Interlude 1/10
The command centre was still holding for now. The refugees were only numbered in the hundreds now, a long way from the beginning of their journey. Easier to defend as the weakest had died months ago. Easier to move, too. Roxandra had consulted with the Demon earlier and narrowed their chances of success down to three towers which were on opposite sides of the world from each other. Their course had been set since then and they only awaited her word for where they would need to move out. That word was now months overdue.
Gold, the last Atlasia, had been suffering from a difficult time. The effort of maintaining the links to the target in another dimension was stressful enough without being drawn onto the front lines. Petitions littered her desk, most from people who were dead or going to die soon. The secretary had died three weeks ago, soon after Roxandra had reported problems with the Demon’s analysis. Since then it had been nothing but setbacks. Their success was entirely dependent on the results of her analysis, with every journey to the Demon costing them in lives and time. Still, the information from the target was good - they had nearly arrived at a distant island and would be safe from their pursuers for long enough for them to make their next move. Sighing, she started on the paperwork which had gone unattended for too long.
Only hours later the entire camp was in motion. They did not have any time after all. This was not meant to be happening.
The ruins of Clocktower had been wrenched from their foundations and embedded into a floating castle, ruined after something massive and angry had clawed it apart - from all appearances from the inside. The remains of the structures had held strong for some time after the catastrophe started, long enough to draw many people who had been displaced. It was there that the Demon’s Voice had been brought, hidden away in case it was needed and then forgotten after anyone who knew about it died. The halls were haunted by the ghosts of the Magus who had died there. The few monstrous demons who lived there did so because it was out of the way, with little for them to compete with for resources. The bones of the place had been picked over many times.
That drifting peace exploded into fire, with stones drifting away lazily from the site of the blast before the urges of gravity reasserted themselves and they began to plummet towards the ground. The howling demons which emerged were sleepy, disorganised and vulnerable to the blasts of the remaining divisions of Salt. The battle was short, a pathway cleared within the hour, and guards placed on the entrance into the Atelier which they had left behind. Only once the path was safe could Gold proceed into the remains of the Institute here.
She was met by Roxandra, pale from many weeks spent hiding in the basements of Clocktower and accompanied by her fellow researchers, the remains of Sulphur and the parts of Daedalus who were worth taking with them. “I thought the plan was to keep us separate, draw their attention away. We only have hours before the swarms start to arrive. The predictions I have, they…”.
Gold interrupted, “The predictions you have are killing us slowly. What you have not predicted is killing us fast. The target has been captured and our link to the new world will be over within hours, not months. You told me that when the crisis broke, you would have a prediction for me.” She was looking for anything, something to tell her what she needed to do.
What she got was a slow nod. “I see. For that to be the case they must have become organised, there will be teams moving to close the other rifts you have created.” It was strange. Roxandra’s voice indicated she was relaxed but the tension in her stance was unchanged. It was this kind of mystery which Gold had always been excellent at unpicking - her Magic Crest had enabled her to see what the possibilities of other people’s reactions were. It was subtle, had fuelled her rise to the top and was entirely impossible while she was holding open rifts to another world.
Roxandra was one of the few who was aware of this - the interference which Gold’s ability produced in the Demon was how they had first met. In collaboration, behind the backs of their seniors, they had combined their research to discover patterns beyond merely the existence of humanity in the cycles of the Demon. When the end began, they were the only hope of the Institute. They promised continued existence - perhaps not in this world, but in some other, less doomed plane of existence. Under the circumstances, with the sky raining fire and blood, it seemed like the best plan on the table.
That had been two worlds ago. You see, it turned out to be absolutely impossible to travel between different worlds. There was no way to do it outside of the Age of Myth - in both worlds. So, there was a problem. The only way to travel was to worlds which were already, to put it bluntly, on their way down. The first journey was traumatic, they encountered a place too close to their own. There hadn’t been time to understand the target world, not when they needed to destroy the guardians of a Tower to make the bridge. The battle between the two Institutes had taken months, destroyed most of their allies and left them incapable of travelling on alone.
