The rain was certainly an interesting change to the normal, usually unchanging weather of the dream realms, Dream had to admit. Another added advantage was that it was not a cold rain, nor was it a hot, tropical deluge. Lightning lanced across the sky, followed a few moments later by a heavy, rolling rumble of thunder. He danced and twirled, his wet fur spraying water as he moved, a bright smile splitting the brown fur of his muzzle. He danced without accompaniment. He danced for an audience of one, a spirit without true flesh, who by her own admission passed from the mortal world before Dream's ancestors had placed one stone of what had been the castle of the dancer's birth.
He wove through his forms in silence, his arms thrown into the intricate patterns of the dance, clad only in his rain wet fur. He danced for that one, present only in this realm, of dreams, where he walked as an awakened mind where few others in history ever could without resorting to powerful magic.
She was his love, the truest companion of his soul. Had she been mortal she would have born his children. She already had his dedication, a loyalty and devotion so strong it was nearly a faith, akin to worship. His dedication to the Mistress of Dreams, Nocturna, was a grace he granted only because of his particular talents, which allowed him to recognize the dream lands for what they were. His true faith was in his Love.
Lightning flashed and thunder growled, sketching Mosha in stark shadows, her lithe form stretched out upon the stone lintel of an ancient ruin, her back resting against the massive girth of a marble pillar. The rain did not touch where she reclined, sheeting from the tiled roof above to either side of the terrazzo square in which Dream danced. One of her slender feet tapped to unheard music in time with his movements, the lush fullness of her tail draped across her hip like a lazy serpent. She stroked her own tail with one hand as if petting a cat, slitted eyes watching him with admiring pleasure.
But her expression changed.
Dream noticed almost instantly as she sat bolt upright, her gaze looking off into the rain dark, rain obscured forest which surrounded the old ruin. His dance faltered to a stop as he cast a glance into the forest, then back to Mosha.
"Love?" he asked, gliding over to her swiftly, the fur of his hackles rising despite the heavy weight of the water coursing from his coat.
"There is evil here, Love." Mosha hissed, grasping his proffered hand as she stood, "Not far."
Dream nodded, his face grim as a slender sword appeared in his free hand, forged metal draping his form as he turned to follow the vulpine silhouette of his lover. Girded for battle, he prepared to meet whatever danger she sensed. Creatures whose entire existence was limited to the dream realms could sense such creatures, an aspect of the realms that helped keep the dreams of one from spilling over into the dreams of another. Beasts, nebulous creatures that defied definition, sustained themselves upon the spiritual energies released when a sleeper dreamt. Most were benign, but there were often incidents of other creatures, less neutral, that spilled from the astral realms which lay close at the limits of the dream realms. These malevolent entities wrought havoc upon dreamers and dream realm creatures alike, and could only be banished by a mere handful of mechanisms.
Natural atrification, letting the creature age and die as defined by its mortal nature, was the most common as the larger number of astral beasts were little danger overall. Summoning was another, though not by the design. Mortal wizards often drew creatures from the dream realms to do their bidding when creatures from Lilith's realm were too dangerous. The latter two were much more rare, as those who could use them were rare. One was Nocturna's direct intervention, which was only for the most hellish of monstrosities. The last required mortal warriors who could walk the dream realms free of the constraints of dreaming.
Dream, while not of the few bloodlines dedicated to that path, was one such. He was an exception so rare as to be very near unique, his family line had never before sired a dream walker. That was both an advantage, as those who sought to destroy dream walkers as demon-touched heretics, only targeted known bloodlines, and a disadvantage, for he was not granted the formal training such bloodlines received concerning dream realm combat.
His knowledge as gained in fits and starts, supplied in the mortal realms by tutors hired by his sire, the late Baron Sutt, and in the Dream realms by those like Mosha; mortal souls passed long ago from the realms of the living. His weaponry was as nebulous as anything else in the realms, but the will that drove it was the true power of the weapons and armour. His will, a mortal power that was the only device on the dream realms capable of doing battle with dangers that plagued the dreams of mortal beings.
"What is this danger, Mosha?" he asked aside to her as he forged ahead, following the path which seemed to appear only moments before he set foot upon it.
"Magic, death magic." The vixen growled as she placed one hand upon his shoulder to keep pace, his tail swatting at the fur of her stomach as he trotted down the path. "Here!" she barked abruptly as they stepped from the forest and into a church as if through the very wall of the building.
