by Garon Whited
Now, as I said, this requires a lot of power. The spell on the gate to persuade it into these shenanigans causes it to consume itself, turning the substance of the gate into the energy required to form the connection. It also uses some of the same energy to… how do I describe this without math? It sort of makes the last frame of the film pause, at least long enough to step through before it vanishes into the past. It’s almost like you destroy the eldest end of the gate to establish the connection and then reverse it. You keep the youngest end running, forcing it to manifest in the future, a few seconds beyond the end of its own existence.
Why this works is something I haven’t figured out—because it… I was about to say it can’t, but it obviously does. It shouldn’t.
I am deeply discouraged by this, because my working theory is the Evil Orb went back to the beginning, the very first moment the Great Arch of Zirafel came into being all those thousands of years ago, and did everything in its power to keep me from interfering with its plans. At the very least, it took a few simple steps to keep me from existing. Shoot the grandfather sort of thing.
Since it only exists because of a chain of events in which I existed, there’s a paradox. Again, why it even thought this might work, I have no idea. It also shoots holes in my theories of time travel and it pisses me off to no end. Considering my current temper, this is surprisingly easy to do, but I’m immorally certain I would still be pissed off even if I didn’t have a big crate of guilt hanging around my neck like a six-hundred-kiloton albatross. Or if I didn’t have forty-three fresh and bleeding bites taken out of whatever I use for a soul.
I think I need some spiritual bandages. Maybe stitches. Possibly a regeneration tank and a vacation.
Even for a Friday the thirteenth, it was a spectacularly bad day.
Right now, my only idea on why I still exist at all is because I’m sitting in a universe outside the one where I was born. I’m in a magical land of carnivorous unicorns and chaos rainbows where the world is flat, the sun goes on and off like a lamp, the moon is the home of exiled evil elves, and nothing makes any goddamned sense because MAGIC!
Pardon me. I may be more composed than I expected, but certainly less so than I hoped.
I hunted for some composure and managed to scrape a little together when my altar ego decided to check in.
Hey. You busy?
“Are you in the mood to be grounded out like an overgrown static charge?”
Uh… no?
“Then this better be good.”
I didn’t want to interrupt while you were so focused, but there are things needing attention.
“Take a number!”
There are other things needing attention?
“Damn it, just tell me whatever you came to tell me and make it quick.”
You asked for it, he warned. The dragons parked around the Spire are awake and flying around. The Spire itself is still there, but a chaos vortex has started around it, probably started by the Heru living in the Spire—it’s hard to tell for sure. Their sort of power is different from ours up here. We think they’re responsible for the breach in the Firmament, though, and the resulting whirligig of chaos. The vortex is expanding, eating the world as it does so, like a bug munching a doughnut by starting at the inside.
Reluctantly, I had to admit, as far as emergencies went, it was pretty good. And here I thought after the nukes things would settle down. I mean, nuking the place isn’t exactly de-escalation, but if there’s no one left to bother you, things ought to calm down, right? Shows how much I know.
“All right,” I sighed, and leaned back against the wall of the room I was using as a hiding place. Bronze nuzzled my face in sympathy and I patted her cheek. “The feces have met the fan. Got it. Now back up and explain the trajectory and the splatter pattern, please.”
I’m looking into it, but I’ve been occupied with some Olympian troubles.
“Can we move on to the direct exposition so I can go back to being angry, frustrated, and guilty?”
You want it like that? Fine. Here’s how it is: Blowing holes in a quarter of the continent raised energy-state eyebrows all over the dimension. Half of them are pissed about it, the other half are worried about it, and half of them are scared whether they admit it or not. Plus, your Boojum is sitting back and quietly chortling at the furor this has caused.
“That’s three halves.”
There’s some overlap. Shut up. I’m explaining. Now, the dominant arguments up here are mostly between two ideas. First, you’re a mortal—don’t quibble, you non-deific thing, you; you know what they mean—and you shouldn’t have the power to destroy the world.
“I kinda agree.”
