which powers can be presumed to fall;”

Asurbanipal, the Sailor, who steers the Wheel of Destiny and possesses a fleet that, uniquely, can sail from Realm to Realm;

Dantalion, who wields the Sword of Cause, a paladin or crusader;

And finally Axewing, who wears the Armour of Time, the gift of Taiphon, one of the two Noble Thoughts to have recreated Axildusk;


“You are with the other Noble Thought that has made this reality, the Shadow Dragon. The Corne is your connection to this (Shadow) as well. You will have changed your destiny, if you will, if you choose to go to Axildusk. You might come someday to regret or deny this choice, but for now, I have the capability to give you your head. I will not force this upon you. My godliness is different from those who came after me.”


He had come before the other deities, for he was the long night that preceded the creation of even the stars. He was the Great Night, and had been represented in every pantheon across time and Realms.


“I was able to see it all unfold,” Khons states.


His God also warns Sybermane in connection with the Spectral Blade, the knife that the Khrescent possesses that could divide the Gods into their separate components, effectively ending them, as he had with Anhur, though he had no memory of that event. It had been wiped by his mind by the trauma of the passing of that God.


“There is one who seeks it. One who is known as Black Jack. When he finds you, you will have a decision to make about the Blade.”


Khons also makes Sybermane aware that he could have selected others to go to Axildusk, and adds a warning.


“There is a great price to be paid for your freedoms. Others will perish based on your decision.” Sybermane answered, “I have seen the coming and going of Realms, and know that such things are inevitable, no matter how much you might fight against them, to protect your herd. I will go to Axildusk. I am not one to sit idly by. I go where the action is.”


Khons, seemingly content with this decision, stated, “I will place you in the City of Adhrilanka. It will not be as you remember it. That is due to the manipulation of Time and Shadow. Any technology has been forgotten or obliterated. It is a place more like this one.”


Sybermane would not show his feelings to his God, but winced inside. So much for moving pictures.


Adhrilanka, Khons continues, is the capital of the Draegeran Empire. The 17 Great Houses that make up the top strata of society can be taken for Veer, and have defeated 17 other houses that had been relegated to Tribal status. These Tribes are oppressed, so that they might have no hope of reaching Great House status. And under the Tribes are the humans. Each house, Great or Tribal, is represented by an animal, the God states, which reflects the character of the people within them. “They will assume you are one of these.” But Khons brought good news as well, that the Quinnials, the race that seemingly descended from Sybermane, exist upon Axildusk.


“That is why you have had trouble finding them. Most of them are in Axildusk. They will assume you are one of these. You will be considered a second-class citizen, but the Draegerans recognize individual greatness, though only the Veer amount to much in their minds. But none of them are prone to ignoring usefulness.


“Racism is not their ultimate guide, merely a habit.”


Khons then mentions that death was not necessarily permanent upon Axildusk. Those killed can be revivified within three days of the death. “It is a simple cost of money. It is important to know the Corne is above this, and can bring permanent death.”


Khons concludes, “The time for speaking grows short. The time for action is now.”











A moment later, Sybermane and Khons are in a roofed, open-air shrine of some kind, the arches Gothic to Sybermane’s eye, tutored by Osric of Amber, whose affection for architecture had been infectious. Beyond lie stars. Taiphon the Dragon of Time, and Benedict, brother to Osric and acknowledged as the ultimate strategus and tactician of all existences, also inhabit this place.


“You’ve decided to come,” Benedict greets him.


‘”How could I resist?” Sybermane answers.


“You will need help to enter Axildusk,” Benedict informs him.


Khons says he believes Sybermane should not only go to Axildusk, but more importantly to Adhrilanka, and lose himself amongst the populace.


“An apt enough suggestion,” Benedict decides. “My brother Finndo acts on our behalf in Adhrilanka.”


This pleases Sybermane no end, for he and Finndo, and Osric were old friends from long ago, though they have been separated for some time.


Benedict, adopting a briefing tone, says that the thoughts of others will come to Sybermane in ways he was not used to. Draegerans also have the ability to travel by teleportation, if they know a place well enough. A skilled practitioner can teleport up to 10, but he believes experts in the field might be able to do many more.