Dream drew up short with a startled yelp as he came face to face with an unexpected scene, his blood flashing cold through him as recognition dawned. The chapel was known to him, he had seen it on a few occasions when he was invited to join impromptu choirs. The woman standing in the center of the chapel was also known to him, intimately known. Despair clutched at his heart as Llyn looked up at him, brilliant gleams of hellish orange flaring in her eyes as she withdrew her sword from the chest of Metamor Keep's own Father Hough, who lay inert at her feet.
Behind her, shadowed forms writhed and shrieked silently, a pillar of moving darkness that writhed with unutterable agonies.
"Llyn? What have you done?" Dream choked, his sword faltering, lowering as he looked from the unmoving child priest to the one female he had often considered a true prospect for mortal love. He motioned toward Hough with the tip of his sword, "You've slain him!"
Llyn awoke with a start, a gasp escaping her throat as she staggered back, eyes looking about in sudden horror. Her back fetched up against cold stone as she looked down, seeing a young child at her feet, blood already darkening the fabric of his shirt. It was not Father Hough as Dream had said, but it was by her hand that he lay upon the cold stone of the castle wall, his life welling from his flesh.
Horrified realization raced through her as she looked upon the face of the child, his eyes staring sightlessly into the night sky. She had thought he was Father Hough! Somehow, for some reason, she had tried to kill him! Had she succeeded? Was this her first victim, or the last in a whole host of them she had slain unknowing?
Spinning about, she charged along the wall, darting through the open door of the nearby watchtower and down the stairs within as fast as her paws would carry her. Blood roared in her ears, throbbing at her temples as breath burned her throat which grew ever tighter with terrified anxiety that she had somehow committed the unspeakable.
She was deaf to the anguished howl that erupted into the night behind her, heedless of aught but her destination.
She found the chapel within only a few minutes, her path amazingly direct as she charged down dim corridors lit only with intermittent torches and the occasional witchlight. The two guards standing at the chapel doors had barely enough time to realize that the creature charging toward them was armed before she was upon them. The first fell immediately, caught by a hilt in the temple. The other managed to bring his short pike around and parry the first stroke of her sword, but fell as she leaned into the stroke, swinging the butt of her sword inside and hammering his chest. Breathless, he staggered back, then fell as she cracked him between his eyes with the pommel of her sword.
Heaving the door open, she charged through the vestibule into the chapel itself, startling a young acolyte in the process of polishing one of the pews. "Father Hough!" she screamed, her voice echoing hollowly from the walls. Her wild gaze found the acolyte, her sword waving at him dangerously, "I must see Father Hough, where is he?"
quot;His chambers!" The young human cried, cowering against the end of the pew, warding himself with an oily rag.
"Is he well?!" she demanded, yanking him to his feet with her free hand, "See that he is well!" she bellowed, shoving him toward the back of the chapel. He stumbled, nearly falling as he tried to run down the aisle. The mink followed close behind, her ragged, snarling breathing spurring the young man to further haste, but she did not pursue past the altar as the door behind the offertory table opened.
Rescartes sat up more alertly in his chair as he watched the guards fall before the viscious onslaught of his minion, a sinister leer pulling at his lips. "Nuia, inform Votik and his cohort to be ready within the portal chamber." He barked, throwing one hand out toward his lover to emphasize his demand, leaning closer to the scrying mirror as the chapel appeared, "Have someone summon commander Lor and the master of the menagerie, immediately."
Momentarily affronted at his harsh demand, Nuia sat up on her lounge and looked across at her mortal lover, dark eyes narrowed until she saw the look on his face. She knew at that moment that his goals were about to be realized, and he was going to be putting a good deal of effort into making sure they come about. Standing up, she draped a robe over her nakedness, cinching it tightly as she crossed to the bell cords along the wall near the door.
Those would suffice to summon enough pages to suit her needs, so she leaned against the doorframe and watched her mate of five centuries. It seemed like such a petty goal, to see the assassination of a mere parish priest, but when it was a strike against Metamor she had to admit that it was a worthy goal.
"Send Lor to the lower portal chamber with Gherman and Votik." Rescartes continued as he rested his elbows upon the edge of his massive desk, staring fixedly at the images in his mirror.
He was going beyond a mere assassination, she knew at that point. He was going to try to do as much damage as he could before the Keep's defenders overwhelmed his forces. That he would so willingly sacrifice his pupils made the vampiress smile with cold pleasure, knowing that each death would glorify Lilith.
Rick looked up abruptly as a movement caught his eye from an unexpected angle. His momentary confusion was replaced with cold resolve as he recognized Kyia emerging from the wall of his chambers, her own expression hard.
