by Garon Whited
As for all the other refugees, I guess when the royal palace evacuates, there’s no keeping it quiet. I didn’t like having so many magicians wander in, but trying to stop them would be like trying to stop a stampede. It could get gory.
I tried not to think about all the people who were too far away to make it in time. Save what you can and don’t think about the rest, that’s the trick. I’m still learning it. They’re just going to have to hope I don’t screw up my Orb-stopping.
The ecology of the mountain-city’s population is going to be interesting, in the sense of living in interesting times. They have limited space, limited resources, and there is little to no leeway in those. Still, the city is huge and won’t be anywhere close to full even after the evacuation. Then again, if it’s going to be self-sustaining, it can’t have the same population density as a city.
Well, I take that back. We can open gates to other worlds. Not easily, and not for long, but we could scavenge from other worlds to add to our resources. More importantly, we could evacuate—eventually—from Vios to somewhere else. By gathering everyone in Vios, we can save more people and take our time about relocating them. I’ll have to mention the possibility to someone, as well as caution them about searching for a good world and not simply taking the first one they come across. The last thing they need is to wind up in a low-magic, high-tech world inhabited by paranoid governments and more nuclear weapons.
I really am building a lifeboat. A titanic lifeboat. No, bad associations, there. A damn big lifeboat, but it’s the only one. It’s not enough for everyone in the world, but, as I told Seldar, I can’t think of it in those terms. I dare not think of it in those terms. If I think of it like that, I’ll have to consider what set these events in motion, and then I’ll have to beat myself up some more because it might be me.
My calm is somewhat damaged. I wish I had a repair spell for it. Maybe I should meditate more, or practice some Tai Chi. Maybe I should take up a relaxing hobby. Maybe I should find something really tough and use it for a punching bag. Maybe later.
On the upside, we have progress! The Firmament is up and running! It finished the primary assembly a little while ago, forming a spherical, sealed system around the city, or almost. I had to jigger it to adjust the final pieces—I’ve never programmed a dome construction on this scale before. It’s a little ahead of schedule, but I’m okay with that. Better to have the chaos defenses up and running and not need them than to need them and not have them. Judging by the advancing line of dissolution, we still have a few hours before the world vanishes around us.
That’s going to look weird. Dantos and Lissette are taking measures for crowd control and riot suppression—Rendal’s right-hand man and appointed successor, some guy named Malazar, is organizing the City Guard to handle most of it. I don’t know what those measures will be, but Rendal is signing off on it and the Knights of Shadow will be backing the Guard. There are close to three thousand Knights of Shadow in the city. I strongly suspect they can quell a riot. They’ve had practice.
Besides, it’s not my job. I have plumbing and wiring to worry about.
The blue-sky dome is now in progress. Once the Firmament finished, I diverted power from its replication routines to the sky simulation. The Firmament still has power going to it and has an adaptive load handling system—the more power it needs to hold back the void, the more it draws. For now, though, it doesn’t need much, so the rest is building a sky. This should help with the possibly-frightening visuals. It’s emitting light in a border around the city, like a wall, as it continues to self-build. It’s not obviously the base of a dome, yet, because it’s not high enough to have a visible curve to it. It’s not impossible to see through, but anything beyond it is washed out, faded into the blue. Hopefully, it’ll help keep people from panicking. I doubt it will finish building a full dome before the advancing chaos reaches us, though.
I’m still not sure how to make a useful sun. I could make an illusion of one, I suppose, but it would only be a bright spot on the sky, not an actual sun. Besides, I don’t see the point. The sky can brighten or dim as a whole without a sun or moon. Everyone will have to settle for adequate lighting and survival.
Now that I’ve settled down a little by reviewing the progress, I can discuss what damaged my calm—further damaged my calm, I mean.
We had a dragon come to visit.
It flew over the city. I don’t know how far up it was. There was no sense of perspective, so judging its size was impossible. It could have been ten miles long or a hundred yards.
It circled as it came down for a closer look. It kept getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger. It reached the new Firmament and passed through it without so much as a hiccup. Obviously, it wasn’t of the same order as the Things Beyond the World. It settled on the top of the mountain, hind feet first. Claws plowed into the parklike area of the upper peak, sinking into earth and stone. The tail lowered and curled around, along the upper courtyard, smashing part of the outer wall and knocking one of the mountain’s chimneys to rubble. The dragon paused a moment to be certain of its balance, wings still outspread like a pair of circus tents. It finally settled down, foreclaws digging into the mountain while its body and neck curved around the peak, crushing the other three chimneys and sending down landslides of loam, vines, shrubs, and trees. A small cloud of those winged, reptilian animals—the ones who like the heat near the former chimneys, thashrak, that’s what they’re called—flittered up, screeching, almost invisible in their tininess. The dragon ignored them, if it even noticed them, and finished settling, great eyes blinking an inner, transparent lid as it regarded its surroundings.
Since it held relatively still, I got a good look at it.
Big.