Khons observes that indicates the ability to move a great number of troops in such a fashion. “You play him, then?” Benedict asks of Khons, indicating Sybermane.


“He has told me he is tired of inactivity,” Khons answers.


“You have a great part to play, then,” Benedict addresses this to Sybermane. But for a place to be made for Sybermane, another will have to cease his forward path on Axildusk.


“Such is the way of life,” Sybermane replies casually.

Asher Zi

“We really need to look for Sybermane,” Axewing tells Asher Zi, who agrees.


“You have helped me, so I will help you,” Zi pronounces fatefully.


They are in a room in the Carriage Crashed Inn, along with Sreigorn, King of the Rangers, Handfist the King of the Dwarfs, Dagnyr Perildar, a Delve and former member of the Olo Feradir though none except him seemed to comprehend what that meant, and the Girl they had saved from the Jenoine in the Heart of the Dragon.


“I managed to find her some clothes,” Sreigorn says about the Girl.


“Did she reveal anything about herself?” Axewing asks. Sreigorn shakes his head.


“I have weapons, now, Girl,” Handfist boasts.


“I can see that. They’re very nice,” she replies sweetly.


Sreigorn reveals that, in talking to merchants while shopping for the Girl, he’d asked about the Playships, an entertainment and pleasure district on the river in Adhrilanka, and the place that the Girl claims is her home.


“There are things that go on there that are not suitable for one of her age,” Sreigorn says. Asher thinks he might be exaggerating. Drug use is legal and widespread in the city, patrons probably get no drunker there than they did at their Inn, and prostitution was a respected, though not revered, profession.


Axewing mentions he is looking for a place for the members of the Obsidian, the Princes of the Outremer, to meet, and to act as a Haven for his friends, and wonders if Asurbanipal’s great flagship will be suitable for that role, as well as a new home for the Girl.


Asher suggests they first go to the Playships to see if for themselves, before making a decision that will affect the Girl’s life so dramatically, though she doesn’t seem to mind either way.


“I’ve met a Delve,” Axewing says to Handfist as they walk to the river. “They are skilled underground.”


“So they say,” Handfist declared skeptically.


As they reach a plaza near the Playships, they see group of Jhereg spot them, and head their way.


“Well, what do we have here?” the female leader asks sarcastically. “Travelers in the Foot. And no sign of having made any payment.”


She demands three Imperials, and Asher pays the money, rather than waste time trying to out-tough these bravos.


“A strange assembly indeed,” she continues, and greeted Perildar with a phrase. The only word he recognizes is “losifol” or something like that, a word distantly related to “friend” in Delvish, but not in the correct context. He offers no response beyond a level stare.


“Ah, my ears!” Handfist protests, holding his hands to them as if in pain at hearing some sort of Veerish language. “What was that horrible noise?”


The Jhereg turns her attention to him. “What are you? You look oddly stunted, and hairy as a human. Maybe more so.”


Handfist countered, “Definitely hairier.” He stamps forward from the party until he realizes he doesn’t know where he is going, and then stops and stares back at them. A team of goats pulling a wagon comes up on him, and stop abruptly to avoid hitting him. He turns to stare at them, then takes a step back.


The goats are pulling a prison wagon manned by two Tsalmoths, and Handfist stands on his toes, trying to see the wretched prisoners inside.


“They are a sorry lot,” he observes. “Caged like animals.”


Sana suddenly spoke up, but not to Handfist. “I sense something is nearby, and it is not Um. It would be your creature, Axewing.”


Axewing, looking around, sees Defiant, the Gryffyn King, perched atop a spire of the Iron Hook prison to the south, like a large gargoyle. Their eyes meet, and Defiant seems irritated that, not only has he been seen by Axewing, but that his position is being given away, for Sana has followed Axewing’s gaze. Defiant's eyes then encounter hers, and he seems even unhappier.


Defiant crouches, and then leaps into the air, Sreigorn catching that movement with his eye.


As the party nears the Playships, they see a pavilion, like a market stall, and nearby a Draegeran woman, probably a Jhereg by House, juggling four knives between her hands.


Asher asks the Girl if she knows this juggler. “I know Jangles pretty well,” he’s told. Two knives strike each other at the top of their arc, and suddenly she is juggling two in each hand. She adjusts and adds first one knife, then another, now manipulating three per hand, the patterns rotating in opposing directions. Asher sees an empty boot next to the performer, and drops in two Imperials.