"Where?" he asked simply as he set the book he had been reading aside. He was already prepared for the spirit's call, girded in his black leather armour. His twin swords rested in their scabbards against the chair in which he sat, rings on them ready to be snapped into place when he needed them.
"She has gone to the Follower Chapel." Kyia muttered darkly as he gave him a curt not, recognizing his preparedness. Rick's eyebrows shot up at that revelation, for it was perhaps the last place he would have expected anyone to retreat to. "She took another victim upon the walls before I was able to expel her, and retreated back within immediately after."
Rick did not bother to question why the enemy had ended up where she had, he merely snatched up his weapons and headed for the door without another word.
Muri, likewise prepared, was deep in a meditative trance, his senses tuned to the powerful ocean of coruscating energies of the keep's magic, seeking any convolutions within that flow that might reveal the presence of the enemy surfacing once more. While his eyes and touch was attuned to those energies, his ears were still alert to the world around him. Not that he particularly expected that any danger might come upon him while he was deep within the floes, but there was the chance that word of the enemy would arrive before he sensed it.
Which was indeed the case, the heavy crash against his chamber door dropping him back to reality with a hiss of startled ire. Unfolding his legs, he surged out of his chair and crossed his chamber, jerking the door open even as the person outside raised the vase in his hands to hammer the door once more. The window beyond looked out at darkness, stars glimmering mutely above the dimly lit, ghostly glow of the distant mountaintops.
"Dream, why the vase?" he chuffed, scowling at the slender marten outside his door. For once not bedecked in a foppish cavalcade of clashing hues, the look on the marten's muzzle stole the force behind the end of Muri 's question.
"You were not answering the knocker or my sword." He marten growled in exasperation as he cast the vase aside, heedless as it shattered upon the marble floor, "Joy Llyn is in great danger."
That caught Muri up immediately, his heart skipping a beat as he felt his legs go weak, his jaw dropping in shock, "How?" he snapped as he shoved Dream aside and charged for the stairwell.
"She killed the follower priest!" Dream yelled as he regained his balance and darted after the skunk, whose uncinched robes flowed behind him as he half fell, half charged down the winding staircase. Muri's shoulder slammed the outer wall as he heard the Marten's words, looking back over his other shoulder in startlement.
"She what?!?"
"I think she killed the follower priest. I saw her… never mind, I think there is some sort of magic that has her in its thrall." Dream gasped as he nearly collided with the unbalanced skunk, catching his shoulder and a sconce before they both toppled down the stair. Muzzle to muzzle, Muri's look of panic mirrored Dream's breathless horror.
"Where is she now?" the skunk choked as he lurched away from the wall and resumed his descent.
"I don't know!"
"What by Artela's blood do you mean you don't know!? You just told me she's tried to or even killed Hough, and you don't know where she is??" Muri howled up at him, spinning about in the corridor below as he surged from the bottom of the staircase.
"I saw it in her dreams, skunk! I did not see where she was beyond her dreams, but I know that she's got some pretty nasty darkness riding her shoulder that I can't even begin to touch." Dream shot back as he looked up and down the corridor before starting to his left and charging down the hallway. Muri quickly took up the chase, his tail stretched out straight behind him, the fur bushed with his agitation. The thought that Llyn might be the very soul thief left Muri feeling agonizingly empty. "But if she thinks she's killed this priest in her dreams she might try to find out if its true or not."
"The chapel!"
"My thinking too."
"Give me your sword, quickly!" Muri demanded as he caught up to the marten, his longer legs giving him the advantage of speed. Dream spared him a brief sidelong glance before snapping out a blade and proffering it hilt first. Not missing a stride, the skunk caught the hilt. Reaching a heavy oaken door, they both stopped for a moment as Muri scratched at the metal of the blade.
"What the hell are you doing?" Dream rasped, his ears backing at the shrill screaming coming from the contact of claw and metal.
"If she has a magic weapon you'll need one to face it with." Murikeer growled as he clawed several individual, distinct glyphs into the metal, "This is pretty temporary, but should suffice to enchant the sword long enough. Give me your other one." Dream traded blades with a nod, frowning at the shallow scratches in the otherwise smooth perfection of his valued blade. He grimaced as the skunk performed the same desecration upon his second weapon, but complied, for Llyn's sake.
Handing back the second sword, Muri shoved the door open and passed into the corridor beyond, "We must try to subdue her without much harm if she is under some malign domination." The skunk explained as they ran down the corridor at a full sprint, Dream taking two steps for each loping stride of the longer legged skunk. Neither wanted to put voice to the actions they would need to take if she were not under an unknown domination, but acting of her own free will.
