Hubris - 38. The Mirror Expanse

There was nothing around them. Only the wind and the snow and the mountains and the dogs. And each other.

Crowe glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he’d still be able to see Roguehaven. He couldn’t. The settlement had been swallowed up by the land so that all he could see were rolling crests of white. Facing North stood the formation of a small ruin. Stone pillars made of black stone stuck out of the snow. Monad willing, Barghast and he would reach it by nightfall. Already the sky was darkening. Strong gusts of wind blew at him, stinging his wind-burned cheeks. He pulled the hood of his fur-tinged parka down, burrowing deeper down into Barghast’s lap.

Barghast had hold of the reins. He was panting excitedly, his tongue hanging out of his mouth while the dogs barked and yipped, pulling the sled at almost twice the speed as Mammoth at a full gallop. In spite of the storm clouds that darkened the sky at their backs, the practitioner grinned to himself. The lycan’s joy was infectious. Half a league away a polar bear loped across the frozen landscape, heading Northeast. Spotting it, Barghast shouted something in Okanavian. He raised his rifle and mimed shooting at it.

Crowe laughed. He could picture the lycan giving chase. He wondered which predator would win…the barbarian or the polar bear? Too bad we don’t get to find out.

A moment later, Barghast patted him on the shoulder. “Stay,” he said.

The practitioner felt a bone pop in his neck. He twisted his head around. “You want me to stop?” He hated the way his voice immediately rose with alarm.

Barghast held up a flat palm. “Stay,” he repeated. There was nothing to suggest they were in danger: His hackles weren’t raised and his tail was wagging, which most likely meant he’d spotted something else. Something less nefarious.

“What is it? What do you see?”

Barghast touched his nose. He rumbled the latest word the practitioner had taught him. “Water,” he said.

Crowe frowned. “Fresh or salt? We can’t drink salt water, remember?”

“Drink,” the lycan said with a firm nod.

The practitioner leaned back, letting his head rest against the barbarian’s belly. It was nice not to be the one to call the shots for a change.

Barghast steered the sled in the opposite direction of the polar bear. They rose up the curve of a white snowcrest. Sure enough when he shielded his eyes with a gloved palm, Crowe could see a dark line of open water where the ice had yet to freeze over. The practitioner grinned, licking at his cracked lips. Monad proves he is with us still. They´d filled their waterskins before leaving the settlement. Through stubborn will the sorcerer had managed to drink from his only once. Still, any chance to replenish their supply before the snowstorm hit was a blessing.

Crowe stayed by the sled while Barghast went to the spring to refill the waterskins. Happy for a chance to spread his legs and catch a smoke, the practitioner walked in between the dozen dogs he´d paid to transport them to the Vaylin Ruins, scratching each one by the ears. He stopped only when he heard a growl at his back. He turned to find Barghast had returned from the spring with the waterskins. Now he stood, glaring at Crowe. His hackles were raised. His tail was arched towards the sky.

The sorcerer went to him, getting a final lick across the hand from the lead mongrel. ¨I thought we´d be done with the jealousy by now.¨ He reached up to scratch the lycan´s chin. ¨Are you worried I don´t have enough love and pats to go around?¨

Barghast seized the seat of Crowe´s breeches with a growl. He squeezed it. ¨Mine,¨ he said.

¨I see. So you are jealous.¨ Crowe took a waterskin. He removed the cap, taking a long sip. The water tasted briny but felt good against his parched throat. He lit a joint.

The lycan drew up beside him, falling silent. The dogs were now resting in the snow, unbothered by the wind. Out here this far away from civilization the quiet was misleading. It could be easy for one to pretend they were safe. They´d yet to spot a reaver. You´ve become so used to chaos that it makes you uneasy when it isn´t around. Learn to enjoy the small moments. The herald indulged in a long private look at the Okanavian. His dark gray fur stood out sharply against the frozen earth. The wind rippled through his fur. His eyes scanned the horizon. He let out a deep, thunderous breath, his eyes cooling to pale shades of amber.

¨Beautiful, isn´t it?¨

Barghast cocked his head. ¨Twin o´rre.¨

¨Beautiful. All this.¨ Crowe waved his hand in a circle, indicating the tundra.