In response, Jangler throws the knives higher, and adds one more to each hand. To Zi’s view, they look like serviceable weapons.


“Imagine if she put her forces to real use,” Handfist observed. Jangler is confused, then throws her hat to land at Handfist’s feet. He picks them up.


“It might suit you better than me,” he says as he hands it to Dagnyr, who shrugs and puts it on his head.


The Girl asked the juggler for news about the Playships.


“There will be songs tonight. The Black Orphan has arrived.” Asher glances at Axewing, for meeting this bard had been the other half of their mission to the Playships, though they’d had little hope of actually finding him there.


“A knowing look between friends is worth a story,” Jangler says, and Asher admitted their hope of meeting the Black Orphan.


The juggler, in response, collects and stows each of her knives, and while looking at Asher flips one at him, so he can confirm it’s real. He obliges.


“You know what they say,” Handfist interjects. “Steel is real.”


“You wish to go to the Playships, I take it,” Jangler offers. Glancing at the Girl, she suggests the youngster had a place there, but it might not be judged as best for her. The Girl, the juggler adds, hadn’t yet decided what profession she might follow among the Playships.


“You know what I mean, don’t you?” the Jhereg inquires, referring to the Girl’s promise of great beauty as an adult.


The Girl recounts the story of her abduction and rescue to Jangler as she leads the group to a boat that can convey them across the river to the Playships.


Miffen, a boatman, ferries them across. His skiff is unusual, in that the movements of the pole he uses to seemingly guide it don’t necessarily correspond with how it turns, and when it first comes to shore, it seems about to ground and then instead comes to a dead halt.


“If it gets too crowded, some of you can sit on the net.”


The party dutifully steps onto the craft, with Dagnyr going last. Handfist still stands on shore, staring away from the party, and the Delve, having engaged the Dwarf in Dwarvish for the last several minutes to distract him from the others, has had enough. He reaches out with his boot and shoves the skiff away from shore, leaving Handfist behind.


The boat moves quite rapidly, followed by the aggravated shouts of the Dwarf, but his invective fade away. The skiff goes between the two grounded ships, the Troubador Pants and the Carousel, and let its passengers off on some rocks. Axewing meanwhile pays the boatman to return for Handfist.


Overhead are additions made to the ships, jutting out from their sides to provide more space for debauchery, as was shown a moment later, when a florid-faced man shoves open a window, shouts for them to stand away, and then vomits onto the rocks. They have an encounter with an elusive aquatic creature, who slips away from the rocks into the water. Sreigorn, investigating, calls Axewing over, and he sees two eyes, the colour of ghostlight, staring up at him. Sreigorn throws some rations onto the water and rocks, and they see a crocodilian lizard, with tall spikes along its back.


“Ah,” Jangler commented. “You’ve found a crawler. It is best not to antagonize them.”


“My experience, even primitive creatures will mark other creatures for death, or otherwise,” Sreigorn mused.


“They’re a nuisance. A dangerous nuisance. Some say they are the offspring of Leviathans.”


The Girl relates that, earlier that day, Axewing had slain a Leviathan in the dock area of Adrilankha’s harbour.


“I had no choice,” Axewing admitts. “It was attacking the city. It might have been under the control of another.”


Jangles scoffs at the possibility a Leviathan could get past the city’s ghostlight Curtain. “It’s not a story,” the Girl insists. “It happened. Just before we got here.”


After Handfist arrives, Jangler leads them onto the Troubador, upward and into a deck full of tables and chairs, Draegerans sitting at many of them, servers going back and forth, sometimes with food but mostly with drink. The mood is boisterous, though not obnoxiously so.


Handfist protests being in a place so full of “Elves,” as he calls them, until a server, a Draegeran under six feet tall, unusually short for her race, and with red hair asks, “Beer for you?”


“On the other hand, maybe Elves aren’t all bad,” Handfist allows graciously. The Teckla’s eyes, though, seem fixed on Axewing.


Axewing asks the Girl where she made her home on the Playships.


“I stayed with Aggie,” she answers, motioning vaguely in a direction with her hand.


“When he’s out on missions, I can use his bed. He’s a Jhereg. He works in the Foot, and lives here.”


