Mnone's Journals

In Frost Square

Leighton fled through the alleys and back streets away from the citadel. Suddenly every corner was a turn in a labyrinth, taking him closer to the sounds of battle. The Outcast troops and their half-breed, mutant allies were streaming into the city now, the Northmen had broken, only their berserkers remained â�“ and those were being slaughtered on the battlefield or in the streets by thoseâ�¦ abominations the Thaumaturgists had built. The militia had surrendered or fled. As evening descended the cramped streets Leighton was forced to take were choked with the smell of gun smoke and the alchemical compounds the Outcasts were using in their chemical-powered repeaters, all tinged, even here, with the copperish reek of blood.

His mind raced, he must escape the city, flee toâ�¦ it didnâ�™t matter where to. Just away. Maybe he could find some of the Northmen, accompany them, seek refugeâ�¦ The thought of the Wyrm-worshippers halted him in his tracks. He looked around and realised he had emerged into what was once Heroesâ�™ Plaza, now Frostâ�™s Square. The Wyrm statue that the Northmen had erected in place of that of General Grey loomed over him. He cursed under his breath â�“ he had been heading south! If anything he was in more danger, though for now the square looked silent, the running battles seemed to have passed through here already, and moved on. A misty pall of smoke floated heavily just over the ground, and the smell of flint and chemicals and blood was even stronger here. Now he looked he could make out dismembered bodies â�“ mostly militia and fanatics; his gut curdled in fear â�“ lying about the place. Discarded weapons lay about, repeaters, flintlocks, swords and halberds and a few of the cruel pole-arms used by the Northerners. Leighton picked his way through the devastation cautiously, trying to stick to the lengthening shadows; the sun had sunk beneath the rooftops, and a sickly crescent moon hung low in the opposite half of the sky.

He began to recite one of the Wyrm prayers heâ�™d picked up; â�œI give thanks the blood of othersâ�™ paves my way. That the weak are culled that the Strong and Cunning may live. Thatâ�¦â� He trailed off, the chant gave him no comfort, and the statue looming over him seemed merely malicious and alien. His forehead creased â�“ the statueâ�¦

His foot clunked against something heavy and metal. It was a chunk of cast iron, veined and scaled, like the flank of some great lizard beast. Its dull metal barely reflected the sparse light. The administrator looked up, eyes bulging, tongue feeling heavy and spongy in his mouth. There was nothing wrong with the statue above him, no imperfections or pieces missing; certainly nothing the size of that chunk that rested against his right foot. It was silvery and deadly beautiful in the evening stillness, silent whilst in the city districts around them the fighting raged sporadically, rifles cracking and throats screaming or shouting.

If anything, it was too perfect.

Its surface reflected the light too brilliantly.

The patina of its weathered metal was gone.

Its eyes were closed. They had been modelled open; the Wyrmâ�™s baleful stare.

Leighton struggled to maintain control of his bowels. His heart hammered against his rib cage, trying to escape. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Tears started to encroach on his vision in the corners of his eyes, all he could see clearly was the bulk of the statue in front of him, its eyes closed as if in slumber.

He reached his hand out slowly, noticing how the fingers trembled and shook. He needed to touch the monument, make sure it was really dead metal, that it wasnâ�™t some demon. Or that, hope upon hope, it was a hallucination, some phantasm of the mind.

The eyes slid open, gazing directly into Leightonâ�™s own. They washed over him, illuminated from within by a green-blue-white light, cold and unfeeling. All the man could see were those two shining orbs. He thought he heard a scream, shrill with fear, and realised it had come from his own mouth. An impact against his backside alerted him to the fact that he had tried to back away, and had fallen. Nothing existed except for the statueâ�™s unceasing gaze, its mouth of grinning, sharp teeth.

The statue stepped forward, sinewy and lithe. It flowed off of its pedestal and advanced on Leighton.

