Umber

The final struggle for control of the axis mundi and its result.

Somewhere in the Gamboge Forest, an elf in golden chain mail on a strange, obsidian mount rode an unmarked path. The few individuals who by accident or design happened to draw near ran in terror when the beast turned its eerie red eyes on them. The elf rode with the absentminded familiarity of a path often taken, absorbed in her own thoughts until her mount spoke into her mind. This is a very slow Road. You know that I could take you to the entrance.

Yes, but today I desire the time. I could walk if you’d prefer. I don’t mind. We could arrange to meet later. You’ve endured fifteen years of these Oerth-bound paths. It’s selfish of me to ask you to travel them still.

No, you know I will come. We will have time for the fast Roads later.

After several hours they reached a pair of red-barked spruce trees. The sole apparent guard, an elven woman named Noawna who amused herself by fading into shadows and reappearing again, let out a small shriek when she saw the horse, an even greater as she recognized the rider. She started to turn and call out behind her, but the rider stopped her. “Please, don’t.”

“But it has been over fifteen years!” the woman protested. “Everyone will want to know that you are home.”

“It has not been fifteen years,” she sighed. “And I am not home. Please, I just need to speak with T’lar.”

Noawna frowned, confused and a little hurt. “As you wish. She is in the forest, picnicking. In she and The Bard’s usual spot.”

“Hanen is here?” the mounted elf asked.

Noawna wrinkled her nose. “For the past fifteen years. With a friend of his,” she said distastefully. “By the way, although you apparently don’t want to see anyone, T’lar specifically asked that if you arrived you go to Ariene immediately. She has something important for you.”

The elf and her Black teleported to Ariene’s home to avoid curious eyes. The Black waited outside. When the psion emerged, she wore a bulky bag on her shoulder and an angry expression on her face. A tall, slender woman accompanied her, turning her head toward the trees in wonder at birdsong and windsong. As the gold-clad elf tucked the bag into her horse’s pack and remounted, the other called in a voice rusty with disuse, “Fare well, little Sister. And bless you.”

Elf and beast skirted the civilized edges of the Enclave and rode deep into the forest again, until off to the right they heard soft sounds of laughter. The Black veered in their direction, and as they emerged into a clearing they confronted a pale elven woman, a human just passing into the barest beginnings of old age, and a balor in a paisley smoking jacket. The remains of an elegant lunch were laid out between them. Seeing her, the elf and the man were stunned into silence, while the balor smiled and nodded his head slightly. “Psydney!” the woman finally exclaimed. “You’re alive! Why didn’t you tell me?”

The psi warrior slipped from her horse and stood stonelike before her sister. “I am telling you now.”

“We must have a celebration,” the telepath laughed. “Greet you properly.”

Psydney did not smile in return. “I’ve had your greeting, and found it very proper, sister.”

T’lar looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“How long have the roads to the multiverse been restored?” Psydney demanded. “And you’ve left her deaf, all this time, to indulge your revenge.”

On the defensive now, her sister’s voice was harsh. “It was not that long. And I vowed that his prize would be guarded until – ”

“One second past the time that Ariene could be healed was an eternity too long. And leaving her crippled was not your vow to make!” Psydney shouted. Behind them, the man fidgeted awkwardly, while the balor smiled as if he were watching a particularly entertaining spectacle.

The telepath turned scarlet with rage. “I did it for you,” she insisted. “For all that you suffered and were suffering. Someone had to pay.” She cast a venomous glance at the man. “He had to pay.”

Psydney stifled her temper. “I’m sorry I subjected you to that. It was an unforgivable burden. But I did not ask for payment, and while you may have exacted it in my name I do not believe it was for my sake.”

T’lar rose stiffly. “A week of agony and fifteen years of silence, and still you come only with condemnation. I think that we will never understand one another. It is futile to try.” A moment of intense concentration, and Psydney felt something snap in her mind. “Enjoy whatever of our hospitality you are willing to condescend to, warrior archon. I fear I will be occupied with other matters.” Without another word, she turned and walked into the forest.

“Still angry, little celestial?” the balor said. “But in control once again.” He winked at the man. “It is too late now for Asmodeus, I think.”

Psydney glared at him, then at Hanen. “This is your friend?”

The bard cleared his throat nervously. “I believe you two have met?”

Klavicus rose and bowed. “It is truly my pleasure to see you again.” He looked after T’lar’s departing form. “We seem to have an extra place at our table. Please, won’t you join us?”

Psydney hesitated for a moment. “I hope she didn’t do anything rash,” Hanen said.

She shrugged. “The confidante bond is broken. But that is probably just as well.” She walked to her Black and withdrew the package she had received from Ariene. Once again she urged the horse to leave and return. But it shook its massive head. I will wait. I will watch. She sat down and held the bag out to Hanen. “I believe this is yours.”

He stared at it in disbelief, and reached out tentatively as if he were afraid she would snatch it away at the last moment and smash it over her knee. He slipped a lute from the pouch, bent his head close to the strings and spent a few minutes tuning the long idle instrument. Klavicus poured Psydney some wine, prepared a plate of cheese, fruit and bread and silently set it before her. You are a strange demon, she spoke in his mind. And you are a strange elf, he replied. Hanen completed his adjustments and looked like he might break out into a melody, then stopped.