Axewing promises to send for Aggie, once they have a table.


“I still don’t remember how I was taken,” the Girl announces abruptly.


Continuing to be guided by Jangles, they go up one more deck to a more subdued lounge, though one with a pleasant atmosphere. There, they also see several oddly garbed figures wearing ornate masks, who they learn are Jongleurs, the top rank of entertainers aboard the Playships.


“Good afternoon,” Jangles greeted them, as they paused momentarily at the sight of the Easterners in their midst. One wearing a crown asks one with a skull mask if he will be presenting a something new that night.


Zevrus, as he has been named by the crowned one, replies that being creative means a work could never be performed until he is fully satisfied with it, and he has not yet reached that point.


“Dorak here says the key is not right,” Zevrus explains. “Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.”


“If we seem surprised,” the crowned one tells the Easterners, “These creative doldrums do not come to him as after as most of us.”


The minstrels then depart, and Jangles takes them all to a table where they take seats. A blonde Teckla server, her eyes jet black and her attitude haughty, comes over. Despite her frosty demeanor, she is a rare beauty, of the Kind only Draegerans can aspire to, and often reach.


“What will you have?”


Asher asks for oishka, the Easterner plum brandy, and Axewing replies, “Ale, and perhaps a leg of something to snack on.”


The server takes the orders from the others, and as she walks away, Sreigorn observes, “A professional woman.”


Jangles smiles at that comment, while Handfist speculates on a possible romantic relationship between the Ranger King and the server.


Asher asks Jangles how they might get in touch with the Black Orphan, so they can speak to him.


“He is rather beyond me,” she answers. “The Jongleurs might be able to reach them.” She points to Verne, sitting at a table nearby, as being very popular in the court of the Phoenix Empress. He has an instrument strung on his back, and wears a single pauldron on one shoulder in Draegeran style. Several ghostlight flasks are at his waist. Surprisingly, he had a beard, and is an Easterner.


“He is a very fine musician,” the Girl confirms.


“We do not discriminate here,” Jangles adds.


A Jongleur then approaches them, introducing himself as Athertien.


“If it isn’t Asher the Zi,” the musician declares. He carries a music box as well as a tambourine, and wears a mask on his shoulder in place of a pauldron. “You are the Green Dragon, and some have said they might begin an ode to you. Unlikely to be less than a saga.”


At Asher’s surprised expression, Athertien says, “Much information comes to the Playships.”


“What are you doing here?” the returning server demands.


“I have come from Karrion,” Athertien replies. “I took a skyship. The locacobras remain out of service.”


He too has a beard, but as a Draegeran, it must be a cosmetic, Asher decides. Athertien pulls out a knife, though not in a threatening manner, and waves it lazily about, a violet light emitting from it.


“I might be convinced to produce a work about you,” Athertien tells Asher.


Axewing, meanwhile, contacts the Bard Death psychically, to see if he would like to join them.


“I see you have come to a place of my ilk,” Death notes.


“You must come,” Axewing demands warmly.


“I am not permitted these types of access. My time is not here. My songs are sung.” “Then come to listen,” Axewing persists. “It will refresh your soul.”


Death allows that will consider the suggestion.


Death will come calling later, but not the bard.


“They’re keen to find the Black Orphan,” Jangles is telling Athertien.


Axewing asks Jangles to send for Aggie.


“He’s quite old,” Jangles answers. “I will go see if I can bring him.”


Sreigorn, meanwhile, has won from the server her name, “Livette.”


“Livette. A lovely name,” he utters, but she gives him only an icy look.


Another minstrel then comes over, introducing himself as Dewynnd. He might be human, or half human and half Draegeran. Asher is startled. He had never heard of such a mixing of the blood before the rescue of the Girl. Dewynnd sits and generously orders a bottle of Oishka for the table.


Then a very festive looking fellow, named MOC, for Master of Ceremonies, approaches. He’s over eight feet tall, a considerable height even for a Draegeran, and gangly. His face, like the Jongleurs, is covered with a mask. Hearing something of the encounter earlier in the day, and Axewing’s slaying of what he had thought was a Leviathan, MOC insists that can not be true.


“It was not a Leviathan,” MOC says confidently. “It was a Monstrous.”