Such thoughts left both of them feeling terribly ill.
The yelling and crashing in the Chapel brought Hough out of his contemplation of a particularly poorly translated passage of the canticles, four books spread before him upon his desk as he tried to ken the true meaning of the original text. He looked up with a frown as he heard someone yelling his name beyond his chamber door, prompting him to investigate. Smoothing his cassock, he crossed to the door and opened it slowly, stepping out before realizing exactly what scene he was walking into.
After all, he was little expecting to find a sword-wielding follower rampaging about among the pews. He let out a startled gasp when he discovered one such standing at the altar, her confused, unkempt stare leveling upon him. That she was also clad in nothing more than her own fur was an additional unexpected revelation.
"Llyn, child, put down that sword!" he commanded in his most demanding voice, which was an immature soprano.
"Father, thank Eli you are well." Llyn gasped, tears welling abruptly in her eyes as she ran toward him. He backed away swiftly as Ramad, the acolyte he had tasked with polishing the pews, cried out. Llyn staggered to a halt, a pained look of fear chasing across her animalistic features, countenance falling.
"Llyn, I insist that you lay aside your weapon and please gather your wits." He scolded, though without venom in his piping voice, looking pointedly at the sword grasped tightly in her right hand. Evil looking violet lettering climbed up the center groove of the double-edged blade, glowing with a sickening shimmer, like a mirage masking a rotting corpse.
The priest quailed, cowering back as the mink's normally compassionate brown eyes flared with an evil orange flame, her expression hardening as her defeated posture stiffened into a battle ready stance. The sword lifted slightly, the tip quivering as she advanced a step. then fell back three, the tip of the sword crashing down and striking the marble of the altar steps with a protesting metallic shriek. Hough was swift to put a slender stone pillar of candles between himself and the nude, bloodthirsty mink, clutching at the tree around his neck as he found himself staring fearfully into those sinister orange eyes.
"Father. I cannot!" she cried out, her voice cracking between anguished wail and angry growl, "Come here and die!" She clutched the hilt of the sword in both hands, the muscles of her neck and shoulders cording as she fought to hold the blade of the sword down. Her head snapped forward abruptly, her body staggering out of balance as a heavy white candle caromed from the back of her head, skittering across the floor as she gathered herself back up.
"Get out, Father!" Ramad cried as he snatched up another candle and heaved it at the mink. Prepared for the off side attack, she dodged easily, batting aside a third with the sword, molten wax spraying across the altar despite the fact that the candle had not been lit. She charged the acolyte, who retreated with a startled cry, toppling a candle rack across the enraged mink's path.
"Do not shed blood in the house of Eli!" Hough bellowed as loudly as he could, his voice cracking in a childish shriek, but Llyn fetched up short at the words nonetheless, spinning about, the tip of her weapon wavering.
"Run father die father." The mink yammered gibberish as she shook her head violently, staggering forward and throwing herself back as if caught between two teams of carriage horses.
"Llyn, child, get yourself together and put down that sword." Hough demanded again, remaining as far as he could from her while still staying within sight. He knew that whatever demon tortured her wanted his blood, not the blood of his acolyte, so while he was still able he would keep her attention focused upon him. He just hoped that help was not far away.
The chapel doors were thrust open at that moment, half a dozen members of the watch charging in with their swords drawn, battle cries shrill in their many voices. Four made for the mink immediately, swords at the ready, shields to the front. Two darted to one side, circling around toward Hough.
"Get out, Father." The elder of the two demanded urgently, waving for the child priest to escape through the open doors, but Hough shook his head vehemently.
"She's after me, sergeant. So long as she can see me she'll stay right here." He explained as the four soldiers circled around her before the altar.
Moving with startling speed, she struck at the nearest two of the guards, who snapped up their shields in a futile effort to block the blinding slashes of the mink's sword. The top of one shield toppled, the guard leaping back with a startled yelp. The other managed to turn aside the attack, which left a slice through the iron-banded wood as neatly as a woodcutter's saw. Taking their opening, the other two leaped in, their swords aiming for disarming strokes at the mink's shoulder and wrist.
One sword shattered, the parrying stroke of Llyn's blade naught but a fan of violet light left in its wake, the second sailing high over its wielder, clattering somewhere to the floor near the back pews. Someone cursed as the soldiers backpedaled, leaving the mink alone in the center of the chapel. One, who still had her sword and most of her shield, joined the two watching over Hough while the other three picked up what they could to keep the mink busy. A candle rod, a handful of hymnal texts, and a single sword were pressed into service as they traded feints to keep her focus.