Mercyyr, former vassal to Tethys, newly of the First metal elementals, stepped forward. His quicksilver body reformed itself as he moved, forming two, smaller legs, a more human head, arms, a torso, hands, feet (not claws) and a human mouth. On a whim he retained the sharp teeth, scaled down to fit into his human mouth. His smile remained fixed, his eyes still gazed, shining green-blue-white, at the small man before him. He stood there, a picture of mortal perfection in brilliant metal, naked and calm. His face was finely shaped, his body had the appearance of being well muscled. Yet there was no texture. When the human looked at him all he saw were his own reflection and that of the desolated square behind him, distorted by the creatureâ�™s physique.

â�œAreâ�¦ Are you the Ormr?â� The man stammered.

Mercyyr laughed deeply, yet with a whispering after-note. As he spoke, his voice was something like silk falling lightly over a blade, or the rush of the sea in the distance. â�œNo, mortal, I am not your adopted god. I am no-oneâ�™s god.â�

â�œPlease!â� Pleaded Leighton. â�œPlease, Iâ�™ll serve you, give you whatever you want!â�

Mercyyr laughed again, not unkindly. â�œAnd what do you think you could do for me? Or offer me?â� He asked. He shook his head. â�œNo, I have seen what you and yours have done to this city. My allies and I have come to extirpate the sickness you represent. I do not pretend to understand the workings of your mortal mind, but I can see that it, and your soul, are diseased, twisted. The creature you serve, or aided in your own self-interest, will bring only suffering. To all sentient things. I cannot let you live.â�

Leighton shrieked and tried to run. He heaved himself up and around, skittering away towards the nearest alley. He slipped on blood and viscera as he fled, nearly tripped several times on bodies or rubble or equipment. Suddenly he fell, landing face down. It was too sudden to fling out his hands and break his fall. His jaw cracked hard against the cobbles, he felt more than one tooth chip, tasted blood. Then he was being dragged backwards, across rough cobbles and a body or two. He felt himself hoisted up into the air, dangling upside down from a large, metallic fist. The quicksilver man had grown, standing over ten feet tall, bulked out correspondingly and significantly less human. His mouth was still filled with sharp, carnivorous teeth, but the smile was more mournful.

â�œI never like killing dumb animals.â� Mercyyr said, as his other fist closed over Leightonâ�™s skull.

Confrontation.

Didn't know where to stop this, so I just cut it off at the end of a paragraph.

It was hot. Too hot. Humidity choked the streets and even the markets worked at a lethargic pace as the vendors and buyers both struggled to move in the sizzling air. Cisterns were rapidly drying, and the stones of the city were burning to the touch. Dogs, cats and horses stood or lay panting, licking at their own foam-flecked lips. The fine gentlemen sweltered in their regalia, lowering themselves to opening their jackets, and their delicate wives and consorts fanned themselves in the shade. The citizenry cooled themselves in their cellars or under the trees of the public parks. Those in the taverns stuck to sipping ale or water, forsaking the uncomfortable warmth of the spirits.

Cairn pulled the hand towel out of the copper basin, sopping wet with cold water, and held it over his face. Staring at the insides of his eyelids he could almost forget the abominable heat and the accompanying stickiness.

There was a banging on his door. What now? He thought.

â�œSir?â� Said the intruder when his noise failed to generate a response.

â�œYes, damnit, what is it?â�

â�œTrouble down at the college, sir. The Mageâ�™s College, that is.â� The voice was muffled by its travels through the grain of the door.

Cairn swore. â�œPick two squads and tell them to be ready when I get down there. Standard kit.â�

â�œYes, sir.â�

The Commander picked up his tunic and pulled it back on, buckled his breastplate over it and gathered his equipment from the shelf.

The troops were still pulling themselves together as he entered the barracks courtyard. They checked repeaters, tightened boots, tested the fit of their padded jerkins and brass-coloured armour. Cairnâ�™s lieutenant saluted as he approached.

