Cymede

Chapter 2 of a Journey Most Long

Welcome to Chapter 2 of a short story I've written for Tyrdal's Longest Journey Challenge, Entitled Cymede.
If you have not read Chapter 0, you'll find it here: A Faraway Inn in a Faraway City on a Faraway Plane.
Otherwise, please enjoy!

Nel Irrut, the modestly-named "Puncture", was breathtaking in its size, easily twice the height of the ancient towers and temples that crowded its entrance, some of which were five, six stories tall. Standing at the peak of the old stone bridge into town, Cholmedrine's gaze spotted at least three ancient varieties of architecture at the entrance alone. The town would likely reveal more. As best as Empyreal and Rebel researchers could tell, most of not all portals into the Godpaths originate from the great Meta-Virsalis Empire, some nine thousand years prior. After Meta-Virsalis's collapse, and unsupported by a central civilization, outer planes like Nira-Nonn would come to forget the portals' purpose, from which followed generations of religious and scholarly reinterpretation, resulting in the architecturally layered town that now lay ahead. With the rediscovery of the Godpaths' underlying magic by Daybreak, a new layer -- this one of commerce -- had now formed, with storefronts and Empyreal barracks dotted haphazardly among ancient temples, kirks and tabernacles.

---

---

Cholm emptied the ashes from his pipe over the bridge's edge, watching the flecks of ash spin and dance their way to the braided river beneath. Though he would be taking shortcuts, the number of ashes were roughly equal to the number of planes he would be passing before his destination. The thought was equal parts exhausting and exhilirating. Waking Materia. A gods-damned backwater. He'd have to cross the Inner Eridún Crux Region entirely, then trek across a vast majority of the Silurian Eighth. What's worse, some of it would require Voidwalking as Materia was not equipped with a Godpath of its own. A thoroughly miserable prognosis.
The Nirran Aurora was at its full, daylight brightness now, and the heat was beginning to rise. The town -- also named Nel Irrut -- bloomed with the smells and sounds of awakening. From one temple echoed an undulating chant -- a call to join the morning's ministrations -- which blended pleasantly with the vocal hawking of wares and chattering conversations of the open-air markets that snaked their way through the town's centre.
As the appetite-suppressing effects of the sweetwillow wore off, the smells that emanated from the food stalls became impossible to ignore. This was an annoyance. Cholm had intended to hike the Godpath on an empty stomach; trips through these alien tunnels were bizarre and often sickening, and he had no intention of wearing his lunch on the front of his shirt. He would just have to find something that would stay down. His eyes, or rather his nose, eventually settled on a rack of hot flatbreads, each slathered with a different variety of vibrantly-colored vegetable paste. He attempted the local Nirran dialect and seemed to fail, receiving only a blank shrug from the baker. Eventually he chose brown. Nice, safe, earthy, unassuming brown.

"You don't want that one, traveller," came a strangely rough-hewn, female voice from behind him. The language was one he hadn't heard since arriving on the plane: Empyreal Common.
"Don't recall asking," Cholm growled, not turning around.
Heavy footfalls, punctuated by the kachink-kachink of ringmail, arriving beside him. "Didn't have to. Eating rare skink pâté on your thaat right before walking the Godpath is a cry for help if I ever heard one. You'll be sick for days."
Cholm turned his head to give the interloper his best scowl, but she ignored him, addressing the baker directly. Chattering in the local dialect, she pointed instead at the bright red ones which Cholm initially dismissed as something too spicy. He studied his neighbour surreptitiously. She was a half head taller than him, clearly Nirran with her Aurora-bronzed skin and dirty blonde hair, worn short and messy. Her armour was a motley of different styles but well taken care of. An ugly scar rose from her chest across her throat, possibly explaining the odd abrasiveness to her voice.
The baker handed Cholm his thaat and, after a brief argument with the armoured woman, two quarter sovryns as well. He pocketed the coins and gave the bright red paste a sniff. Nothing seemed off. He gave her a half glance, muttered "My thanks," and loped off.
She had no trouble keeping up with him. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You gonna try it?"
Cholm growled, stopped, sniffed one more time, and took a bite. It was divine, a combination of sweetness and mushroom umami, with a hint of vinegar. His face, despite his best intentions, clearly revealed this as the woman now had a smug smile on her face. It was a crooked thing, the smile, by no means comely, perhaps handsome in an odd sort of way. "Seems like you could use a guide."
Cholm barked a laugh, letting fly a half-chewed piece of thaat. Ah, a bodyguard, clearly lacking a caravan or other client for the next Opening. "Ain't going to Cymede for the food," he said, and made to escape her a second time.
"My taste is immaculate to be sure, but you'll find I'm multitalented."
"Don't need a hired brute."
"Brute! You assume your plans would require me to turn brutish. A good guide keeps you out of trouble entirely--"
"Look. I'm not in any trouble, okay? This time I'm going to walk away from you, and you're not going to follow me."
She blinked, then shrugged, a fraction of a smile still on her face. Cholm stalked away, unfollowed this time.