MOC leaves after some conversation, taking Athertien with him. Jangles returns moments later with a very old Jhereg, who uses a cudgel as a walking stick. Axewing stands and offers the newcomer his chair.


“Good day, gentlemen. I cannot stay,” Aggie answers.


Axewing asks how the Girl had gone missing.


Aggie claims he has no idea, beyond whatever was done having involved a great deal of decanting. “I have made a study of it, because the girl is somewhat dear to me. I believe a Rakshasa is involved.”


“So there is a Rakshasa who has survived,” Axewing declares, asking for the tiger-headed creature’s name.


“My scrying was not such as to reveal names,” Aggie answers. “They all look alike to me. They are a group of demons.”


“They are a race, to my understanding,” Axewing states, adding about the Girl, “Her name is Kashmir.”


He then produces the lyrics or poem found with the girl, which includes that name, though more as a place than an individual, and gives it to Dewynnd to read.


“It has the elements of both poetry and song about it,” the minstrel judges. “MOC might be the one to penetrate this mystery.”


He confesses then that his father had been Draegeran and his mother human. “I will leave you for a time. I stay upstairs.”


A minstrel named Wylez strolls by, marked by two feathers in his cap.


“I guess you’re wondering what kind of minstrels we Dwarfs have,” Handfist says, answering a question no one had even thought of. “It’s not that hard to play an instrument,” he adds to disbelieving looks. Dagnyr pulls out his viola, and starts to play, seemingly just for the joy of doing so. Moments later, he feels something tap him on the shoulder, and sees a sabre’s tip there, held by a minstrel in a floppy hat.


“You there,” the minstrel says. Dagnyr stops playing. “That’s better.”


“What’s wrong?” Handfist asks.


“He’s not a minstrel. My intention is to see that nothing ill happens to your friend here.” Then, he adds, “It’s a very fine instrument.”


“It was a gift of the Ouerth,” Dagnyr offers in his raspy voice, and hands it over for the minstrel’s inspection.


“It is a decent instrument, if odd,” the minstrel observes. “It’s interesting its body does not resonate. Your playing is adequate, but I must caution you.”


The Girl asks to look at the viola, and Dagnyr obliges. She inquires what is unusual about the instrument while Wilez returns, idly strumming his own.


“Wylez here will tell you,” the minstrel says.


“Tell you what?” Wylez asks. He inspects the viola. “It looks like mine, but mine is hollow. That allows it to resonate.” He fingers the threads on the viola. “It seems to create this volume without a chamber. A gift of the Ouerth, you say? Interesting. Probably best you do not anger the minstrels.”


He returns the instrument to Dagnyr, who attaches it to his clothing.


They hear a commotion from upstairs, and a figure comes pell-mell down the stairs, falling at the bottom. He struggles to his feet, looking terrified, and moves toward the flight of stairs leading further down, but Handfist grabs hold of him first.


“Where are you going?” the Dwarf demands. “Slow down, Draegeran.”


“I need to go! The fellow upstairs doesn’t want me here!”


Handfist releases the Draegeran, who continues his flight, and marches upstairs. No one follows. Axewing instead asks Jangles to arrange rooms for them for that night. She agrees, and takes out two knives that she attaches by the ends of their hilts, spinning the connected weapons idly on the tabletop. As Asher pours a glass of oishka for Axewing to try, he sees a wispy, ghostly glove appear and snatch one of Jangler’s knives.


“He winked at me,” the Girl says suddenly. “the one who took the knife. It was like he was in the shadows.”


Asher then sees a chair spin on one leg and disappear as well. Pointing that out, Axewing hurtles across the table to hit someone, landing awkwardly atop the intruder, and grabbing a. shin to restrain him.


Axewing then feels something pointed in his left armpit, and hears a voice seeming to come through gauze. “It’s Shadowjack.”


Axewing gets off him as Jack appears, holding Jangles’ knife. He climbs to his feet and hands it to her.


“Who are you?” Jangles asks.


“You can call me Jack. A den of iniquity was my hope, and I see that this is not the case.”


When asked why he has come to the Playships, he replies, “Death told me to take a holiday.”


“Jack?” Jangles asks, realization dawning on her features. “You are that Jack?”