“What is the matter?” Klavicus asked. “You have awaited this day for years.”

The bard looked at Psydney. “Perhaps you should destroy it. It would be no less than I deserve.” He looked at it lovingly, swallowed hard and held it back out to her.

“If that is what you merit, I’d hate to have my deserts visited upon me,” she replied. “Keep it, and use it. In this ruin of a world, people need some delight.”

Hanen nodded gratefully, but still put the instrument away. “What, no song?” the demon asked impatiently. “Why else have I coddled you through all these years? Kept that mad psion and her crossbow at bay?”

“You mean it wasn’t out of the goodness of your heart?” the man replied. “I’m crushed.” He added more seriously, “Later perhaps. For now, if she’s willing, I’d like to hear Psydney’s story.”

The psion regarded him curiously. “From what Ariene said, I’d have thought you’ve had a stomachful of my story. Frankly, I was surprised to see you here.”

“I have him to thank for that,” the bard said, nodding toward Klavicus. “I won myself my life, but he won me the limited freedom I enjoy.” He sighed. “I am too old now to be angry anymore at how he accomplished it.”

Klavicus laughed. “For every gain there is a loss.” Psydney looked from one to the other, then decided she didn’t want to know what they were talking about. The balor returned her stare. “Speaking of loss, you were armed to the teeth when I saw you last. Have you acquired a pacifist streak, warrior?”

Her words caught in her throat, then finally she said, “The weapons I wielded are gone. Only the i is left to me now.”

“What has happened?” Hanen asked gravely. Seeing the look on her face, he added, “Can you tell me?”

She knew from his expression that he spoke not of proscription but a more personal reticence, and nodded hesitantly. “It would be good for me, I think.” She cast an uncomfortable sideways glance at the demon, and he caught her gaze and held it. Strange, isn’t it? he spoke in her mind. But if celestials can fall, can we not rise, even a little? Still, I will leave if you like. She was surprised at the thought that arose in reply. The one takes a moment of blindness, the other a lifetime of discipline. No, I would like you to stay. “Where shall I begin?” she asked.

“We can skip everything until after the Tarrasque,” Hanen said, recalling the endless tellings.

“What about the tests of Justice?” Klavicus asked. “You seemed to have done those to death as well.”

The bard frowned. “You know, I’d still like to hear that again.” He turned to Psydney. “T’lar was so emotionally distraught by early events that I think she transmitted them with no editorial commentary, as it were. But the tests sounded random and pointless; a little too much like her perspective and not enough what I’d expect of you. And of what happened after the final test, of course, we know nothing at all.”

“No, I wouldn’t call the tests pointless,” Psydney agreed. “Several were illuminating in an unpleasant way, but none of them were pointless. What do you know of the first?”

“I believe it involved a conflict between a band of wemics and one of centaurs?” Hanen said. “The wemics, I understand, had left their natural hunting grounds because the rampaging Tarrasque had depopulated their homes, and had fled to the centaurs’ territory in search of food. The centaurs insisted that their own welfare was at risk. The wemics claimed there was enough food for all. You were required to settle their dispute.”

“In truth, I think that was the second test. The Tarrasque itself was the first. As far as I can tell, we failed in the eyes of Cuthbert, although for myself I will not apologize for what we did.”

“But you killed the Tarrasque,” Hanen said.

“Exactly.”

“And why,” Klavicus asked critically, “was it wrong in the eyes of Justice to dispatch a creature who was terrorizing villagers? This peculiar hierarchy of good acts, withheld in its particulars but by which you are judged, is precisely what I don’t understand about deities of certain inclinations.”

“I can only assume,” she said, “that we were not supposed to deviate from our primary goal, the recovery of the seed of creation, no matter what the circumstances.”

“Ah, a test of Foresight,” the balor said. “But you don’t share that belief.”

“Not entirely. If the time spent is small and the gain great, what does it matter? Justice had time to put us through the four remaining tests, some of which took longer to accomplish than the death of the Tarrasque. If we had still retained access to rapid transportation, I might even have favored traveling to Greyhawk to hunt down Moloch. It is small comfort to the people who have died that the Prime Material will now go on as before.”

“Yet had you vanquished the archdevil and perished in the attempt, it would have been small comfort to the rest of humanity that Moloch was gone but their entire world ravaged,” Klavicus suggested. “Perhaps the same was true of the Tarrasque.”

“I never said the answers were easy,” she replied. “In fact, all I wished to say is that they are not.”

The balor raised a hand, palm outward. “Playing, as it were, devil’s advocate. You won’t get an argument from me.”

“And the second test?” Hanen asked.

“Was slightly more complicated than T’lar communicated. Both Chief Cabo of the centaurs and Chief Prachu of the wemics approached us insisting that Justice was on their side. Each requested our support in the just and principled war that was about to ensue.”

“A test of Honor,” Klavicus interjected.

“But you did not fight on either side,” Hanen said.

“No. They were both so clearly selfish, each so clearly in the wrong, that we didn’t especially want anything to do with them at all. They tried to bribe us with trinkets, some of them even quite powerful, to intervene on their behalf, but none of us were inclined to engage in what, with us involved, would turn into senseless slaughter. Eventually, between Kuhlefaran’s diplomatic talents and a judicious use of threats, we convinced them to set aside their differences and find a way to live together in peace in the one wood. A white-clothed druid woman appeared to us and thanked us for our assistance.”