The underlying geology of Nel Irrut was a series of small, uneven plateaus, which meant stairs. Tens of thousands of stairs. Meandering staircases branched into smaller ones, some painted, some tiled, some stone, some brick, some serving only a singular building on its own unique perch. He had forgotten how exhaustingly beautiful the town was. At least the thaat was sitting well. Cholm felt the urge to go back and get another, then quickly supressed it. He didn't want to risk the smug, pushy armoured lady witnessing.
Stair after merciless stair, Cholm was made to remember just how huge the last fortress was that guarded the Puncture; it had been large in his sight an hour ago, yet only now did he finally reach its level. A few other scattered travelers were also taking their rest in the shade of the fortress. Its mighty gates had not opened yet, and wouldn't until shortly before the Puncture came alive. Desert nightstalkers -- bare-skinned and membrane-winged unlike their more ubiquious, feathered cousins -- stalked about shyly, ready to snatch away any unattended food. A couple young monks of one local religion or another shuffled meekly among the resting, offering their blessings in exchange for alms. Cholm waved them away absently as they approached, too intent on surrounding himself with a protective aura of pipesmoke.
Eventually the huge wooden doors of the creaked open, and a trio of Daybreak halberdiers emerged. The lead -- a short but lean man with male-pattern baldness and windblown skin -- set about checking papers. That they were doing this in the open air suggested either arrogance or complacency, that they hadn't had much trouble from local bandits or religious zealots for some time.
The soldiers arrived at Cholm's cloud. The lead attempted to wave it aside, with only moderate success. "Papers," he sighed in Empyreal Common. Cholm handed them over sharply.
The halberdier glanced back and forth between the dusky traveler's face and its likeness, in the way they always do. Cholm met his gaze evenly. "Name?" demanded the guard.
The one in front of you, Empyreal cretin. "Ondra. Elit-Ondra, Cholmedrine."
"Is Cymede your final destination?"

"No. Headed to Eridún." The most obvious answer, and the most to work with as Cholm had spent much of his childhood in the cluster's capital.
"Purpose of your visit?"
"This was the visit. Headed home." This would track as Cholm's dusky complexion held little resemblance to the bronzed locals.
"Purpose of this visit then," the old man grated.
Why do I always get the dilligent ones? Cholm wondered. Don't act shy now, stay aggressive. He opened his jacket to reveal dozens of pockets. "Trade. You name it I sell it. Mostly alchemicals. Take your pick." This was a risk, albeit a small one. The Daybreak soldier had about a two-in-sixty chance of finding something seriously illicit, and even then nothing beyond Cholm's ability to explain or bribe away. Hopefully.
Either out of an excess of caution or not wanting to enter Cholm's pungent aura, the guard instead pointed to a pocket. Swing and a miss. Cholm pulled out a small sack and emptied a few fine gems and jewels into his hand. "Backup currency, in case the locals aren't accepting Empyreal halos."
The halberdier scowled at that. "All Empyreal subjects are obligated to accept Empyreal coin. Anyone gives you a hard time about that, you're to seek out an officer of the law."
"Yes sir."
The old man sighed. Cholm could see the smoke was starting to make his already-dry eyes water, as intended. He made a few notes on a piece of parchment, then placed his signature on the traveler's passport. "Follow the light at all times. Do not stray from the path. The Empire isn't responsible for what may happen if you do. Have your papers ready on the other side. Dawn light your way, citizen."
Cholm waited until the guards were well occupied with the next subject before breathing a sigh.

He could feel the Opening before he saw it. The air, full of heat and dusty scent, seemed to sink below the ground, leaving a slight chill and the smell of ozone behind. A mild sense of vertigo, a slight electricity on his skin. He turned to the Puncture. It was all show and no sound, concentric beige and black spirals growing on each other from an unknowable distance until they arrived at the arch, towering above the keep. The spirals then calmed into a flat, sandy beige colour. Only a slight rippling around the portal's edges betrayed any movement at all.
The mighty doors of the keep creaked open, and again emerged the halberdiers this time, led by the short bald man but about a dozen in number this time. The travelers had begun to congregate.
"Proceed peacefully and directly to the Puncture," he shouted. "No stopping in the keep. Any tarrying will be met with force." He then repeated the message.
Inside the keep was one gigantic hall, sparsely decorated save for a few hanging banners: portrayals of the Empire's godhead, Dawnsgleam, was strictly forbidden. At the end of the massive room no wall stood: instead the fortress seemed to blend directly into the empty, alien landscape beyond. Cholm's adrenaline spiked as he passed between two rows of soldiers flanking the central walkway, layering plan upon rapid plan in case they suddenly wanted a fight. But no such fight occurred, and the collosal, multistorey arch loomed into view. Some of the other travelers gasped and muttered in excitement.

A Godpath portal opens on the plane of Nira-Nonn.

"Witness," Cholm whispered, only half expecting the Rebel Gods to hear, then stepped past the threshold.