None of them took notice as the acolyte, Ramad, escaped through the open doors.
The handful of Lightbringer acolytes working in the temple looked up with some surprise as a young human garbed in the smock of a Wayist acolyte ran into their midst, disturbing their evening rites, and thrust open the door to Raven's private offices without a pause. One rose to question the intrusion, but was unable to utter a single word before the acolyte was out of sight.
Within her office, Raven looked up as the door opened in a rush, raising an eyebrow in some concern as she found herself looking across her desk at a breathless young Follower. It was not a face she was unfamiliar with, for he had spoken to him at some length the year before, as a female not yet touched by the curse which would claim him shortly after, concerning the needs and rites needed to enter her own flock.
"Ramad, what is it that brings you with such horror into my private chambers?" she asked gently, setting aside her quill. She had to study her expression carefully; for she knew that even in good humor her lupine visage could be quite disconcerting to others.
"There's a mink in the chapel with a magic sword, mistress Raven." The young man gasped, gulping air as he leaned upon the back of one of the chairs before her desk. The statement brought both of the wolf's eyebrows up as she rose from her seat, the fur of her hackles rising under her robes. "She's attacking Father Hough!"
Without another word Raven reached over and picked up her god-touched sword where it stood at the end of her desk in its scabbard. Without bothering to nestle it in the sash of her robes, she strode from the office, past the gathered five at the altar, and left the temple. None of the five rose or so much as moved, their faces going pale at the expression of hard rage rippling the Lothanasa's lupine muzzle. The Wayist acolyte emerged a few moments later, breathless and pale, but looking determined as he trailed in the angered wolf's wake.
Rescartes snarled and grasped the edge of his desk as he muttered vile oaths at his minion, jabbing repeatedly at her will, urging her to strike the priest swiftly and be done with her task. But she defeated his demands each time, her resolute will was too much even for the magic of his sword to overcome. What was it that allowed her such formidable resolve he could guess, for she stood within the house of the priest's annoying One Father, within the priest's own house, and the house of the minion's chosen faith.
It was a great annoyance to him, but it was not a barrier he had not prepared for. Even as he regarded the futile exchange between the mink and three harrying guards he had his own forces standing by for his next command. In the scrying image he saw one of those guards hurl a very impromptu weapon, a hymnal, which struck his minion a stunning blow against the side of her head.
"Is Votik prepared?" he asked without looking up. Sitting alone in the far corner of Rescarte's private chambers, another mage was bowed over a large wooden scrying bowl nestled in his lap. What he saw within the depths of the dark oil in the bowl was for his eyes alone, but his response to the question was swift enough though he did not look up.
"Yes, lord." Fylmar reported smoothly, "The portal is open and stable."
Rescartes looked back to his view of the chamber, which had stilled and withdrawn a distance from his minion as the magic of the portal was anchored. He could see the terminus of the portal only as a disturbance, like a haze of summer heat, in the center of the chapel. The guards, still harrying his puppet, had moved away from the shimmering with haste. "Begin." He intoned flatly with a negligent flick of his fingers, leaning back into the depths of his throne like chair. "Nuia, who remains within the dungeon?"
Nuia, leaning indolently against the front of his desk watching the younger mage with a thoughtful expression on her beautiful face, blinked once as she was addressed. "A handful of lutin thieves and three giants." She replied levelly, her expression curious. Rubbing his chin, Rescartes nodded as the first of the Votik's automata surged through the portal.
"Arm them and have them sent through as well while German gets his beasts prepared."
"Sire?" she asked, the corners of her sensuous mouth turning down in a frown. The dungeons were her private larder. Emptying them would leave her with little to sustain herself unless she hunted among the free creatures. While she cared nothing for her prey, nor feared any armed resistance, she knew that hunting among them was most disruptive to the operations of Lik and the productivity of the mines.
"I am issuing the order now, Lord." Fylmar replied at the same moment, waving one hand in an intricate gesture.
"Dissidents and thieves are of little worth, Nuia my dear. Their deaths are assured regardless." Rescartes shrugged, steepling his fingers before his chin as he watched the scene within the chapel unfold, "At least now they will shed Metamoran blood in their last moments."
With a petulant frown and a sigh, Nuia turned her attention back toward Fylmar. The human resolutely refused to look up from his scrying bowl, knowing what he would see in her ageless eyes.
