Reality's Plaything

by Will Greenway

  Sarai glanced back at Bannor, obviously torn between him and her duty to her mother.

  As they walked away, Laramis paused. “Do not tarry,” he said over his shoulder. “We must say our condolences and be gone. We must warn other towns to prevent this from happening again.”

  Bannor nodded. He watched them disappear into the darkness and turned his attention to the gate. Another gust brought more of the stench. His stomach knotted.

  What could be inside that he must see? The scent of death and the thought of so many slain elves made his mind reel. It took all his will to grab the gate handle.

  His heart felt like a stone in his chest. Steeling himself, he lifted the latch and pulled it open. Inside lay a hexagonal courtyard whose sides consisted of the different houses belonging to the meshtiqua. The rank odor was overpowering. He took his weapon-oiling rag and tied it so it covered his nose and mouth.

  A scalebark tree loomed over the center of the yard. Long thick strands of something hung from the branches. Elsewhere around the court, more of what appeared to be the same substance dangled from around bushes and fence posts.

  The only obvious feature was a single flickering point of light on the far side of yard. He headed for the light. He skirted the tree because whatever hung from it dripped. He heard droplets pattering on the ground and didn’t care to learn what it was. He stepped with caution, Odin only knew what lay underfoot. Death hung in the air and it clawed at his neck with ghostly hands.

  He moved faster.

  On the far side, an awning covered a raised patio. A fist-sized object lit the wooden slats and the immediate area. A creaking sound and a movement in the shadows made him freeze. His heart thudded, and he grabbed for his axes. Something hanging from a rope twisted back and forth in the breeze.

  He calmed himself and stepped into the circle of light. He shuddered as he recognized a half grown elf girl dangling from a rope by her neck. Her eyes had been charred out. As she rotated, he saw that blackened letters had been seared into the skin of her back.

  ‘Garmtur,’ it read. ‘See what your resistance costs?—Hecate.’

  Waves of disgust and anger rushed through him. Words erupted from his throat, sounding huge in the silence. “You—monster!” The fury became a burning ball of fire in his chest. He threw back his head and howled. At the same time, golden spirals of light corkscrewed around his arms, blasted through the patio roof and lanced into the sky.

  Fragments of burning wood rained down over the courtyard making visible the desecrated and butchered corpses of the townspeople piled in the pool.

  The sight hit him like another blow. Coughing and choking, he ran. He staggered out into the village too sick to walk in a straight line. He wished the darkness would swallow him up and take the visions of the dead from his mind. They had done nothing.

  Nothing.

  He’d killed them just as certainly as Hecate did. Odin, why had he even been born?

  Disoriented, he stumbled over something metallic in the street. The pieces of it scattered across the path.

  Bannor turned to look at what he’d tripped over; a set of black metallic armor that looked vaguely like the husk of a beetle.

  The remains of one of Hecate’s warriors. So, the villagers had fought back. The sight gave him heart that they at least struck back at these murdering devils. He noticed that more corpses of the creatures lay scattered across the town square.

  Many more. He picked his way around the bodies of at least a dozen of the armored hulks. Most of the black enameled metal was dented and shredded by weapon blows. Arrows jutted from the remains of others. It looked like the work of skilled warriors.

  Were the fighters that did this among the slain? If only he and the others had gotten here sooner they might have been able to help. Odin, he felt so sick. How did Hecate even know they would be here? They didn’t even know about coming here. It had all been an accident of the Garmtur? Or had it? When they reappeared it had been light. The only way for that to happen would be that time had passed—or they’d somehow jumped backward several bells. He winced—he wasn’t prepared to deal with that possibility.

  After a moment, he realized his name was being called. Damn. He’d probably scared the rest of the group with his outburst.

  The creak of metal behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A sense of danger turned his guts to ice. He ripped his axe from its sheath and spun.

  A huge creature in gleaming black armor stood only an arm length away with a giant spear pointed at him. It and the ones behind wore a helmet fashioned to look like a serpent’s cowl and bared fangs. Red glows emanated from elongated eye slits in the faceplate.

  Bannor hadn’t even raised his axes before the monster charged.