Okay, there was more to it than size, but, as in so many things, size matters. The enormity of the thing is what really struck me. How hard is it to comprehend the size of a creature beyond anything in most human experience? It’s bigger than a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier? Does such a description mean anything to someone not in the Navy? How about saying it’s about the length of a thirty or forty-car train? Most people don’t see thirty cars. Most people see three or four as they pass by the railroad crossing. Maybe saying it’s roughly the size of the Empire State Building helps. Lots of people have seen a skyscraper. But it’s an Empire State Building with enormous wings, a big mouth, overlapping scales of black and green, huge teeth, and claws capable of digging into solid rock the same way my fingers dig into clay. I know, because I saw them do it.
It looked over the city, effortlessly swinging a head larger than a train car around on a neck longer than a construction crane. Its eyes were green, like meter-thick emeralds, had vertical slits, and were illuminated from within by some violet, otherworldly glow. The eyes had multiple lids, all transparent, but why and what for? I had no idea.
“Firebrand?”
Shh!
“What’s wrong?”
That is! Shh!
Okay, I couldn’t really blame Firebrand. I mean, I came out when I spotted the thing approaching on my scrying table, so I was at the southern door to the undermountain. We looked directly up at the dragon from only a thousand yards away, at most. It was well-lit from below, since the rim of sky was shining brightly. The massive, scaly monster scared me too, but I’m not known for my courage.
It continued to look around. Nostrils I could have walked into expanded as it took the air.
“Is it looking for something?” I asked, quietly. “Or is it curious?”
How should I know?
“You’re psychic.”
And I am not attracting its attention.
“Fair. What do we do if it attacks?”
Die.
“You’re not helping.”
You mean you’re not kidding?
I stepped inside the mountain. I wasn’t hiding. I was, uh, going with the flow of people. Yeah. People were taking cover all over the city. Screaming and taking cover, but taking
cover nonetheless. So I stepped inside to continue my discussion.
“Look, if El Draco decides to plop down in the city and start rampaging, I’d like to have some idea of how to stop it.”
Nuke it.
“That will destroy the city!”
So will the dragon, if it feels like it!
“Will you pull yourself together and help me, here?”
Listen, Firebrand snapped, you had a hard time with me as a dragon. You couldn’t hold what you sucked up, so you upchucked the excess into the metal and vitalized it. Fine. Here I am, and I think I’ve been as helpful as my nature allows. Now you want to know how to fight off a dragon capable of turning this whole city into a bubbling pool of lava just for funsies. I hate to tell you this, but we can’t! This is not a fight we can win! The best we can possibly manage is a draw. You destroy the city in the biggest explosion you can manage and maybe you can kill it in the process. The alternative is for it to eat the city—or do any other damn thing it wants—because we don’t have any say whatsoever in what it does. We cannot stop it. Not “We’ll suffer horribly and probably die in the valiant fight against overwhelming odds,” but “We’re going to die and it’ll still do what it wants.” Have I explained this carefully enough to hammer it into even your skull?
Firebrand doesn’t use that tone very often. I listened.
“Can’t win. Got it. Kinda had that impression, but it’s good to have a second opinion. And you have no idea what it wants?”
None.
“Fine.”
I took a few breaths—still pointlessly—and crept carefully back outside. Looking up at the mountaintop, I saw it shifting around, still looking and sniffing. Occasional bits of mountain came tumbling past, but nobody was anywhere nearby. At least it wasn’t eating anyone.
Chicken nuggets. People would be small chicken nuggets. No, elephants would be chicken nuggets. People would be those little bits of chicken floating in the chicken soup.
Damn, but it was huge.
I was struck again by the sheer size of the thing. It wasn’t zoology. It was geography. From a combat perspective, I’m reasonably sure my Saber of Sharpness could cut the physical material of the beast, but I’m not sure a saber is long enough to penetrate the thickness of the scales. Attacking it isn’t a matter of swordsmanship. It’s a matter of tunneling. Possibly a matter of futility.
I never feel too terribly significant. I have to remind myself, “Hey! I’m a king!” on occasion, and even then I don’t really feel it. Looking up at the draconic monster on top of my pet rock, I realized I might be even more insignificant than I previously believed.
Despite my insignificance, it looked at me. Maybe it felt me looking at it. Then again, who else was it going to look at? The only people still outside were at least a mile away, not counting one moron who didn’t have sense enough to listen to his sword. I was profoundly glad I was already dead, because I think my heart might have stopped. I felt Firebrand retreat, psychically, into a tiny little ball of not-thinking. Which left me with next to no options. Run? No, not really an option. Hide in the mountain? –and be dug out, if necessary? No. Stand still and hope it looks elsewhere? Seemed reasonable. I tried it.
Of course it didn’t look elsewhere. It unfolded the stadium canopies it used for wings, presumably for balance, and crawled down the side of the mountain like a reptilian avalanche. It put its head within heart attack range—maybe twenty feet—and sniffed at me like an inquisitive tornado. I braced against the sucking blasts of air lest I lose my footing and be inhaled. If it snorted me up like a line of cocaine, I resolved to give it the worst bloody nose in the history of dragonkind. True, the moment I stuck it with anything, it would exhale me on a blast of flame, but when it’s time for me to die, I plan to go kicking, screaming, and lacking any sort of dignity. Vaporizing in a dragon-sneeze lacks dignity, but it probably doesn’t have time to hurt, either.