Rickkter bounded down the dark stairwell three steps at a stride, buckling on his weapons as he ran. He caromed off the outside wall at each turn, striking the hard stone with his shoulder rather than slow. Reaching the bottom of the stairs he skidded upon the smooth floor of the corridor, coming to a stop facing the vaulted carven doors of the Follower chapel entry. He could hear the chaos of battle beyond the heavy iron-banded wooden doors.
With a snarl he drew his katana and ran for the entry, one massive leaf of the double doors swinging open even as he neared. Within the vestibule he encountered a pair of patchwork lutins, their pallid, dead flesh covered with glyphs and wards. Dead black eyes bored into him as they surged forward, one with a sword and the other with a spear. While surprisingly swift, they were uncoordinated. The first stroke of the sword came across in a savage swing almost five feet short, its wielder continuing its headlong charge forward even as it reversed its haphazard swing. Rickter easily parried the return stroke with a negligent sweep of his sword, knocking the weapon free of the undead lutin's grasp.
His eyes spared the lutin golems only the most cursory examinations, quickly calculating the threat they posed. Other than being dead and animated by magic they were no more than they seemed. His reflexes took up the remainder of his consideration, answering their attacks almost independent of his thoughts, his attention diverting toward the more broad situation at hand. A snap of his wrist sliced the shaft of the spear thrust at him and removed the lead lutins head without slowing. The undead lutin staggered back, headless but still mobile, while Rick shifted his sword to a double-handed grip and clove the spear wielder from right shoulder to left hip.
A handful of Metamor guards were fighting desperately against a mob of a dozen animated lutin corpses, the golems too uncoordinated to successfully overwhelm them. To one side of the altar stood Hough, protected only by two guards, wearing only his night clothes. It struck Rick as very odd that Hough was paying little heed to the swarm of undead. Instead, he was watching Murikeer's female acquaintance, Llyn, who stood at the far side of the altar dais with a brilliantly glowing shortsword in her grasp. She was unclothed, her body locked in a posture of rigid torture as if in the thrall of a mad puppeteer.
The sword, Rick knew without further examination, was the source of her agonized turmoil. It pulsed and flickered with dark magic, elder glyphs shining brightly down the length of the blade. That was the Drinker, somehow come into her possession, and trying to control her. She was resisting, he could easily see, with every shred of her considerable will. Were the situation less dire Rick would have been impressed.
As it was he had little time for such trivial thoughts. In the center of the chapel another handful of undead, clumsy lutin golems were regurgitated from thin air. These replaced those which the few guards had managed to take down, but Rick new that the shimmering haze of the portal might have scores or hundreds more in reserve.
The guards, even Hough, would manage alone against the uncoordinated golems at least long enough for Rick to destroy the portal.
This all was witnessed, considered, weighed, and decided even as the corpse of the spear wielding lutin was falling. As the two halves crumpled to the floor Rick sidestepped them, thrusting the shambling, headless lutin aside with a negligent kick which sent it sprawling.
The new group of lutins did not, however, blindly join their comrades against the knot of harried guards. Swords held high, the undead pack charged down the aisle toward the altar with a voiceless battle cry.
"Yajit kelya, Yajit Lor!" rent the air behind the raccoon with a howling bellow of terrible rage and wrath. Globes of fire the size of a fist streaked down the center of the chapel with a growling hiss of overheated air. Three of the five burst into flames as the fiery globes smote them in the back. Staggering a few more steps they crumpled and fell, the flames consuming them without so much as blackening the scattered Canticles upon which they fell.
Rickkter did not spare Raven a glance as he worked his way toward the portal, merely thrusting out a hand to direct her toward Hough, then stabbing a finger in Llyn's direction. Upon the altar the two protecting Hough moved forward to meet the remaining two golems, their weapons held high as they tried to watch this new threat and Llyn at the same time. Hough held up a hand and spoke several words which never reached Rick's ears, but the results were immediate. The two golem lutins simply dropped in place and did not stir again.
Miracles of faith not being something which impressed or concerned the raccoon war mage, the displays by Lightbringer and Follower did not draw his attention from his goal. Raising his free hand he hurled a shatter spell at the portal to test its wards. Cracks raced across the floor and splinters erupted from nearby pews like fur, but the portal did not waver. A lutin pulled away from the dozen still mobbing the guards and charged toward the raccoon with its sword drawn back for a mighty swing. The flung dagger which planted itself between the golem's eyes halted its charge in mid stride, rocking it on its heels by sheer force. Regaining its balance it took two more steps and vanished in a fountain of gore as Rick hurled a spell at it with an irritated thrust of one hand.