  * * *

  I have heard it said that imitation is a form of complement.

  Imitation is a weak mind demonstrating a lack of originality—or a youngster trying to mimic some figure they admire.

  I do not want servants who imitate, I want ones that anticipate and improvise…

  —From the Dedriad, ‘musings of an immortal’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  « ^ »

  Heart pounding, Bannor turned to face a dozen opponents. He knew running wasn’t an option. Nothing in the town square afforded enough cover. If he retreated, the black armored warriors would cut him down.

  An icy gust swirled through the plaza, rattling the metallic husks of slain dark-side warriors. The wind flicked through the cloaks of the enemy, making it look as if demon wings fluttered on their backs. Their helmets, fashioned to resemble a cowled serpent’s head, all focused on him with glowing red eye slits.

  Bannor pulled his axe and dagger. These monsters murdered an entire town. The bones in his hands made cracking sounds as he tightened his grip on his weapons. He didn’t care how many there were—they would remember this battle.

  The lead creature, two heads taller than Bannor and wielding a huge spear, moved first. The monster’s speed took him by surprise. Despite the heavy armor, it closed with him in an eye blink.

  His weapons never came to bear. Yelling something muffled by the thick helm, the giant slipped between his axe and dagger. He braced for a stab of pain.

  The warrior grabbed him around the back. Bannor’s ribs groaned as he was pulled hard against the unyielding breastplate of the fighter’s armor. The red glow behind the eye slits in the creature’s helm grew brighter.

  The giant rattled something incomprehensible that echoed in its helm and squeezed tighter. Dots swam in Bannor’s vision, and he tried to ram his dagger into an open slit. The tip only deflected off the hard metal. The creature had pinned his other arm, preventing him from swinging the axe.

  Bannor dropped his weapons. To get free he must make a vulnerable spot. The creature continued to rant as he grabbed the serpent helm and wrenched it off.

  The warrior yelped. Bannor grabbed a handful of ebony hair as it spilled across the person’s features. Fist pulled back to strike, he froze. A woman!

  He let go as she growled and shook her head. The moonlight illuminated a broad dusky-skinned face. Deep brown eyes glinted. The skin on the back of Bannor’s neck tingled. It felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs.

  “Odin,” he breathed. “Irodee!”

  The Myrmigyne continued to frown, the glint in her eyes becoming a red glow. She let him drop; he stumbled and caught his balance, staring up at the huge woman. Had she been possessed? In his head he heard the echo of Meliandri’s dying wail. The sound of the damned.

  Behind them a gate slammed. She flinched and gestured to the armored ranks behind her. The group melted into shadows as though turning into mist.

  She focused on him. Her expression looked as cold as a snake’s. “Tell Irodee, the name of the pale woman.”

  “Irod-ack!” The Myrmigyne’s hand flashed to his throat and clamped down before he finished the word.

  “Speak only answers,” she hissed. She
loosened her grip and glanced toward the meshtiqua where the townsfolk had been slaughtered. “Name the pale woman.”

  Bannor’s heart pounded. He heard footsteps growing closer. Sarai and the others were coming. The dark-side warriors had positioned themselves to flank anyone entering the square.

  “Hecate,” he said. His voice cracked. Should he yell to warn his friends? Irodee was acting so strange. No telling what would happen if he called out.

  Her voice remained flat. “Name your love.” The footsteps were nearly on top of them.

  “Sarai,” he answered.

  Irodee stiffened. She put two fingers to her mouth and blew two piercing whistles that echoed through the town. Laramis and Sarai skidded to a stop at the edge of the square as four warriors materialized out of the darkness on either side of them.

  “Jamai! Ke ha!” Irodee yelled.

  Swords, knives, axes, and arrow points glimmered in the dim light all around Laramis, Sarai, Wren, Janai and the Queen as they braced for battle. The ring of glinting metal tightened.

  “Irodee, no!” Bannor yelled. He lunged for the big woman only to have his arm caught and levered behind him. “Augh. No! We’re your friends!”