It stopped sniffing and looked at me again. It didn’t even cock its head like a human or a dog. It might as well have been the throne in the upper Palace. I couldn’t tell what it was thinking. Was it considering eating me? Was it puzzled? Was it waiting for me to do something? Or was it simply curious about the strange biped who didn’t know enough to hide?
The thing finally snorted like a thunderclap, spread wings fit to have blotted out the sun if we had one, and leaped into the air like a hundred-thousand-ton storm front. It flapped once, twice, and was gone through our Firmament like a cloud in the jet stream.
I ran fingers through my hair to settle it and checked my trousers. Nope. Still clean, by some miracle. There are good points to being dead. All the usual glandular products weren’t coursing through my bloodstream. With the dragon gone I didn’t even feel the need to sit down and shake. It’s easier to act brave when your biology isn’t telling you you’re terrified.
As the dragon flew away, I was tempted to shout, “And stay out!” so people could feel more confident, but the dragon might hear me. I resisted the impulse and Firebrand helped.
As much as I wanted to spend every moment working on the mechanical side of things, there were some social obligations I couldn’t duck. I could order almost anyone to leave me alone and back it up with “I’m busy!” In Karvalen, I don’t think anyone is immune to this. It helps to realize most people don’t want to talk to the Demon King. They’ll happily talk to the Bright Queen. They’ll cheerfully accept the word of the Big Three. They’ll seek out Dantos or Nothar. Thousands of people will be glad to sidetrack onto the religion train to query Beltar or any of a hundred priests. Others will try an end run, seeking out either of the adult fire-witches in the hope they’ll intercede with the Demon King for them. Some will even brave the lair of the King’s Magician and try to get T’yl to talk to me on their behalf.
There are plenty of buffers between me and “the common man.” They’re necessary. I mean, imagine how much any world leader would get done if anyone could drop by and chat. Prime Minister, President, or King, you can’t have an open door policy. There are too many people. You can’t handle everything personally.
On the other hand, I can summon almost anybody and they’ll report to me. In a few minor ways, it’s good to be King. So I called T’yl to discuss the life of the city, and we did. He needed instructions on a number of things, from the defunct elf-box to the soul-transplant tables, provisions for smoothing out the divisions between resident magicians and the wizards’ guild, the care and feeding of a pet rock and its Firmament, why the air-moving spells were important, suggestions on the process for enchantment of existing spells—spells necessary to the survival of the whole city—and especially on gate-work for how to search other worlds for places they could evacuate to.
We met in my scrying room. The sand table had an image of the city on display, including some false-image lines denoting spells, Firmament, new tunnels and water-channels—the circulatory, respiratory, and digestive systems of my pet rock. Things were becoming disgustingly biological. T’yl and I spoke for a while about the changes going on and the survivability of the people in the city.
“What you’re saying,” he said, slowly, “is we have no more elf-bodies?”
“Elf-bodies,” I repeated. “The world is dissolving in chaos, and your focus is on cranky customers?”
“I have much experience with them. They have been constantly on my mind.”
“I don’t have enough spare brain cells to worry about it. Yes. We’re out of elf-bodies.”
“The magicians here in Vios will not be pleased.”
“The world is dissolving. Tell ’em we have bigger problems!”
“A valid consideration and one they may accept. They will want to know if production will resume after the end of the world,” he added. I stared at him while I tried to process his statement.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I am not.”
“A central column of the void beyond the Edge is eating away at the world, reducing everything in
it to the primal chaos of creation, and their big concern is whether or not they’ll be able to get immortal bodies afterward?”
T’yl shrugged, a helpless gesture.
“What can you do? At a certain age, obsession takes hold. Only by satisfying it may one’s thoughts be turned to other matters.”
The urge to be sidetracked was strong. I wanted to go find a bunch of magical old farts and beat sense into them—or beat their heads in, whichever came first. I resisted the impulse. I, at least, recognize bigger problems when they’re slowly advancing on my position in a wall of annihilation.
“I hate to hand the problem off to you, T’yl, but I literally cannot deal with it. Tell them I’m saving the city in case I can’t save the world. Or—no, tell them whatever you like. Whatever works.”
“I will do what I can. Do you require their assistance?”
“No, but you will. They’ll need to reinforce the Firmament and set it up as an enchantment. It’s already integrated with the defensive spells around the city, but it needs to be a more permanent thing. One idiot with a suicide urge could kill everyone after the chaos line crosses us.”
“I will see to it. Now, about the gates. What, exactly, do you wish done?” He sounded eager to deal with something besides soul transfers.
“Explore. Look, the Hand, as part of the Church of Light, explored other worlds with gate spells, seeking nightlords to hunt and kill. Right?”