It was then that they were forced to take on allies, not from the best of sources. There were objections, the world they travelled to was far from an accidental victim as they were. Magus from Estray had been experimenting on the Towers, undermining them and leeching their power to fuel their own spells. When they began to collapse they took advantage to target their rivals first, unleashing hordes of elementals on their enemies. Regrettably most of them were left behind when the bridge closed faster than anticipated. The loyalties of the remains had been tested sorely when they were attacked on arrival, blamed for chasing them through and an alliance formed with the new world’s Institute as a result.
Not that they could ever make it out together. The existence of two of the same people from different worlds in the same place was subtly destructive. Gold had methods to shield them from the worst of it. Others found it disturbing to see their mirror selves degenerate, weaken and collapse in front of them. Roxandra in particular took an unhealthy interest in her own self, conducting a detailed vivisection and autopsy. It was morbid in Gold’s opinion. Her own doubles were eliminated before they could leech any of her Magic Crest.
That brought them to their current impasse - here, they had once again recruited widely. The remains of a Grand Alliance centered on Clocktower provided them with a starting point. The only problem was the Demon - Gold had identified a new destination, closer to being salvageable than any other. There would be no movement without information from the Demon, however, and in this world there were repairs that were needed before it would be functional again. Roxandra had retreated to Clocktower while they started work on the ruins of the Vienna Tower to begin the work, she had drawn off their forces. It had worked for a time.
Roxandra turned to go back to her Atelier, “I think we can make the Demon work, especially with your presence. The Voice will speak more readily to…”, passing through the archway she was cut off, most of Roxandra’s body incinerated in an instant. Her forces, waiting on the far side, also screamed as the fires began to spread, engulfing the ambush which had been laid for Gold. Some of their new allies had powerful runes which Roxandra was not aware of. From the sounds of it the guards around them had started their own battle early.
Gold kneeled down next to her. She deserved to know. “Your attack, it was well planned. From the looks of it, above 99% chance of success. The Demon has been working for some time, hasn’t it?”
A grim smile was her first answer, then a cough, “83.4% actually. There’s some factor I can’t identify which kept interfering. That and the slim chance of you abandoning the rifts, freeing your Crest…” Her eyes went to the magic flaring now, visible crawling over her face. “You had to be stopped, Gold. They can survive, if not for us. Them, and how many more worlds will you destroy?”
A crunching sound was the last noise that came from her throat. Best not to let the remains of the troops hear anything which would dissuade them from their victory. The reinforcements would arrive from the outside and sweep away the resistance, all she needed to do now was to see, to use what remained of her magic to find a path to victory. All she needed was a little time with the Demon’s Voice. Gold reached out into the worlds of possibilities one last time, out into darkness, into nothing…
The Lord withdrew the dagger and looked down at the corpse of the leader of this, the strange Atlas Institute. It would take some time to understand what had happened here. Time they did not have. “Fan out, find the remains of their quarters and take everything. Leave the bodies, except by my command.” He would understand what magics they had used later, to see him coming before the strike.
The Magus left, splitting into many groups. The bones of Clocktower lay exposed for the picking. They had many secrets to find before this doomed world spun away, cast adrift on its own course.
Scene End
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Interlude 2/10
Pope Pius X was bored. Not from any sense of inactivity - the Church was a never-ending wheel of meetings, mass, celebrations, ritual, ceremonies and other make-work which kept Popes generally distracted enough that they didn’t attempt to do anything dangerous like run the place. The culling of the attack on Rome had created enough space to do some things, clear away some of the deadwood, but that was wholly insufficient to change the nature of the place. Everything of meaning had been stripped away from life - the Ring, gone, passed on to a new holder. Command of the armies of the Church was delegated, as was theology, the menu for each day’s dinners and when the Pope went to the bathroom. The only decisions which could be made were those that nobody, not even the most power-hungry and vicious cardinal, would dare to make at a lower level.