“Although no doubt she was no more a druid than the old man in the previous village was an old man,” Klavicus said. “And the third test?”

“That was strange,” Hanen said. “The images were disconnected, and I never could make sense of them. Frightened orcs running from black-cloaked figures, and a storm of weasels, all of them distorted mirrors of what I remember of Svengali’s familiar. A strange test, indeed.”

“No test at all, I think,” she said. “Something more like an interlude. The weasels sprouted from the cloaks, and slaughtered the orcs. We managed to protect a handful from the animals’ wrath. Then the bulk of the weasels melted into the woods, leaving only one, dragging a hood behind it which it dropped in front of us. And you’re right, it did look like Willie, and although its mind was nearly gone it did speak of the tiger. The tiger wanted us to have the hood, it said. Before it too disappeared into the trees, its last remaining coherent emotions were hatred, the same violent hatred of orcs that drove Svengali to more than one atrocity. If it had been within its power, I think it would have killed all orcs, everywhere.”

“You have a great love of orcs?” Klavicus asked.

“No, but I have no love of genocide either.” Except demons? he asked. I haven’t killed you, she replied. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If I wanted to, I would willingly die in the attempt. Rather a foolish conviction, celestial. But aren’t all convictions foolish, demon? 

Sensing some strange tension between the balor and Psydney, Hanen spoke. “But if Willie has reverted to his animal mind, Svengali must be no more,” When she nodded her head he added, “I feared they would be lost.”

Psydney looked puzzled for a moment. “Of course,” she said finally. “You know of the flesh golems from T’lar.” She waved him into silence before he could complete his expression of sympathy. “Svengali is gone, but Tenser sent out agents and they recovered the souls of Hadrack and Glom Gargull. He was able to restore them to life and health. So at least that much good was done.” She looked at Klavicus pointedly. “After that we were indeed subjected to another test. One that should be of interest to you.”

“The death knight,” Hanen said. “You met a death knight praying before the statue of an apparent celestial, a shrine containing a basin of bubbling, magical water. He too had embarked on the divine test of heroes, centuries ago, with two companions. As they journeyed and his partners exceeded his skill, he grew obsessed by the conviction that they would complete the quest, and he would not. So he slew them in their sleep, far away from prying eyes and any possibility of judgment. But Cuthbert appeared before him and damned him for eternity.”

“He seemed to be expecting us,” Psydney continued. “He asked for our mercy, said he wanted to raise his sword again in a righteous cause. Magnus and Serge kept a close eye on him, but we didn’t kill him, and we did allow him to accompany us. Kuhlefaran gathered a little of the magical water, which was apparently known for unusual healing properties. And then we were on our way.”

“And the next test?” the bard asked. “You visited the village of Glennry, where a woman was at the mercy of an angry mob. A cleric of Cuthbert was all that held them at bay.”

Psydney shuddered. “A situation I would have liked to walk away from. A witchwoman of evil disposition accused of myriad crimes: killing a man’s gravely ill wife, souring the cows’ milk, killing a village boy. Initial investigation revealed that the woman had died of natural causes, the tender of the cows’ grain had allowed it to develop mold, and the boy had wandered into the woods and become trapped under a fallen tree. Rather than take responsibility for their lives, these small-minded people preferred to blame murky occult forces. It sickened me to listen to them.”

“Yet you delivered her for burning to a neighboring village,” Klavicus said. As a fly on the wall in Hanen’s quarters, he had heard this story before.

“Searching her house,” she explained, “Magnus found the body of a girl, missing from that village. As her magic failed, the witch was sacrificing whatever she could lay her hands on in an attempt to appease what she thought was an angry god. She didn’t know that magic was failing everyone, everywhere. So for Justice’s sake we returned her to the place of her actual crime. When I saw that those residents were as cruelly vengeful as those of Glennry, I was tempted to execute the woman myself, but my companions stopped me, arguing that we were agents of justice, not vigilantes. I suppose they were right. And the Cuthbertian cleric, Pratt, quietly killed the witch with a spell while she writhed among the flames.” Her lips curled into something like a sneer. “So their bloodlust was satisfied without the victim suffering unduly.”

Klavicus regarded her with slight annoyance. “Beware, little celestial, lest your heart soften your head. The girl she murdered suffered, and she was an innocent child. Why should the guilty not suffer in return? Some would say the witch’s punishment was too merciful. If they punished such things among my kind, she might have burned in the flames for the next hundred years before they allowed her to die.”

Hanen expected her to argue, but to his surprise she remained silent, her eyes thoughtful. “Pratt had another request to make of you,” he prompted after an interval.

“Yes. We accompanied her to a shrine, where centuries ago the wizard Caermas, on the verge of defeat in his effort to protect the village from two raging behir, channeled his remaining life force into a spell of imprisonment. It was necessary to sacrifice an item of magic once a decade to maintain the spell. Not long before, the wards had begun to fail early. Pratt sacrificed all she had, and delayed their collapse for a time, then they began to degrade again. She did not know why the process had accelerated, and asked if we had any magic to offer. We knew why they were failing, of course, since our earlier actions at Castle Pescheour were an indirect cause. We did not share this information, but we shared everything else that we could spare. Even the death knight Lucius offered his only remaining possession, a powerful greatsword.”