“I’m surprised to see you in a place of minstrels,” Asher observes drily.


“It’s not my first choice,” Jack admits. “Or my second. I am here to bear witness to such a gathering.”


“More to drink?” Livette asks, coming up to the table. “Or something more?”


They order more food, and Asher sweet buns stuffed with kethna. Livette replies they don’t have that on offer, but she can send out for them, if Asher proffers sufficient Imperials. He produces first one, then two, and then a third Orb before she finally accepts them. Livette asks if he has a favourite restaurant, but he tells her to use her own judgement.


Axewing, meanwhile, is telling Jack, “We’re hoping to find Sybermane. He’s in some distress.”


Shadowjack, like Axewing and Sybermane, are of the Obsidian, the princes of the Outremer.


Jangles asks if she might apprentice to Jack, and is accepted after a brief exchange between the two. “You will learn the way of the Shadow with me.”


He then turns back to Axewing. “Sybermane, then. I know where he is. He is with his master.”


“I have not heard of this one,” Axewing admits.


At that moment, they all hear something of a commotion.


“Ah. He comes,” Jack announces.


They see two tough-looking Draegeran swordsmen marching up the stairs, pushing aside a pair of Valista who look upset by the behaviour, followed by Prince Elric of Melnibone. He looks around, and then heads toward the table occupied by the party. Livette approaches, but is shoved back by one of his bodyguards, though not roughly. Elric sits, as do the other, though Jack is in a winged chair facing away from the others. A bodyguard turns it around.


“Prince Elric wants a word with you,” the guardsman scolds. “See you mind your tongues.”


“I take it you have heard the Black Orphan is going to play tonight,” Elric begins. Then he asks the Girl to stand, so he might look at her.


“You are not entirely Draegeran. It is nothing to be ashamed of, Girl. You can achieve what you desire.”


“This is very lovely,” Jack says. “Do you know when the Orphan will play?”


“I understand he plays when it suits him,” the Prince answers. “Allowances are made for ability. To the Black Orphan then.” He raises his glass in a toast, which the others begin to copy. Everyone except Zi.








He has seen a minstrel, clad in a white cloak, the hood drawn up and, unusually, sporting a single point above the forehead, and wearing an ornate Jongleur’s mask, pass behind Shadowjack’s chair and come abreast of Elric’s. He reaches out and stabs a bodyguard twice in the region of his kidney, in and out so quickly the blade of his dagger…his Morganti dagger…is almost a blur. The swordsman drops to the floor, and the blade turns its ugly point toward Elric. Zi, still sitting, instantly takes hold of his three claws and throws them at once at the assassin. One misses and goes wide, but in that same instant one slashes into the attacker’s forearm, ripping through tendons and muscle and causing the Morganti blade to fly up into the air. The other flies directly into the opening in the mask for the assassin’s left eye, punching through and making a scramble of his brain, killing him instantly even as a pall falls over the room, the morbid effect of a Morganti weapon in play. However, the dagger now heads towards two bystanders, Axewing and the Girl, as they sit at the table, still only beginning to become aware of what is happening. Zi, with a speed he finds from somewhere, is already lunging across the table. His intent is to catch the blade, but if he cannot, he will insert his own body between the Morganti’s point and its two potential targets. Jack is leaping up from his own chair, but too late, too late, Zi knows. He manages to get his left arm between the oncoming point and the Girl, and it bits into his bicep. And then he knows nothing, for his soul is destroyed instantaneously, and he suffers the final, absolute death.






Jack catches lifeless corpse as Asher falls, pulling the knife out of his arm while Axewing, coming to his feet, stands stunned by what has occurred. Elric, too, rises, dropping the Kashmir poem or lyrics Axewing had just handed him, in explanation of the Girl’s new name. He stares, aghast, at Axewing. The Girl has a hand on her throat, though not seeming to know why. Jangles looks fixedly at Elric, while Handfist belatedly slides feet-first across the tabletop, trying to knock Axewing out of the path of a blade that had already found a terrible home, but stopping short.


Abruptly, the room goes from silence to a burst of activity, many of the other patrons and some of the staff running for their lives, unaware that the struggle between Morganti and life had ended. Meanwhile, Athertien and Wylez return, heading toward Asher’s corpse.


“Morganti blade!” the former declares.