  Laramis, at the front of the group, peered through the darkness. “Irodee? My Jewel!” His sword burst into brilliant flames. The warriors in front of him staggered, covering the eyeholes of their helms. Brandishing the burning weapon, he drove them to either side and raced forward. Startled, the fighters lunged after him, weapons aimed at his back.

  “Jewel? Can it be you?”

  Bannor felt the huge woman go rigid. His body turned to ice. What should he do? His weapons lay within easy reach. “Mada—?” She pushed Bannor forward and held up a hand in warning. “Vriaka!”

  The creatures behind Laramis halted, still keeping their weapons ready. The paladin glanced back, his sword still gleaming like a firebrand. When had Laramis ever been able to do that? Bannor never saw the paladin use magic before. He glanced at Irodee. The giant woman’s body hummed with tension.

  Her voice sounded small. “Is it really you, Laramis?”

  “Aye, it is, my Jewel.” He stepped closer. The flickering light from the sword illuminated his face. Flames danced in the man’s eyes. He pulled his riding glove off and reached toward her. “Take my hand. Let there be no doubt.”

  A murmur went through group standing behind Laramis. Weapons stirred. A wind moaned through the town square. In the distance, lightning flickered.

  Irodee’s voice cracked. “You have died so many times, Mada. I have killed my best friend.” Her gaze went to where Wren and Sarai stood together with Janai and the Queen. “Put my spear through her heart.” Her hands opened and closed convulsively. “Hecate is the mistress of illusions, she preys on our hopes—” she paused. “My hopes. You might be another doppelgänger sent to kill me.”

  Laramis smiled. “I am no doppelgänger, My Jewel. Take my hand and you will see.”

  Bannor’s heart pounded. What had Irodee been through while they were separated? Clearly, the woman was in pain. He saw it in her features, and in the way her hand shook. He saw in her eyes the look of someone at the verge of complete despair.

  “Irodee,” he said. “It’s—”

  Laramis held up a hand and Bannor stopped. “My Jewel knows me.” He dropped the sword to the ground with a clang. The flames surrounding the blade guttered and went out. “Magic creatures may resemble me, but only a true De’Falcone bleeds fire for his love.”

  The man and woman stared into each other’s eyes. The moment seemed to stretch out forever. All around him, Bannor sensed bodies growing ever more taut.

  Tears welled in Irodee’s eyes. “By Nethra, Laramis it is you!”

  The paladin and his wife came together in a clash of metal, hugging, crying, and kissing. The meeting of their bodies cut the tension in the square like a giant knife. Weapons poised to strike were dropped. Clenched fists relaxed. Helmets echoed with sighs.

  Sarai hurried forward and took Bannor’s arm. “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head.

  Wren, the Queen and Janai came forward. Wren put an arm around Irodee’s waist and was pulled into the circle of the Myrmigyne’s arms.

  Bannor shook his head. Seeing Irodee made him happy, but it didn’t compensate for the horror that Hecate left him in the meshtiqua. She had killed innocent people and laid the blame on him. He couldn’t bear having that happen again.

  At the same time, any creature willing to order death so indiscriminately was no one he wanted having control over the pillars of reality. The sight of that elven girl would live in his mind for many summers to come.

  He hugged Sarai, craving the warmth of her body. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

  “For what, my One?”

  He put his face in the curve of her neck and breathed in her fragrance, letting it block out the fetid odors carried on the wind. “For getting you into this. For causing so much harm.”

  She grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him to look into her eyes. “This is not your fault,” she growled. “If you say that again, I’ll spank you.”

  He sighed and kissed her. The taste of Sarai, her touch helped banish the soiled and guilty feeling that had made him run from the meshtiqua and the dead interred there.

  She returned the kiss, but her face remained serious. “I mean it. That witch Hecate means to separate us. Don’t let her.”

  “You are right, Little Star.” He let out a breath. “But, I can’t help it. You didn’t see what—”

  Sarai put a hand over his mouth. “No. I ache for them, too. They are my brethren, the subjects whom my family is sworn to protect.” She gripped his shoulder, her fingernails digging in until they hurt. “You and I will avenge them and every life that has been wrongly taken. We can’t do that if we doubt ourselves.”