And I told you to shut it!
“Sorry.”
The other argument—the one I’m pushing—is you’re my avatar, which makes smiting the forces, worshippers, and clergy of the Lord of Light a divine act, and therefore as kosher as pears on Passover. This may cause us some political problems later, what with you being the Demon King and all, but with the chaos vortex eating away at the world, there may not be a later! I’m more concerned with immediate damage control in the celestial realm connected to this material one. With me so far?
“I think so.”
Now, the local celestial pile of crap is my problem. I’m working on it. At least nobody is paying much attention to the snarky comments from the Boojum! He doesn’t seem to care about the world being eaten, since this isn’t his most productive garden. He doesn’t care about repeat business on this plane. I think he’s trying to keep the argument going purely for his own amusement, mostly by sidetracking, sniping, and encouraging egotism. It’s working, at least a little, but he’s even more persona non grata up here than you are. So all this is my problem, and I have to cope with it without the benefit of any divine power converters from Apocalyptica—a sudden and disturbing change if ever there was one.
Which brings me to one of my bigger concerns. What gives with the sudden loss of my generator room? I can’t even see into Apocalyptica anymore. Did you have Diogenes turn off the room and eradicate all the Homo Apocalypticus at the same time? Or what?
“The Orb of Evil hotwired the Great Arch of Zirafel so the wormhole would form a closed temporal loop back on itself. The Orb went through it and, presumably, killed me when I was born to erase me from all the timelines.”
I waited. There was a pause.
I really need to pay more attention to the material realm, he muttered.
“Good thing there are two of us. Any thoughts on the temporal paradox?”
I heard the sizzling, static-like psychic sound of an energy-state being thinking furiously.
That’s impossible.
“The wormhole physics part isn’t.”
I mean, if you’re erased from the timeline, I wouldn’t exist! The Orb wouldn’t, either!
“Correct. It’s a paradox, so it is impossible. I haven’t figured out why it worked.”
Damn it.
“I think you mean ‘god damn it,’ since you’re a—”
I don’t need your smartass input, thank you!
He continued to think, thoughts fizzing like a cross between an angry Alka-Seltzer and a Tesla coil.
Okay… Okay. I’ve got bickering gods to deal with. The non-celestial, material-realm crap is your problem.
“I’m working on it, but what’s happening is a little above my pay grade!”
You’re a divine avatar and the Demon King! Figure it out!
“Are you forgetting I’m a fraud? Or that we are stuck in the driver’s seat of this flaming wagon rushing headlong over a chaos cliff? I could use a little backup!”
Don’t look for help from the gods, he snapped. The rest of them are busy arguing over who broke what rules and what should be done about it!
“No problem, because I despise most of them!”
We did the psychic equivalent of glaring at each other for a moment before we got ourselves under control.
&
nbsp; Look, he began, more calmly, part of the problem is the flood of chaos pouring in. We’re not equipped to deal with it. It’s anathema to us—we’re energy-state beings, which requires us to be ordered, patterned energy. If we weren’t, we’d be random static, not entities! Raw chaos isn’t something we mess with. We interfere strictly in the material realms. And, since this one is rapidly becoming immaterial, it’s your problem, you physical person with a chaos-energy symbiosis!
Besides, he went on, even if they could, most of them won’t help. For us, this world is where we raise some crops. It’s more of a vegetable garden than a farm. Most of us have other gardens. If a blight hits this one, they’re not going to waste their time and energy trying to fix it. They have others!
“Sorry. I forget you’ve got your own multi-universal troubles.”
You have no idea. And I’m not done with the list of your troubles, either! I mentioned the big-ass dragons the Heru used as mounts?
“Yes.”
Those—and maybe the Heru themselves—are wide awake! The dragons are eating anything catching their eye, which is bad enough, but the Heru are probably responsible for punching holes in the Firmament and whistling up the chaos vortex. I haven’t seen any come out of the Spire, but it may only be a matter of time.