“That decision puzzled me,” Klavicus said. “Why did you not merely kill the behir? They were foes of no great challenge, and surely you felt no need to show them mercy.”

Psydney shrugged. “I did not wish to kill them because Pratt did not ask it of us. She seemed a wise, thoughtful woman, and if she found it more vital to protect the wards than to eliminate the beasts, that is what I would help her achieve.”

“And you surrendered your sword of law,” Hanen said.

“I had the i, and Crusader. They were sufficient.” She closed her eyes and said softly, “How could I have known I would lose her as well?” Klavicus opened his mouth to speak, but Hanen placed a finger across his lips and the demon remained quiet. Finally she reopened her eyes. “She restored the wards, thanked us for our assistance, and we were prepared to go on our way when we were suddenly overcome by – ”

“Wait,” Klavicus interrupted. “You forgot about the vision of hammering, and a meteor.”

Psydney laughed humorlessly. “How could I have forgotten that? Fharlanghn appeared before us again.”

“You have been awash in deities, haven’t you?” Klavicus remarked.

She rolled her eyes. “Enough for a lifetime, for me. ‘Can you feel it?’ he asked. He told us to close our eyes and focus. In our minds, we saw three points of light, the brightest I’ve ever seen, apparently attempting to penetrate the distance between the Prime Material and the rest of the multiverse. Then it coalesced to a single beam of blinding intensity. There was a cracking sound, then an explosion, then a single meteor-like object dropped to the north.”

“Your thoughts seemed oddly blank at that point,” Hanen said. “Do you know what actually occurred?”

“We’ve been well-trained not to speak of the Bastion of Souls,” Psydney said.

“So that’s what it was,” Klavicus said to the bard’s bemusement. “What on Oerth were they doing with that?”

Psydney briefly sketched the demiliches’ plan for ensuring the three pieces were kept apart forever. “I don’t know why they decided to band together.”

“Their hatred of each other must have been exceeded only by their hatred of you. And with access to the Prime cut off, anyone who could somehow reach it could have a merry time of domination,” the balor mused. “But joining the Soul Totem can have only one outcome. I wonder who gave them such terrible advice?” He laughed. “Probably someone who knew the outcome. Arrogant fools. So it sounds like they did succeed in breaking through to the Prime Material. Moments before the Greater Gods obliterated them.”

“Most of them, anyway. Curious, Bane scried on the three. He received no reading on either Orcus or Graz’zt. But Demogorgon evidently managed to survive.”

“If Demogorgon were loose on the Prime all these years, I think even here we would have noticed,” Hanen remarked.

Psydney sighed. “I’m jumping out of order here, but the reason no one noticed Demogorgon’s presence on the Prime Material is because he hasn’t been here. He was also destroyed.”

“By the gods?” Klavicus asked.

“No,” she said. “By us.”

The balor looked at her with something like respect. “I’m impressed. This I want to hear.”

“There’s not much to tell, really,” she said. “We were outside a particular castle – I’ll get to that in a minute – when a death slaad acquaintance of ours approached and said he had something important to give us. We were immediately suspicious.”

“How did he get to the Prime Material?” Klavicus asked.

“That was part of our apprehension. For the rest, he was far too direct. In all the time we’ve known Nurn, he was never straightforward about anything. We started quizzing him about particulars of our time together: how many slaad he brought to the conflict in Blasingdell, the name of the enemy commander he killed for us there, the song they sang when they arrived on the field of battle. He answered the first, evaded the second and by the third must have tired of the game, for he responded only ‘Die, die, die.’ Then Demogorgon unveiled himself and attacked.”

“A difficult conflict?” Hanen asked.

“Annoying, mostly. We had far better things to be doing. But we couldn’t afford to have him dogging our steps.” Klavicus raised an eyebrow, but realized from the look on her face that she wasn’t speaking from any particular bravado. “I wanted to outrun him, but the rest of the party objected. And they were absolutely right.” She shuddered and muttered to herself, “If we hadn’t, thanks to Blastir’s meddling, not only Moloch but Demogorgon would have been prowling the Prime Material for fifteen years.” Then she paused reflectively. “The worst thing about it was what almost happened afterwards.”

“Yes?” Klavicus asked.

“When he died, his soul essence drifted out from his body like a vapor and lingered in the air for a while. When Serge laid eyes on it, he fell into a kind of madness. He reached out with the Hand of Nyr in an effort to capture it, and nothing we could say would dissuade him.”

“Ha! The shade of Demogorgon as a personal servant. Even if only once, how delightful!” The balor leaned forward intently. “Did he manage it?”

“I tackled him, but he quickly slipped out of my grasp. Enai and I made other attempts to subdue him while Magnus stood by and watched, wondering, I think, whether it would be amusing for him to succeed. But moments before the rogue achieved his prize, Magnus threw him to the ground. That seemed to bring Serge to his senses, and he sat quietly while the cloud dissipated.”

“A pity you stopped him,” Klavicus said.

“On the bright side,” she replied, and to his surprise Hanen thought he detected a note of mischief in her voice, “not two but three demon prince vacancies have opened up.” Temptress, the balor chided her.