The distraction removed, Rick looked once more upon the portal, shifting his perception from surface reality to the nebulous web of underlying magic. The portal sprang into view as a shimmering torous of tightly reigned energies. It was like peering down the gullet of a beast, the energies supporting the portal upon its frame coursing up from deep within the center of the magical corridor. The energies sustaining the portal were stemming from the far end, suspended upon a framework created by a local anchor.
That local anchor being supplied by the dark knot of energies burning around the fell sword in Llyn's grasp. A stream of dark, malevolent energies flowed from the sword across the chapel to mingle with the gullet of the portal. Unable to strike at the source of the portal itself, Rick turned his attention upon its vile link to the chapel.
Moving to a median point between the mink, who was so locked in her struggle to maintain herself from attacking Hough she could not move to aid or gainsay him, Rick raised his sword and struck a mighty blow, the magic blade shearing through the stream with a coruscation of shattered energies.
Rescartes cupped his chin in his hand as he watched the Kankoran battle mage at work. He was less than impressed with the clumsy efforts of Votik's automata, but they were managing to keep the chapel guards at bay.
"Instruct the prisoners to wait a few moments." He drawled laconically as the mage's initial attack spell failed to disturb the portal. He knew that eventually the mage would find and attack the anchor thread. With a smile he awaited that occurrence as he reached out a tendril of command and captured his puppet's will once more. If he could not get her to attack the follower priest, perhaps the Kankoran would be a more worthy foe. After all, he had witnessed their previous battle and she had nearly bested the raccoon then.
With a smile he leaned forward to watch as the Raccoon raised his sword to strike the anchor thread, his back to Rescartes' pet.
Running as swiftly as their paws would carry them, Dream and Muri came to an abrupt halt several strides from the chapel doors as a thunderous roar came to their ears, the floor bucking up at them like the back of an unruly horse. They staggered and clutched at the wall as dust filtered down from the stone gabled ceiling high above and looked at each other fearfully.
"That sounded bad." Dream commented as he regained his footing and approached the doors, drawing his swords. Muri merely nodded in agreement as he grasped the door handle and pushed against one of the huge leaves of the chapel door. The fading sound of falling glass and small stones reached their ears as a pall of dust spilled out, briefly obscuring their view. They stood their ground, weapons and spells ready, and waited with fearful anticipation for the dust to clear.
The scene that resolved from the falling dust was one of complete chaos and devastation. Shattered pews were scattered recklessly about, leaving a large circle of empty floor in the middle of the chapel. Toppled statues stared soulfully in random directions, still rocking where they came to rest. Only three people were standing amidst the destruction; Llyn with a sword of glowing violet malevolence clothed only in her fur and a coating of dust, father Hough at the far side of the altar dais from her, and Raven beside him. Others were picking themselves up from the rubble as the two arrivals quietly slipped in.
Rick stood slowly and cast about for his sword as he knocked dust from his robes. Eventually he bent and retrieved it from under a fallen candle rack. Near one back corner a handful of Metamor guards helped each other up as scattered lutin golems in the debris around them began to stir. Looking briefly at each other, the guards let out a raucous battle yell and mobbed the nearest fallen lutin.
"Do not strike at the portal or its anchor." Rick cautioned, coughing, his voice mixed with disgust and surprise as he waved a hand toward the shimmer in the air at the center of the cleared floor. Even as he spoke that shimmer pulsed, flared with a sickly scintillation of hues, and out stepped a giant. Rick backpedaled to avoid a swing of the flanged mace it carried. He stabbed at the giant's arm, but the return swing of the mace sent him dodging before he could connect.
Then suddenly he found himself facing a new foe, one which had sprung into motion and crossed the distance from the altar to face him so swiftly it caught him with his guard directed elsewhere. He cursed and dropped flat to the floor, rolling as the violet spire of the mink's sword drove into the stone where he had landed.
"Ware the mink!" Raven barked even as Rick scrambled to his feet barely swiftly enough to parry a barely perceived slash of that glowing violet blade.
"Llyn, no!" Hough cried out, his voice lost in the chaos and skirl of singing steel. Rick hammered at Llyn's blade, forcing her back a pace, but found himself retreating several as the giant swung above the mink's head, forcing his retreat and putting his offense suddenly on the defense.
"Llyn! Rick!" Murikeer bellowed in sheer terror as his mentor and his lover crossed blades. Dream was already in motion, leaping over shattered pews and into the fray, cutting down a newly arrived lutin in a flash of steel and spray of blood.