Therefore it was a matter of genuine curiosity when an otherwise routine meeting was interrupted by a deacon, rushing into the room and whispering urgently to a cardinal near the back. It altogether diverted attention from the discussions about the Indulgences to be granted to the Templars, that heretically named faction of the Sea of Estray who had thrown themselves ritually upon the mercy of the Church. The cardinals around the Pope were still occupied discussing their weakness, the change in circumstances now that they were isolated and stripped of most of their allies. A prize of far lesser value deserved little reward, they had been turned from a powerful adversary into a supplicant. Scraps from the table were to be their reward.
Yet the news was spreading. Apparently a note had been passed along with the whispers and was being taken from hand to hand across one of the back rows. Not for long of course, it took too long for them to read before it was snatched by the next. Meanwhile there was a word in the ear of the most powerful of the cardinals and he got up, striding across the floor and seizing it for himself regardless of protocol.
It was at times like this that the Pope wished they provided snacks for the meetings.
Normally there would be uproar from anyone disturbing the order of the meeting. In this case, the secretary was firmly in the pocket of this, the more liberal faction of the Church, and merely coughed gently and amended the agenda appropriately. There was a short break, during which nobody told the Pope anything of consequence. The most that was explained that there had been a change in the war, an event which they had news of which required the Pope’s judgement. Something terrible had happened in Paris.
An hour later there was a presentation on the information which had come to Rome. The Church had been tracking the activities of Clocktower in relation to the mysterious Magus of the far North but not interfering so far, they had kept out of the war in general and been a problem decidedly for later. By the time that the armies in England had been devastated by their forces it was too late to change their strategy. A lesson was learned there. The other aspects, the shipments and the rest, they left that alone then for fear of drawing another army of the same. It turned out that may have been an error.
The account of the witnesses was straightforward and horrifying. The Magus of Clocktower had surrounded Paris and prevented the victims inside from escaping, including some of their own. Whatever curse they had unleashed upon them was indiscriminate, the streets ran red with blood as a madness seized the people causing them to turn all against the other. The losses were incredible, perhaps a million people lay dead. Spies had managed to enter lately, discovering the extent of the death and an awful scene. The Magus from the Tower, in collaboration with Clocktower, harvesting the blood of other Magus in some heathen ritual. There was other information, proposed reasons for their actions, but by the end all of the cardinals were silent, waiting for the Pope to decide what should be done.
“Where does this information come from?”
More whispers. A ripple, a flow of information in reverse. “There are multiple sources, Your Holiness. We have initial reports from our own people who were not caught inside the barricades. Most of the information comes from… the Burial Agency. A senior source of previously good character.”
More whispers. The Antipope in Avignon, the creature who had been Pride, was not mentioned explicitly at these meetings. The poor cardinal stammered and coughed before the frown of the Pope. “They have accompanied the information with an offer -- ah, of a temporary truce.” More heresy. There was no war with Avignon, only an extermination campaign against demons. “They offer a meeting on neutral ground, if you should desire it.”
There was relative silence while the Pope thought. This was a provocation, on both sides. Normally the correct action would be to stay the course, focus on eliminating the demons, but word had come of terrible defeats in the Americas. The Church needed time as much as anyone else to replenish their forces and gather them for the true fight to come. Clocktower was poorly defended and could be a valuable example to the rest of them…
“Work will continue on pursuing the war in Avignon, clearing the pathway for our forces to advance.” Mutters arose. That part was not going to be popular. “Yet we cannot turn aside from bringing sinners to justice. May all the armies of the Holy Church proceed on to England to seek their repentance.” The Pope sighed at the approval of the congregation. How many here were spies for Avignon, secretly turning against the Holy Church? How many more merely wished to avoid the battles to come. The secretary coughed and turned to the next item on the Agenda. Reports had come in from Ireland which needed attending to. A political opportunity had arisen which would be crucial for them to move their forces freely.
The word went out swiftly - Rome’s eye had turned away from the Church in Avignon. Instead, that ancient bastion of resistance, London, would soon find itself under siege.