“Will you go?” Hanen asked, misinterpreting the smile on the balor’s face.

Klavicus shook his head. “That requires no great thought. In the Abyss, reputations roil and churn, surfacing and then drowning in the never-ceasing rapids of power. I have spent centuries becoming a scholar, and now much of Greyhawk’s knowledge has been destroyed. Restoring it will be a much more enduring and satisfying legacy, I think, than commanding legions of pliant undead or scheming balor.” He grimaced. “Assuming I can keep zealots like Tenser from burning my books.” Waving a hand toward Psydney, he added, “But we stray from your tale. I believe you were being overcome?”

She resumed her story. “All this time, we had been following the path laid out by the ring we had been given, hoping against hope that it was keyed to the seed rather than the castle. It had led us to the site of each of the tests. Once Pratt renewed the behir wards, we were overcome by dizziness. We blacked out for a moment, and when we came to we stood, to our dismay, in front of the ruined castle again.”

“But clearly something had changed,” Klavicus said, ”or we wouldn’t be enjoying this illuminating conversation.”

Psydney nodded. ”The first thing we noticed were the carcasses of half-eaten animals, and the toothmarks were all wrong for the usual kind of predators. Then we saw the trail of blood in the snow.”

”The blood in your vision,” Hanen recalled. “So something was different.”

”Yes. Inside we found the gibbering wizard who had attacked us on the floor below the Creation Seed. He was bleeding from a wound that, despite her skill, Kuhlefaran was unable to heal, and still appeared to be mad. Aside from mutterings of doom, we could get nothing coherent from him. It was then that Enai suggested giving him some water from the basin before which Lucius prayed. Although the wound still refused to close, the water appeared to restore some of his vitality and all of his sanity. He was Alain, Lord of Castle Pescheour and, he said sadly, the cause of its destruction. When leadership of the castle passed from his father to the children, the Pescheour patriarch bypassed the eldest son Garloth, in whom he sensed stirrings of avarice and power hunger, in favor of Alain. Alain himself, lacking his father’s wisdom-borne suspicion, allowed Garloth more freedom in the Castle than perhaps he should have done. When Garloth had the opportunity, he employed the power of the Creation Seed to drive Alain mad. Then he turned all of the Castle retainers into the beasts we had fought and slain and left with the Seed, doubtless returning to his own keep.

“Alain implored us to travel there, wrest the Seed from Garloth, and return it to its rightful place here. With it, he could heal his wounds, the castle and the world. Without it, Oerth as we knew it would be destroyed, replaced by a world warped to Garloth’s desires. Alain gave us a pendant and instructed us in its use. Say Garloth’s name backwards, and we would be transported to his keep. Say Alain’s name backwards, and we would return to Castle Pescheour. Then he gave us his blessing, and so potent it was that all of our health and power were restored to us.”

“And so you went to Garloth’s castle?” Hanen asked.

“Yes. But before we departed, Lucius knelt and prayed once again. Suddenly the death knight was wracked by convulsions, and collapsed in a heap of bones and metal. Then slowly he stood and addressed us. ‘Cuthbert has spoken to me. He has removed his curse and offered me final rest, or final redemption. If you will have me, I would see this through to the end.’ He raised his visor, and in the place of the skeletal visage of a death knight was the face of a determined and noble man.” Hanen had the dreamy look of someone for whom rhymes were already forming, while Klavicus scowled a little. How touching, he thought to himself. But a death knight probably would have served better.

“We employed the pendant and arrived at Garloth’s keep. It was a foul place, smaller than Castle Pescheour but with a nimbus of pale green fire performing an infernal dance about its battlements, and the walls made of a strange substance that at a distance we could not recognize. The landscape as far as the eye could see was undifferentiated waste, scarred only, we realized with growing apprehension, by the unmistakeable scorching of something like a meteor.”

“And Demogorgon confronted you there, as you have described,” the bard said. Psydney nodded. “And after?”

“We approached the castle. There were no windows, and no visible openings save for a single trapdoor of iron set into the very top of the tower. We expected no signs of life, and were surprised and alarmed to see a grey-cloaked figure creeping along the outside of the castle walls, then vanish on the far side. As we drew closer we understood why the composition of the castle walls eluded us. It was made entirely of flesh.”

Klavicus knit his brows. “A strange achievement for a mortal, of any power.”

The psion sighed. “Indeed. But, as we discovered, Alain was twice deceived. Serge used his special vision to see beyond the castle walls. The Seed was there, suspended by three chains within an intricate nesting of silver, platinum and mithril, encased in a cage of spike-studded wrought iron. Standing before it was a man clad in golden armor, his attention entirely absorbed in the casting of a complex spell. Alain had warned us that Garloth would doubtless be seeking total attunement, which would grant him complete access to the Seed’s powers and render him, effectively, unstoppable. But as Serge watched further, the armor flickered and faded, replaced by the sight of a giant balor. His features were distorted and his flesh strangely desiccated, as if even while in his power the Seed exacted its price for his impudence. Then the figure’s features flickered again, into something more dragon than demon or human. He described the effect to Bane, who realized that the being was not Garloth, but was wearing the wretched prince as a skin.”

“Then was it balor or dragon?” Klavicus asked impatiently.