  “Sarai’s right. The dark ones try to kill us all a little at a time.” Irodee’s voice surprised Bannor. The big Myrmigyne wore a determined expression. She held Wren and Laramis, an arm wrapped around each as if she feared they might vanish if she let go.

  Janai and the Queen stepped close. Irodee’s allies followed, keeping a respectful distance.

  When Kalindinai was close enough to be recognized, Irodee’s eyes widened. She bowed her head and spoke in Elvish. “Mihaad kel, Matradomma.”

  Kalindinai raised an eyebrow. “Ghanda.”

  Irodee raised her head but did not look the Queen in the eye. “Apologies.”

  “Accepted,” the elder elf responded. “Tell Us what transpires here. Why are you and the others dressed as minions of the dark side? What did you have to do with what happened here?”

  The Myrmigyne sighed, glanced to Laramis, then Wren. “The armor is a disguise. The town—” she paused and bit her lip. “We arrived in time only to avenge the people.”

  A rumble went through the fighters standing behind the Queen and Janai.

  The Queen nodded with a rueful expression on her face. Her voice, when she spoke, was forced and raw. “It is good that these villains did not escape unpunished.” She gripped the black rod she carried with both hands. She focused on Wren. “Arwen, perhaps you would introduce us?”

  The savant reddened. “Matradomma, this is my very good friend and wife to Laramis, Irodee De’Falcone.”

  Irodee bowed her head again. Dressed in full plate armor as she was, a curtsey would have looked silly. “Eh mam komaha, Matradomma.” She spoke the elvish with barely a pause. Sarai seemed surprised. Elves often learned the common language, but rarely did humans take the time to study the elvish tongue.

  Bannor had learned some from Sarai out of necessity. He knew the phrase Irodee used meant, ‘in your blood’. To a noble, such as the Queen, the phrase represented a promise of fealty. That is, it did if he remembered Sarai’s lessons properly.

  Kalindinai sniffed and glanced at Wren. “We suppose We shouldn’t be surprised Arwen, that the jungle woman has better manners than
you.”

  Wren frowned. “Yes, Matradomma.”

  Kalindinai turned and surveyed the collection of fighters who had scarcely stirred since their conversation began. “So, what of these others, Lady Irodee? Who are they?”

  “Mostly your subjects, some are duna agon, some humans and a few dwarves.” She raised her voice and gestured to the armored figures. “Mih’ka aya atah!”

  Many of the people removed their helmets revealing men and women, many elven, others human and half-elves.

  “I wondered why you kept yelling in elvish,” Sarai said.

  “Dwarves,” muttered Laramis. “Where is DacWhirter? He isn’t—”

  “No,” Irodee said. “He’s north and east of us organizing a group of hill dwarves that live along the Malan border.” She met Bannor’s eyes and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for scaring you. It hard to trust anything we see. There are bands of doppelgängers roaming the hills south of here. They can alter their appearance so they resemble anyone that’s clear in your mind.”

  Lightning cracked. The wind picked up and became a steady roar. The husks of the dead dark-side creatures rattled and clattered.

  “We’d best find a spot out of the storm,” Laramis said. “Do you know some place where we can make a secure camp, my Jewel?”

  Irodee looked into the sky as forks of lightning leaped from cloud to cloud north of them. Fat drops of rain began dropping in ones and twos.

  “Yes, there is a Kirika mound about a quarter bell away. We’ve been holing up there.”

  Bannor’s stomach tightened. “You want us to sleep overnight inside a mausoleum?”

  The Myrmigyne shrugged. “The vault is underground and the walls are thick. It’s clean inside, and after all we’ve seen—” The woman sighed. “A few more bodies in crypts don’t bother us all that much…”

  * * *

  Doppelgängers are interesting little creatures who draw upon the psychic energy of a target creature and assume that creature’s shape or that of a person who is clear in their mind. They are fascinating little abominations. Though I have a large hand in their creation, I cannot claim being their primary inventor. Still they are interesting tools that experience a wide variety of dementia from schizophrenia to psychotic and manic episodes. What they lack in mental stability they compensate for in cunning and meanness. They are angry little demons that make a fine hammer for breaking the back of people foolish enough to mount an organized resistance to my occupation forces…