“Oh, fantastic. Delightful. I’m so pleased.” I rubbed my face again. “All right, the dragons I get. They’re up and moving and easy to see. Why do you think the Heru are involved?”
The Spire isn’t dissolving, and it’s in the center of the effect. I can’t see inside the Spire, but directly above it is where the Firmament sprung a leak. It happened shortly after the end of the war.
“About the time the Orb was escaping,” I sighed. “I wonder why Seldar didn’t mention—is this chaos vortex visible in the dark?”
Sort of. It’s more like a multicolored storm front. To mortal eyes, it’s probably a thunderstorm with rainbow lightning, at least until it gets close.
“He probably didn’t know what he was looking at.” I wiped my face with one hand and repressed a scream of frustration and rage. “Okay. The world is ending because the gods of the Spire are dissolving it. I can’t do anything about it right now. You say the dragons are eating people?”
What does a quarter-mile-long dragon eat?
“Anything it wants.”
Pretty much. People, yes, but livestock, trees—you name it. They don’t seem to be doing anything organized—not that they need to organize. We’re talking about a hundred versions of Ancalagon the Black waking up from a long nap and looking for breakfast! After they snack, I have no idea what they’ll do. Settle down? Pick out a lair? Mate? Fly off into the chaos beyond the Firmament? Roost sideways on the Spire and sing while they wait for the Heru to come out? No clue.
“Which brings me back to my original thought: This is a little above my pay grade! What, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?”
You’re the only dragon-slayer I know!
My reply was, shall we say, both forceful and vulgar.
Later. This is no time for romance!
“That’s not what I meant and you know it! These dragons—as a yardstick, you referenced Ancalagon the Black, bred by Morgoth in the First Age, as told by Tolkien. It’s a lovely reference, but it’s a trifle imprecise. Could you be a little less terrifying and a little more specific?”
From what I can see, the things average about fifteen hundred feet, tail to snout. They fly in and out of the chaos storm and don’t seem to notice a difference. They seem to be omnivorous in the truest sense of the word—plants, animals, sometimes rocks, and definitely raw magic. Their scales are hard as diamond and not prone to shattering. They breathe fire and lightning, often at the same time. The maximum observed flight speed is slightly under two hundred miles per hour, straight and level, and closer to two-fifty in a power dive. How’s that for specific?
“Perfect, although no less terrifying. Now, while I admit to having slain one dragon—no offense, Firebrand—it wasn’t an overly large dragon.”
No offense taken, Boss.
“If I recall, it was—what, one twenty-fifth the size of these things?—and didn’t fly. Perhaps more concerning is the fact I barely killed it. It was touch-and-go even after the fight.”
I understand, my altar ego informed me. I’m simply giving you information so you can decide what to do. I’ve got to get back to the politicking—make that “shouting match”—in the auditorium of this celestial realm. Go look at the rest of it yourself. I’m busy!
And I was alone with my thoughts again.
Boss?
Almost alone with my thoughts, anyway.
“What?”
I heard the echo of your god in your head, so I’m up to speed on what he was talking about. If the primal dragons of the Heru are awake and running around, we’ve got problems.
“Really?” I asked. Firebrand ignored my sarcasm.
Boss, they are older than the world. What the younger dragons know of them is on par with… with… You remember those vampires on Nexus? Mary’s home?
“Sure.”
The young, piddly little vampires they sent to burn down the house were mostly no more than, what? A century old?
“Probably. Or younger. With one exception.”
Ignore him. I’m talking about the youngsters. Think of those youngsters as the dragons I’m familiar with. The dragons now awake and moving pre-date the elders of the tribes. They come before the founders of their vampire civilization. By comparison, anyway. How big a difference is there between a vampire a couple of decades dead and what Mary thought you were? One of those ancient vampires from the dawn of time?
“It can be a pretty impressive difference, I grant you.”
Now imagine it in dragon terms. These are the ancient, primal dragons who came before the world. They’re older than the world. They’re older than the moon. They’re older than moons we don’t even have anymore! Think about it.
“Can I please not?”