“It was a balor,” she replied.

“How do you know?” he demanded.

“Because Serge recognized him. We have seen him before, a captive powering the heart of the dragon Ashardalon. It was the demon Ammet.”

“Ammet,” Klavicus spat. “Even among demons, he has always been a pariah. Only he would be capable of conceiving a vision so grand and yet so puny.”

“Absolute dominion over the Prime Material? I hardly call that puny,” Hanen remarked.

“Absolute dominion, perhaps. But over mere mortals? And to rip away the multiverse to achieve it?” The balor snorted dismissively. “Never to match wits with a solar again, or lock horns with a pit fiend? Never to challenge an elemental elder who rises from the waters before you in rage?” He clenched his fist in memory of glorious battles past. “It would never have been enough for me.”

Hanen eyed him cautiously. It was too easy to forget the demon lurking under the velvet veneer. “So you broke into the castle?”

“There was no time to waste,” she replied. “We had to return the Seed to Alain before Ammet finished the spell of attunement. Serge took time for a brief reconnaissance, discovering in the process that a number of guards, none of them trivial, lounged about the castle’s first floor. It was a useful piece of information, as it dictated our opening move. Then we moved to the trapdoor. Serge found a trap, and disabled it for a time, but the lock on the door was a complex one. Finally, Magnus grew impatient and jumped on the door, setting off the trap Serge had not seen, and awakening the wrath of the castle itself.”

“The castle itself?” Hanen asked.

Psydney’s face twisted in disgust. “Arms bearing weapons reached out from the very walls and struck at him. None could harm him, but it was a gruesome sight to behold. Another leap, and the door gave way. Ammet saw him, but appeared to remain focused on his spell. Once inside we saw that he was not alone. A figure in a grey cloak hovered close to the ceiling, weaving some lengthy magic of his own. It was Blastir. Having no time to deal with him now, although there is some irony to that statement, I attacked Ammet, and could make no headway against his defenses. Enai, bearing a sword designed to penetrate such things, appeared to cause damage, but Serge too could do nothing. Bane, after slapping a force wall on the stairwell to discourage the minions downstairs, warned that if the demon were given time to cast a spell through the Seed, the results could be catastrophic. And so Kuhlefaran uttered the words of our Champion: Deus ex unitae.”

Hanen nodded in recognition, while the balor looked confused. “Your champion?”

Psydney turned to the bard. “You see?” he smiled. “I did keep my word.”

The psion briefly explained the Eternal Champion to Klavicus. “Quite interesting,” he said. “Tenser’s impudence almost does him credit. And so it was formed again?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Larger and more powerful than before. So tall, in fact, that we broke through the ceiling of the castle. We caught a brief glimpse of the guards downstairs. They peered through the energy barrier, caught sight of the Champion and, with a look of abject fear, withdrew. Ammet, who had been sneering at us before, looked terrified now.”

“I’ll bet he did,” the balor laughed. “Not so much fun when the termites become dragons.”

“He drew on the power of the Seed, and hurled a spell at us the like of which I’ve never seen before. For a terrible moment, he seemed to be God. Not even as one of the greater deities, but the incarnation of whatever force formed the multiverse at the very beginning of time. We staggered under its force, but retained more than enough strength to fight on. Every blow struck home, and using Enai’s monkish abilities we swept him off of his feet.”

“An epic display of power indeed,” Klavicus commented.

“But we realized all too quickly that raw power would not be enough. With the Seed at his command, he could heal himself indefinitely. And as he drew ever more desperately upon its power, we saw cracks forming along its surface. We feared that if the battle continued, the Seed would be destroyed. Also, the Champion’s lifespan is not indefinite, and whenever we employ it there is always the pressure of time. So we decided to take the Seed from him, and return it to Alain, in hopes that he would be able to mend himself and repel Ammet. I struck at one of the chains with the i; it was sliced through but I fought a backlash attempting to dispel my blade. As the second chain fell, the i collapsed. We drew forth Kuhlefaran’s flail and snapped the final restraint, catching the Seed, enclosure and all, in one of our four hands.

“We spoke Alain’s name, expecting to return as we had come. With or without Ammet we were uncertain, but even if the demon were left behind we hoped that Alain would be able to sever his power. Instead the entire castle broke loose from its moorings, and smashed down upon the site of Castle Pescheour. There was no sign of Alain, only the still snarling Ammet and his magical eidolon, Blastir clinging to the wall and Lucius and Sardis to the roof. Lucius shouted down that something was wrong with time, that while seconds passed within the castle, just outside he could see trees growing inches in an instant, flowers blooming and dying in a breath. Magnus called out to Sardis to find Alain, and the ghaele disappeared into the strange time stream beyond. Whether he would be successful, we could not know.

“For ourselves, we knew we were running out of time. The Champion could not last much longer, and as individuals against Ammet’s stolen power we would be instantly slain. Then we remembered Alain’s words: return the Seed to its rightful place. That, of course, was on the uppermost floor of the castle, not where we currently stood. Great as our height was, it was simple to hold it where it belonged, but it would not stay in place. Then Blastir shouted to us, and in the noise and confusion we heard only the word, ‘Five!’ We examined the walls, and with Bane’s arcane sight saw five magical depressions. Clearly somehow these anchored the stone. But how, and with what?” A strange expression crossed Psydney’s face, and she stiffened. Only after drawing a deep breath did she continue again. “At the same time, looking upward, we saw three tiny specks, meteor-like, hurtling toward the castle: one grey, one brown, one white. Friend or foe? Impossible to say, although we entertained guarded hopes that Sardis had succeeded in his mission.