“It is best in my hand, Bard,” Jack pronounces, then he raises his hand toward Axewing. “Unless you have the gift of the gods, there is nothing to be done.”


Axewing calls on Taiphon to rewind time, to undo what had been done, but receives no answer, though he senses a contact of some kind.


“Conan! Answer me, man!”


“Yes! Who is it?”


“I am bringing you through. You will bring Asher with you. Take my hand!”

At the Altar

Axewing takes awkward hold of Asher’s body, and pulls it through along with him to where Benedict awaits, which is far from the Troubador. Far from anywhere, it seems. Axewing sees an open altar, the roof far above, held up by three columns. Two beings stand between pillars, Taiphon in one opening, Khons in the other. A small campaign table and chair is nearby, presumably for Benedict’s comfort.


“It has happened, then,” Benedict says. “Asher Zi has fallen. How did it happen?” Axewing explains briefly.


“It was a good death, then.”


“How can it be good?” Axewing demands. “We need him.”


“This is Khons,” Taiphon introduces.


“I am honoured,” Axewing says, collecting himself. “I do not know you.”


“I was old before the Veightal were born,” Khons says.


“He is Night,” Benedict adds. “A time before stars.”


“What is this place?”


“A place of unhappy meetings,” Benedict replies.


Sybermane then comes out from behind Khons.


“Sybermane,” Axewing says. “We were searching for you.”


“He was fated to be diminished,” Taiphon said, stressing the past tense. “He is of the Obsidian.”


“But Asher! What is to be done with Asher?”


“I cannot take myself to this world,” Taiphon announces solemnly. “You must find a new path. Life has no meaning if it is forever.”


“How was it done?” Benedict inquires.


“As I understand it, by a Morganti blade.”


“It is not unlike the wound you bear yourself. It cannot be undone, but it is not Mournblade’s way to kill,” Benedict explains.


“Can he be brought back?” Axewing asks plaintively.


“He cannot.”


“But what is Morganti? Where does it derive its power?”


“It is like the drawing in of the stars,” Khons offers in way of explanation.


“Can’t we exchange one soul for another? Could I not exchange myself for this one? He is more important.”


“That cannot be,” Khons answers. “What has happened is my doing. Only one of these realities can continue in this reality. This one’s,” he said, indicating Sybermane, “destiny is no less useful.


“Sybermane had, before Axildusk, existed in order to be a rival to Tuan Zi, but Asher Zi brought this to an end. There are different enemies to be fought, but they are no less enemies.


“One who was a Spire, known as Antipath, the first of the Chaerin, is his enemy,” Benedict continues. Antipath is upon Axildusk.”


“What has happened here is no joy to any of us,” Khons consoles Axewing. “The threat to existence, without Sybermane, may overwhelm you, so Sybermane needed to be made active. The doing of the Runestaff is to maintain balance.”


“Surely both can exist if one is willing to give up himself,” Axewing persists.


“You are necessary to continue the cause,” Benedict contradicts him. “Humanity will have Amber. I give you my word and pledge on it.”


“What of the dragons?” Axewing asks.


“He has saved her. The child. She is the Heart of the Dragon. You must not tell her, but you must nurture her. Ghilong will be gone on the fall of the Zi. She will be affected by this death. She will dedicate herself.’ Taiphon offers, “She would have led to an understanding between the races under Zi. Now she will differ. She will be harder, more unforgiving. Zi…She will dedicate herself in his name. There will be a banner of orange and black, of shapeless forms, but it will be as noble as the Zi was… You must act as her guardian. Can you do this thing?”


“Yes,” Axewing answers.


“Why orange and black?” Benedict asks.


“She will know Amber. She will become the Queen of Humanity. You and Sybermane and the other Obsidian must divide this world, and somehow end this war.”


Axewing kneels by Asher’s body. “You will sorely missed. There were others. There was a dragon, there was a dzur. They will wish to mourn.”


“None will forget this one,” Benedict vows. “His name will live forever.”


“This assassin, the one you stopped, will need to be understood. We make take ourselves to Axildusk.”


“I am a God Distant by Nature,” Khons warns as they prepare to depart.


“Go with all haste, Taiphon urges. “Take yourself from us.”

Transcribed by R.Perry