The Godpaths weren't scenic. All around the travelers was the beige morass, the colour of sand. The morass didn't feel near, like a fog, but distant, like clouds. The only other feature was a vague, equally distant halo of light that indicated the path forward. There was no weather, no endemic flora or fauna like some Spective worlds. That said, the Godpaths have one incredible property: time seems to behave oddly.
Within a half hour the echoes began to appear. Echoes of the Godpath travelers, from various points in time along the journey. Mostly they appeared far away, but some appeared within hearing distance, and you could even converse with yourself/them, as if they were a different person. An utterly unexplained phenomenon, perhaps not even understood by the Daybreak Empire, and the subject of feverish study in some scholarly circles. Cholmedrine was well-read on subjects that involved potential harm to his person.
The farther in they hiked, the more numerous the figments stretched before them, until the horizon was a blurred mess of countless images. To either side of him, travelers excitedly intermingled with their nearest time echoes in the usual, superficial ways. Empty conversations, jokes about the older echo being the mature one. "Is that a grey hair?" from the younger ones. Cholm's echoes, on the other hand, had nothing to say to each other. At least he hoped not: the paranoid part of him was half expecting a warning to cascade backward from his future selves about some catastrophe or another.
Cholm groaned suddenly.
"Quiet one, you are. Nothing to say to your brothers?"
Cholm already knew who it was: he had already seen a future echo of the caravan guard beside his own. He didn't bother turning to greet her. "Not in the habit of talking to myself," he lied.
"No?" She grunted. "You seemed the sort."
"Don't hear you chit-chatting with the sisters," Cholm drawled.
She smiled. "The novelty wears off." Despite himself, Cholm nodded in agreement. She continued after a while. "Could be I underestimated you, stranger. I can see now you're well-traveled. You'll get no more salesmanship from me."

"You got a smart mouth for a caravan guard."
"You prefer your bodyguards dumb?"
"Not what I meant," Cholm growled.
She chuckled. It was an odd, dual sort of sound, simultaneously deep and chesty but with a raspy whistle on top. "I know." A moment of silence passed. "I went to school. Didn't much like the books, though I tolerated them long enough to get a job where I could knock heads legally, and earn halos in the doing."
Cholm grunted. "A ex-cop. Should have known." He turned his head and spat. "Rules got too restrictive for your head-knocking?"
Her face fell a bit. "Only for the people that deserved it most." Cholm said nothing to this, but spared her a glance. This silence was more extended. Uncharacteristically, it was Cholm who broke it this time.
"Look, I, uh. This reminiscing, I don't do that sort of thing. You're better off chatting with someone else. I'll just bore you."
The mercenary looked down at him, face unreadable.
Almost as if on cue, a figment appeared, some twenty metres behind, of the two in a heated exchange. They couldn't make out what was being said, but it was clearly good-natured. The future caravan guard even let out a hoarse laugh. It was then the two mercenaries noticed each other. The future one waved, the current one waved back. She turned her head back to her corrent companion, grinning.
Cholm just blushed angrily.
She extended her hand. "Name's Marit. Marit van Laoisterre."
He almost seemed startled by the gesture, but after a moment he returned her grip. "Ondra. Elit-Ondra, Cholmedrine."
"That's an odd name."
"It's from an odd--" Cholm snapped his mouth shut, almost violently.
Marit laughed.

Unlike Nira-Nonn, the Cymedian portal was a free-standing arch, nontheless enveloped on all sides by walls and towers. The Wyld was rich with luminiferous energies here, making stonesculpting-type magic historically easier to access. As a result Cymedian architecture often bloomed into diverse and creative forms, uninhibited by the common laws of engineering. Choromilenka, the local capital, loomed in the distance, a ludicrously tall, three-dimensional maze of towers, connected densely with covered tunnels or open-air bridges at all heights. The towers tapered away gradually from the central tower, giving the whole mess an approximately conical shape.
There would be no avoiding the great, looming eyesore this time: Choromilenka was the best chance he had at acquiring the starmaps he needed for the journey's final leg: magically advanced enough to have black market starscribes but distant enough from the Daybreak hub-planes of Eridún and Lochros to host sufficiently large blind-spots for Empyreal inquisitors.
Things went smoothly enough through Cymedian customs, and so the mercenary and false merchant emerged from the main gates into the open air. The smell of ozone gave way to the more familiar scents of mud, trees and horseshit. Cholm breathed it in appreciatively.

"What now, Ondra-Elit-Ondra-Cholmedrine?" Marit asked.
He ignored the jab. "That's up to fate. The idea is Choromilenka by nightfall, then back in Eridún by the end of the week." That much was true, at least.
"Suit yourself. I'm going no further. Gonna try my luck with the caravans on this side."
Cholm nodded. A brief silence.
"Take care of yourself, Cholmedrine."
"Hm. Uh. Yes. You too." He turned and began to descend the rest of the stairs into town, stopped, turned. "Hey, uh. What do do you recommend for grub around here?"

---

---

Chapter 0 >>> Chapter 1 >>> Chapter 2 >>> Chapter 3