“In the midst of all this, the battle continued. Perilously wounded, Ammet tried to heal himself again, but suddenly we saw a staff and a circle of light which flashed, and the spell died as it was cast. Now each time he cast a spell, the circle opposed him. Sometimes it failed, but it more often succeeded. At first we thought Alain had returned, but why wasn’t he doing more? Only later did we realized what was truly occurring. Soon Ammet collapsed to the ground, so weak he could barely move, but still he would not die. Then Bane realized the likely truth: he had hidden his life in the stone, and would be impossible to kill by normal means.

“Now the brown speck pulled ahead, and to our great surprise we saw that it was Mordenkainen.” Klavicus’ eyes widened with interest. “He called as he came, ‘I have served the balance all of my life. Now it is time to serve it forever,’ and flew into one of the anchor points.” The balor’s look was shrewd; he could guess what was coming. “The grey speck, Alain, arrived and took another. Lucius, with a great cry, leaped down from his perch and occupied a third.

“Understanding now what was needed, I was determined to take a fourth. I could feel everyone’s concern. None of us had ever tried to will themselves out of the Champion, and we had no idea what the result would be. If the Champion dissolved, and Ammet was not severed from his power, it meant certain death for the party, and possibly the anchors as well. But if I recreated the i, and moved into it, I hoped the Champion would remain. They neither concurred nor forbade, so I did it, even as Sardis moved to occupy the final position. The Champion held. But Crusader insisted on taking my place.” She stared into the distance. “I wanted to defy her.”

“Why didn’t you?” Klavicus asked. Hanen sighed and rubbed his eyes, wishing the demon had the decency to keep his mouth shut. Some curiosities just didn’t require satisfaction.

“She was my teacher. I had sworn to accept her authority.” Her words were clipped and plain, but Hanen felt something anguished beneath them.

“Even if it meant saving her life?” Klavicus grumbled. “I’ll never understand the celestial – ” Hanen shook his head in warning, and although the balor looked annoyed he fell silent again.

“From the first time I saw Crusader, standing on the Abyss, I wanted her to be free of that sword.” The psion spoke more to herself than to them. “I criticized Lia for calling her enslaved, but I never really understood it myself. I wanted to believe that one day she could roam the multiverse again. And now…now it is forever too late.” Long moments passed before she spoke again. “Mordenkainen called out to finish it. And I stood alone while the five remaining members of the Champion drove the Holy Avenger through them all: Lucius, Alain, Sardis, Mordenkainen. Crusader. With a suddenness beyond belief, the walls of the Castle rebuilt themselves in obsidian and white. Castle Pescheour was restored, in all of its glory. And Ammet was destroyed.”

Klavicus pondered the meaning of this, but between two likely options he could not decide which to choose. “Tell me more,” he said. When she appeared to ignore him, he demanded, “More! What happened to the bodies?”

“What do you expect?” she snapped. “They writhed in pain. They died.”

“Did they bleed?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said irritably.

“You have the psionic memory. Recall it to mind.” When she protested that she didn’t want to, he roared, “Recall it!”

Forever after, Hanen would wonder why she meekly obeyed. “No,” she said hesitantly. Then with more conviction, “No, I’m sure they didn’t.”

”Then it must have been a metaphysical death,” the balor mused. ”A claiming of the soul, not the body.”

Psydney’s irritation appeared to grow anew. “And that is better?”

”It is certainly different,” he replied calmly. ”It tells me something of why it was done. I can’t be certain of details, of course. However noble, Alain failed in his charge to protect the Seed. It must have decided it required something more powerful, incorruptible, beyond the temptations and pities that seethe through the physical form.” 

“It?” Psydney said in disbelief. “It?”

“Do you think such an artifact would be without sentience?” Klavicus asked condescendingly. “Then it would truly be the pawn of whomever happened by. No, I believe it knows what it needs in order to defend itself. Life may be well-meaning, but life force is obdurate. And five will serve better than one.”

Hanen saw a wildness in Psydney’s expression. “I am sick of it!” she cried. “Endless sacrifice, and yet we never gain ground. Endless carnage, and yet there is no peace. And now you tell me that the very root of the world feeds itself with our pain?”

Klavicus was unperturbed. “I most certainly said no such thing.”

“I saw the look in Mordenkainen’s eyes. He was afraid.”

“Of course he was afraid,” Klavicus said. “They asked him to die, and to die quietly, willingly, without a fight, without the surge of adrenaline to carry him over the threshold of the unknown. Does that make him any less of a hero?”

“You were not there. You will never understand.” You are a demon. What do you know of sorrow? She started to leap up, but the balor reached out a clawed hand and fixed her in place.