Scene End
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Interlude 3/10
The journey had been long, far longer than it needed to be. It turned out that the Emissary from the Tower, or whatever his name actually was, insisted on attempting to learn the languages of the countries he travelled through. All of them. It took quite some time to make him understand, through the language barrier, that there was no single language which he could talk to all of them in. Even so he would stop, take notes on what everyone said and waste days in each country gathering up books. Asking where he put all the books was a question he dreaded asking - it was enough trouble paying for all of them.
By the time they visited the second of the locations, he had gathered some basic information about the person he was guiding. His name was Ensi, or close enough, it wasn’t always clear. That made conversation a great deal faster than a long explanation about what he did every time. There was also his job, which was as an alternative to someone else called Nindingir. Apparently nobody would be much of a fan of whoever that was, though he was distressingly vague about exactly why that was. Finally, he was looking for some people. Very, very specific groups of people here on the other sides of the world.
The phrase ‘needle in a haystack’ conveys a highly specific meaning. This was not the same kind of difficulty, at least then they would have had some sense of progress, of discarding endless pieces of straw. As it was, the search, if you call it that, consisted of Ensi wandering around aimlessly all day. At the first location it was literally aimless until he asked him why he wasn’t following the Ley Lines. On the Reverse Side such trivial things as lines of power apparently weren’t necessary for Magus. There was quite enough Prana just floating around. Places of power contained more creatures, things which it was wiser to avoid. Reminded of this, there was some merriment, or relief at the world... and then more wandering.
After some days they moved on to the next, no wiser about what he was looking for. The only reply was nonsensical compliments. It was a good thing, he said. And so on to the next.
With each place the same. Sometimes he would see a sign, some symbol on a house and frown to himself. Other times there would be a layout of a street or a person who would see him, turn white and run. Each time that happened he took down notes, of who they were, what they were wearing, the symbols which they wore and the names of places. From his discussions it seemed that he was identifying his enemies in one way or another.
Sometimes he asked to look through the object that was used as a guide, to path the direction to the next one himself. Other times he was happy enough to be told where it was. There was some kind of ritual associated with it. He would marvel at the willingness to set mortal eyes upon the ‘Work of the Gods’, whatever that meant. There were long discussions about how the Towers had been created, the nature of such a feat, and one thing was clear - they had not been built with the assistance or consent of any of the Gods, whatever he said about their sacred nature. Even the object of his worship, the partly-divine Gilgamesh, was allegedly not responsible for the creation itself. The truth was in bits and pieces. Sometimes he referred to the ritual as a sacrifice, or offering. Other times as a mending, a bringing together of what had been shattered. For a time he thought that there was some kind of healing going on but that was swiftly corrected - apparently that was more the wrong word than the right one. By the end of it the matter remained as clear as mud save for one detail - the purpose of the catalyst of the ritual to serve as a capstone to the Tower.
Naturally that was in some particular, non-physical sense.
Time passed as they made the tour, the route familiar to the guide but astounding to the one being taken around. At each location Ensi made notes, sketching the mountains in the distance and sometimes excitedly pointing at large trees or clouds. Finally they headed back, together, to the Hyperborean Tower. Their time together had come to an end.
It was then, on the ship, that the thanks began. Appreciation for the time, naturally, but also for the betrayal of oaths. He was confused - oaths? He had taken no oaths, certainly none in relation to this.
That only garnered a smile and a laugh from Ensi, “Yes, yes, that is correct. No oaths! No pledges. No secret trust like that necklace.” The wink following that added a chill to the wind they sailed into. Perhaps he should have thought more closely about what had been passed down. Ensi babbled on gladly about the secrets he had uncovered, the locations of the towers which were a secret from all the others in case they should go to war against each other. The advantages which they would possess in the battles to come. Ensi was less friendly, more troublesome when he talked of putting their ancient enemies to the sword and feeding them to unspeakable beasts, though he maintained a smile while saying it.
At the base of the island of the Hyperborean Tower he waved farewell to his guide, promising to return before the paths closed. As he left, the guide took a last look at the Tower which soared into the sky, so covered in gems that its true form was indistinguishable. From the other side, or so Ensi said, perhaps he would be able to see their true form, where the clouds could not hide what lay above.
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