Fine by me. I don’t want to think about it, either. What are we going to do?
I banged the back of my head against the rock wall a few times, hoping to rattle an idea loose. I gave up when I hurt my head faster than I regenerated.
“What I want to do is go to Apocalyptica and consult with Diogenes, but there are problems. First, he doesn’t exist. Second, if I leave this world and step back into the multi-branch timelines of Earth-like worlds, I may cease to exist along with him.”
Really?
“It is a possibility I can’t disprove. If it works that way, I suddenly go poof! I can’t risk it.”
Good point.
“Damn!”
Hmm?
“I can’t consult with Mary, either! She’s never heard of me, doesn’t know me, all that stuff.”
You could introduce her to everything all over again. She’d love the adventure.
“Yeah, but the world is ending. Not a great start. It makes for a lousy first impression.”
I see your point. So, what do you want to do, Boss?
“I want to look at the mess and gather more information. I also want to experiment with a gate and see if I can go back in time to undo whatever the Orb did when it went back so I can undo the undoing it did. Maybe I can put everything back on track. I’m fairly sure it doesn’t expect me—didn’t expect? Won’t expect? Whatever—It doesn’t expect me to be able to interfere, since it erased me from existence. I would think the same thing, if our positions were reversed. Me still being here at all is probably only possible because this world isn’t connected to the temporal framework of Earth.”
Am I supposed to understand any of that?
“The Orb did something awful in the great sea of possible worlds and Rethven is my lifeboat.”
Got it. And the lifeboat is sinking because it’s leaking chaos?
“Quite possibly.” I thumped the wall with the back of my head a few more times to stimulate my thinking gear.
&nbs
p; “We’re going to the scrying room,” I said, finally. “We’re going to look at dragons, maybe, and we’re definitely going to find out more about this chaos vortex around the Spire.” An idea, apparently hanging by a thread, finally came loose inside my skull. “But first I’m going to a gate room and summon Bob. I need an expert on ancient Heru lore to look this mess over with me and tell me exactly how screwed we really are.”
Bob answered the mirror with as close to an expression of glee as ever I’ve seen on his face.
“It is once again my delight to see you,” he told me, with a mocking bow.
“You seem happy.”
“The dragons of the Heru have awakened and are abroad in the world. The Spire sits amid the world’s dissolution. The great game of the Heru draws to a close. Can the return of Rendu be anything but soon?”
“That’s what I want to talk about. Please come visit me, here. I have much to see and I want your eyes to miss nothing.”
“I shall make every effort to be there before the world’s ending reaches you.”
“No, you’ll wait a moment. I will facilitate your travel.”
“Oh? Then I accept your generous offer of transport.”
So I opened a gate and Bob flowed through it like a flurry of snow on the first breath of winter, only better. Damn elves.
We repaired to my scrying room and I called up a view of the Spire. While a scrying sensor has a hard time manifesting anywhere near the Dragonspine Range, it’s possible to park one outside and look in, much as putting a physical camera on another planet may not be feasible, but you can see lots with a big enough telescope.
Normally, mountains would be in the way, making a view of the Spire somewhat problematic. Not today. The seething void surrounding the Spire already ate a giant circle out of the Mountains of the Sun. The northernmost edge of the circle was into the Shining Desert. The circle of total annihilation—well, chaotic dissolution—continued to grow.
The Spire was visible, in a twisted, distorted fashion, through what might be visualized best as a hurricane viewed as a reflection in a disturbed pool of mercury. Of course, it was a hurricane over a hundred miles across and not exactly spinning. Instead of rotating around the Spire, it fumed, it bubbled, it coruscated, shining in places, sparkling in others, shadowed and dark in still more. Random arcs of energy snapped and crackled within it, sometimes raced around it. It shifted in color and texture and opacity with a sickening lack of pattern, order, or predictability. It reminded me uncomfortably of an occasion when I slid down the waterslide of an incomplete wormhole between universes, watching the chaos of the deep void ripple and burn all around me.