“If you do not master it, your anger will be the ruin of you, little one,” he growled. “I see why the celestials sent you a keeper, and they had better send you another. Discipline lies not merely here,” he tapped her head with his free hand. “For my part, I have lost a friend to this transaction too. I will be sorry to no longer sit by Mordenkainen’s fire, drinking brandy and speaking of arcane matters. But if I do not believe him a fool or a dupe, I must believe that what he did was for the best. Because of him, because of your Crusader, and yes, because of you and your friends, the will of Ammet does not prevail here. Do you truly believe that is not enough?”

The psion’s face was a study in confusion and even, perhaps, shame. Finally Hanen said quietly, “The passion that drives us on is a blessed thing. But we must always take care, lest it ignite our souls and burn us to ash.” A moment of blindness, Klavicus’ voice spoke in her mind.

Psydney roughly shrugged off the demon’s restraining grip, but her fury seemed to have dissipated somewhat. Hanen tried to take her mind from her thoughts. “And Blastir?” he asked. “And the strange staff in the circle of light?”

“After Ammet died, Blastir stood before us a man of years beyond count. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He reached a hand toward the Seed, but before he could reach it he crumbled into dust. The staff was a staff. The circle – the children. They were young adults now. Blastir had executed his plan: while time moved for those within the castle at its usual rate, time outside accelerated, leaping forward far enough for the children to come to our aid. Moving ahead fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years,” Klavicus murmured. “Powerful magic indeed. But if you play with forces like that, they play with you as well. It is no wonder he died.”

Psydney was silent, absorbed in her own thoughts. Fifteen years to resolve a conflict that took seconds. Fifteen years’ more suffering on Oerth. Because of him, or because of us? Hanen and the balor looked at her expectantly, but she shook her head. “That is all. There is no more to tell.”

“What are your plans now?” Klavicus asked.

“I have only a little time, but I want to go to Blasingdell to see Lia. Unless she is here?” she asked Hanen.

The bard was watching her, acute discomfort on his face. ”I have other unfortunate news, I’m afraid. In the time you were gone, Lia died in Blasingdell.” The psi warrior dropped her head between her knees. “She was very, very old,” he said softly. “And the time she spent with Callie made her very happy – happier than she’d been in years.” He didn’t mention that she died after Callie suddenly disappeared; Callie and Aaron and Brin all gone, he presumed, at Blastir’s behest. The offer was extended again, and this time accepted.  

When Psydney raised her head, her expression was impossible to read. ”What is one more death in an ocean of loss?”  

Klavicus grew reflective, and although his words appeared to be a non sequitur she realized they were not. “When I am working on an especially absorbing piece of scholarship, I am in a sense dead to all that is outside it. But far from dead in my mind. They are the anchors of the world. With what thoughts must their minds be engaged!” He added sternly, “Mourn for yourself if you must, but do not mourn for them. Do not deceive yourself: they are lost to you, but I suspect they are not lost to themselves, nor to each other. We can only imagine how this experience will shape them.” He chuckled. “Your children’s children may one day be praying to Mordenkainen.” The demon looked at the setting sun, then at Psydney and the bard. “The hour grows late, and I think with the coming of the little celestial that our consort has remembered her anger. It might be best if we were on our way. Don’t bother to come into the Enclave – I will gather your things and return.” On his way past the Black he locked eyes with the beast; the Black snorted and tossed its head in what looked like a nod of affirmation, but if the two exchanged thoughts the traveler of the Roads never revealed them.

“Where will you go?” Psydney asked after Klavicus left. “Take up traveling once again?”

Hanen grinned wryly. “You haven’t aged a day, little Sister, but time hasn’t been kind to me. I feel the weight of it. Still, real estate in Greyhawk is cheap right now, and I’ve always thought that when time came to retire, I might open a little tavern and inn. At least then stories will still come to me, even if I can’t travel to them.”

“It will be a showpiece of Greyhawk, I’m sure,” she said.

“Will you come with us?” he asked. “At least to the city? We would be glad of your company.”

“I wish that I could,” she replied sorrowfully. “But I must go home. The others have journeys that they wish to make, and the castle must not be unguarded.”

“Home? I have never known you to speak of home.” Hanen studied her face. “Now I understand. You are the guardians, aren’t you? Now that the Pescheour line has failed, you have assumed their mantle. You did pass the test of heroes, and in the end the real reward was truly yours.” Psydney nodded, but instead of pride he saw something closer to tears in her eyes. “Strange as it sounds,” he said gently, “you must hold to the words of the demon. I believe his wisdom. They are not lost, and you must not grieve. Of all things, Crusader would not want that.” He drew his lute from the bag and began to sing quietly. He sang of the fall of the axis mundi, and its rising. He sang of Alain and Garloth. He sang of demons and gods; of Lucius and Sardis, Crusader and Mordenkainen; Bane, Kuhlefaran, Magnus, Serge and Enai. And when he was done, he felt through his being that the best and truest song of his life had been sung.

When he finished, the psion’s gratitude was plain to read, but she scolded, “You know you mustn’t do that again.”

“I know,” he said soberly. “Believe me, I know. But there is one exception I think I must make.” When her eyes registered suspicion, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “When you grow weary again, come to me and I will sing it, just for you.”

She smiled warmly, and called to her Black. I am ready. As she swung onto her horse, she said to the Bard, “Before you retire, you really should visit Lunia. The stars are magnificent, the ocean is warm, and Bahamut has something he’d like to ask you.” Then she turned and, without daring to look back, rode away.