"Muri, damn the gods! Get her sword!" Rick ordered as he caught the mink's blade on a downward sweep, blocking it aside and hammering his pommel into the side of her muzzle with such force he felt the shock race painfully up his arm. The mink did not even waver as blood welled from between her lips, her baleful ember gaze boring into him as she shoved him away, enough to get a clear swing, and launched her assault once more. As the mink and raccoon danced blades back and forth across the cleared floor the portal continued do disgorge fresh combatants. Two more giants followed the first, each equipped with a massive steel mace. A half dozen lutins swarmed in around them, their short swords darting like scorpion stings from the shelter of the giants' legs.
Dream seemed to flow across the floor, nicking giant legs and carving lutin arms from shoulders as nonchalantly as if he were dancing. Gliding up to Rick's off side he added his two shorter, tasseled swords to the mix of eastern katana and northern shortsword.
"Mind if I cut in?" he asked jokingly as he batted aside a thrust aimed at Rick's hip. Despite the jovial introduction his face was set and grim, his expression hard. Rick shot him a strange glance as he fell back a pace and struck a swift sweep to shatter the sword of a lutin trying to sneak close. As the lutin fell back with a startled cry he thrust his sword through its chest, ending the lutin's fear with an escalating shriek of terror and pain which ceased with a gurgle. He kicked the lutin free as he ducked under the mighty swing of a giant's mace. As the slower moving giant turned to attempt another swing Rick rolled to Dream's off side and trapped Llyn's sword as she swung at him anew. With her sword momentarily immobile, he uncurled two fingers from the pommel of his sword, pointing them toward her and hissing a very short incant. A bright flash blossomed from the tight embrace of sword against sword, the harsh pop of lightning sizzling the air as the mink's fur briefly stood on end.
"Just get the bitch's sword!" he yelled as he jumped back, dodging a lightning swift slash without parrying and slapping her in the side of the head with the flat of his blade. Her head snapped to the side, her balance wavered, but she did not fall. Static crackles raced through her fur, but the lightning did little apparent good against her rage. Blood trickled from her muzzle and ear, but she refused to back down.
Despite the proximity of the marten and his harrying attack against her weapon, she also refused to strike at him, despite the sharp flashes of agony that speared her mind, ordering her with greater and greater agony to slay the marten. She could not! No matter that the stabbing pains within her mind would be the death of her, she would not raise her sword to Dream. Without him she would have been lost, bereft, alone. Unloved.
"She's after you, raccoon, not me." The marten pointed out as he tried to shoulder between the two. Llyn snarled and tried to dodge around to his near side, moving around to continue her attack against Rick, but the marten was too nimble. Though she was moving far faster, she lacked his pure dexterity of motion in her magic fueled rage. "Get that giant, I'll try to wear her down." He blocked a flickeringly swift stab which she tried to sneak past his defenses, bowing his body away from the keen edge of the blade and thrusting an elbow between the mink's breasts.
As Rick turned to face the giant, Llyn tried to slip past Dream's guard once more, but he moved with a sudden, unexpected maneuver and grappled with her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pinning her arms down, the sword trapped between them. He was nose to nose with her, his dark brown eyes boring into the furious, ember orange glow of her eyes. She struggled against his embrace, swiftly forcing his clasped hands apart, but before she could break free another face was close at hand, one that undid her resistance.
"Muri!" she screamed, her fear and terror momentarily welling up past the dark, sickening control of the sword, banishing the fiery gleam from her eyes as her knees suddenly became weak. Dream went from trying to contain her to trying to hold her up as the vile heat of the sword burned against his breast. "Muri, help me!" she cried out, blood stained tears spilling from her eyes as she struggled to escape Dream's embrace.
Muri grasped her shoulder with a firm hand, leaning close, his whiskers touching her battered muzzle as he met her terrified gaze, "You have to loose the sword, Love." He said, trying to keep his voice as calm as he might. His free hand, held at his back, shimmered with a blinding nova of devastating energies; a primitive, primal spell that would do far more harm than the raccoon's more merciful harassments.
"I - I can't." she wailed, finally breaking free of Dream's grasp and bringing her sword up, high above her head, her body poised for a downward chop aimed at the center of Murikeer's brow. The skunk quailed and took a pace back, then halted, holding her gaze even as the ember fire lit within her eyes once more. "Muri. run away, Muri! KILL ME!" She screamed as she lunged forward as if to bring that sword down on its lethal mark, but her arms remained upraised, locked, the muscles under her fur bunching, tendons standing out starkly.