â�œWhat is this Wright? Why canâ�™t the militia handle it?â�

â�œItâ�™s a bit out of the militiaâ�™s remit, sir.â� Said his second in command. â�œItâ�™s not some cult or church complaining about bad joo-joo this time, the mages themselves are fighting.â�

â�œSo what? Theyâ�™re always arguing.â�

â�œWith respect, sir, this aint no duel between the adepts, nor a debate getting a little â�˜heatedâ�™. Thereâ�™s fireballs flying out of windows, yelling. The people around the area are scared.â�

Another muttered obscenity. â�œIâ�™d be scared if I lived near those lunatics. OK, letâ�™s get moving.â�

The squads moved through the streets at a brisk pace, drawing stares from the people in the markets and along the thoroughfares. People hurried out of their way as the clanking troop moved through, weapons at the ready, sweating in their cuirasses and heavy jerkins. Cairn moved ahead with his lieutenant, helmet in his right hand, left hand resting on his rapier.

Pedestrians stood silent at the conspicuous passage of a fully armed detachment of the cityâ�™s men. Even one of the burly Capra, come to the market specially to hawk his wares, stopped his bellowing and observed through softly curious eyes. The crowds grew thinner as they made their way nearer the spire on the south side of the metropolis â�“ the magesâ�™ tower â�“ a vast edifice of stone which towered above even the Citadel of Governors, though with a far less central location. It was not long before the soldiery noticed the visible movement of people in the opposite direction, and several streets away from the edifice they became aware of why.

The air tasted coppery, like warm blood, and shimmered in ways that heat could not be responsible for. The mindsâ�™ of angry mages nearby were making the colours of the streets warp and writhe. Lines became sharper or duller, shapes grew more or less well defined, and the light seemed to drain some hues and imbue others with an increased vivacity. Cairn shook his head in a futile attempt to dislodge the buzzing noise that filled his ears. Ahead the grand entrance to the Mageâ�™s College loomed, imposing and regal (if somewhat gaudy, thought Cairn). A robed adept, wearing a sash that seemed to denote he was of some mid-level grade though the riflemenâ�™s commander couldnâ�™t be sure, rushed to meet them.

â�œInside,â� he said, clearly agitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and cracking his knuckles. â�œSomethingâ�™s gone horribly wrong.â�

Cairn and Wright exchanged glances. â�œWe canâ�™t help with magical matters, surely you must haveâ�¦â�

The mage interrupted him, â�œApologies, I meant with the meeting; they just started arguing. We were to have a discussion, some our colleagues were unveiling their latest project andâ�¦ well, it was rather controversial.â�

â�œCan they not just calm down and talk about it sanely, withoutâ�¦â� Cairn gestured vaguely at their surroundings. â�œAll the magic.â� He finished lamely.

The mage bit his lip and looked edgy. â�œThatâ�™s part of the problem. Once they argued their emotions let the power slip, the power stirred up all sorts of energies which just made them more irrational, and it kind of turned into a vicious circle.â�

â�œAnd you?â� Asked Wright.

Once again the adept look nervous and his face flushed slightly. â�œI was out of the hall at the beginning of the argument. I had toâ�¦ excuse myself.â�

Cairn raised an eyebrow but refrained from commenting.

â�œLook, someone needs to restore order before a rift opens to the Aether.â�

â�œHow do you suggest we go about doing that? If I or any of my men walk in there weâ�™ll be fried.â� Cairn thought of the current weather for a second. â�œIn the literal sense.â� He qualified.

The adept bit his lip. â�œYou just have to break the circle, break their concentration from what theyâ�™re thinking about.â�

â�œIn short, get a bunch of angry mageâ�™s to focus on me.â�

An embarrassed cough. â�œIt is somewhat risky, yes.â�

â�œWhy not you?â� Asked the commander simply.

â�œIâ�™dâ�¦ rather not go in there. Thereâ�™s a kind of critical mass building up in there, a practitionerâ�™s mind would be overwhelmed and get sucked in. Iâ�™d not be able to stay focused long enough to attract their attention.â�

Wright cut in, â�œWe ought to go in then, sir. A couple of rifle shots into the air might snap them out of it. Usually works with the drunks on a Saturday night.â�

Cairnâ�™s expression soured. â�œAnd if it doesnâ�™t? What then lieutenant?â�

â�œA couple of shots into the ones making the most noise ought to do it then, sir. Get the otherâ�™s listening to us at least.â�

The mageâ�™s face blanched and his jaw opened and closed like that of a fish. â�œIâ�¦ Iâ�™m sure that wonâ�™t be necessary.â� He stuttered. â�œJust get their minds away from whatâ�™s making them angry and start talking right away, get them to focus on you. They should be able to calm themselves down then.â�

Cairn grunted and drew his pistol, a repeating wheellock of the latest design. He checked the column of firing chambers, making sure they would ratchet smoothly and didnâ�™t jam, and that each was loaded and packed. With a word he gestured for his squad to follow. As he stepped on to the first step leading to the great entrance of the College a hissing and somewhat wet sound caught his attention and he turned to see something like a malevolently green ball made of tangled, ethereal snakes emerge through a window a few feet away. The glass didnâ�™t simply break, but seemed to erupt from its frame in a fountain of glowing liquid that instantly cooled so that a cylindrical flower of slickly melted glass emerged from the stone walls of the College. Several of his men stepped back and even Cairn felt himself swallow hard, his eyes wide.

â�œMages. I hate mages.â� He muttered, as he walked forwards.

A short passage with a porterâ�™s office led directly to the grand hall â�“ placed near the entrance so that on exhibition days and public debates the proles wouldnâ�™t have an opportunity to poke around, even the Collegeâ�™s noble patrons were tacitly discouraged from becoming too interested in its affairs. The grand hall of the Mages College was immense. The arched ceiling stretched so high that it could easily have accommodated one of the town houses in the surrounding neighbourhood; it was said that a giant wouldnâ�™t even scrape his head on the ceiling. Baroque chandeliers hung from heavy, oil-blacked chains that disappeared into holes in the ceiling. It was said that when needed the candles they held were ignited by the pupils of the College. The hall was octagonal, the four sides that bordered the street outside had oval stained glass windows starting at head height and stretching all the way to where the wall met the ceiling. Each held a stylised representation of one of the four seasons, with winter being towards the eastern side to meet the sun, and winter towards the west to catch the sunset. The passage from the outside entered from due south, at the intersection between spring and summer. Summerâ�™s window had been blasted and blown out about a foot from the base where the furious green orb had emerged; the stained glass around the hole was discoloured though not soot-blackened. In the four other walls were tall wooden doors leading deeper into the College. Above these doors were large niches with statues of the founding mages stood in them. The old stone men scowled down disapprovingly into the centre of the room. Columns stood at the intersections between the walls, each carved into various shapes that merged with the arches of the ceiling. One was made to look like an enormous tree, its branches turning into the arches at its summit. Another was carved to look like the stones and battlements of a castle. Still another looked like the twisted and thorned branches of a briar, and its neighbour resembled a bundle of chains which split at the summit where individual chains merged into the supporting arches. The entrance came out at the base of one of these columns, which bulged out and started just above the archway. This column was smooth except for the names of great and celebrated mages from history. Even given the long history of the city and the Mageâ�™s College itself the names still only barely reached a sixth of the way up.

Usually the grand hall was a solemn and quiet place, well lit from the enormous windows. Now it was a tumult of raised voices and rabid arguments. As Cairn and his men entered the room, coming up a few more stairs from the half-landing of the porterâ�™s lodge, they realised that part of the background noise was not merely the shouts of angry mages. A multi-voiced humming and buzzing sound underscored the furore, the vibrations of the Aether roused by the emotions of the magical minds present. The power being drawn without an outlet was causing a pressure that even Cairn could feel. By the looks on his soldiersâ�™ faces they could too. Though the hall usually had the light, airy, if somewhat sterile feel of all large public spaces, it was now plagued by shadow. Greyness seemed to have descended over everything. Colours were drained and dulled, deep pools of darkness lurked in corners and under chairs. Wright nudged his commander and gestured up at the statues on the walls opposite. The shadows behind them were the darkest in the room, and Cairn thought he saw movement behind them, as though there were creatures of some kind peering clandestinely from behind the chiselled robes of the looming stone adepts.

Man vs. Happy Seal