He opened his dominant hand, pointing up with his remaining fingers. He completed the sign by rolling his fingers counter clockwise across the front of his face. He repeated the gesture three times, pointing at the sky. ¨Beautiful,¨ he said.

¨Boo…¨

¨Beautiful.¨

¨Boo-tit-fool…¨ Barghast flicked his tail against the snow anxiously.

“Close. It’s nothing to feel embarrassed about Barghast. You’ll keep trying.” Again the herald pointed at the sky. He repeated the word. He pointed at the water. He repeated the word. He pointed at the snow-capped mountains to the South. Beautiful, he said again. He patted Barghast’s shoulder. “Beautiful,” he said again. He made sure to grin.

Barghast turned to face him. “Beaut-i-ful.”

“Good. Close - very close. Keep trying.”

Barghast pushed back Crowe’s hood. He cupped his face in his paws. He stooped, leaning over until their noses touched. Until their lips were but an inch away from touching. “Beautiful,” he rumbled. He kissed him.

The herald continued to scratch at the Okanavian’s chin bristles. “Very good. You’re a fast learner.”

Bolstered by his praise, the lycan seized his rump once more. This time with both paws. “Beautiful - mine.”

The practitioner laughed. Blood flooded his cheeks. “I see what you’re trying to do.” He stepped back reluctantly before casting a nervous glance at the sky. Dark clouds rolled in from the North. In little more than an hour the storm and night itself would be on top of them. He didn’t like the idea of being exposed to the storm with nothing around them in the shelter. He liked the idea of being in the storm with hunting, hungry reavers even less. Hargreeves had marked the temple where he hoped they would camp for the night on the map; it marked the halfway point to the Vaylin Ruins.

“Don’t whine at me like that!” the practitioner snapped - without conviction - when the Okanavian groaned in disappointment. “I told you there wouldn’t be much time for cuddles and pats once we left Roguehaven. You don’t want to stay stuck out in the storm, do you?”

A shriek split the air - a shriek that was too high, too cold to be the wind. Crowe knew exactly what the sound came from. Reavers.

Already the dogs were yipping and howling and baying in fear. Seizing the reins, Barghast offered a paw to help the practitioner up. The sorcerer scanned the horizon in all directions. The moment he was seated, the Okanavian’s arm closed around him like a steel band. The moment he snapped the reins they were off, racing back in the direction of the temple.

Each jolt of the sled made the herald’s teeth rattle inside his skull. Barghast muttered under his breath, but whether it was a curse or a prayer, Crowe could not be sure. Clinging to the barbarian’s arm, he risked a peek over the side of the sled.

With the way the sled shook and rattled, it was impossible to discern anything at first. When he did spot them, he wished he hadn’t. He counted half a dozen of the reptilian creatures a mile back and quickly closing the distance.

The wind whipped at his face, blowing his hair in his eyes. He pulled out the overpriced revolver he’d bought before leaving Roguehaven. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded before rolling the chamber back in. He held his rod in his damaged hand. “Keep going!” he shouted at Barghast. “Don’t stop!” With any luck we’ll reach the temple before they reach us. He pushed his fear and determination to reach the temple into his rod. It thrummed hungrily, ready to unleash chaos.

The dogs must have sensed the danger they were in. Their strong four-legged bodies pulled the sled with all their might and still it was not fast enough. Already the reavers had closed a third of the distance. An anvil of dread crashed to the bottom of the practitioner’s stomach with a thud.

We won’t make it to the temple before they reach us.

He thought of Hargreaves, Topher, and Faux huddled in the guard post, doing what they could to keep the population of Roguehaven safe. They were not like the villagers of Timberford who had huddled behind closed doors while waiting for their troubles to pass. If they can be brave…if they can persevere…then so can we.

Like oil poured over an open flame, the thought ignited the spark in Crowe. “Hold onto me!” he shouted at Barghast.

He clambered to his feet.

The world tilted. Before gravity could haul him to the ground, Barghast seized a fistful of his robes. Crowe’s world righted itself again.

The reaver in the lead was close enough Crowe had an unobstructed view of its face. Its maw yawned open like the mouth of a living cave, revealing row upon row of needles that went back as far as the eye could see. Its gray tongue was long and forked. The practitioner could already feel the jaws of death closing around him, breaking him down as it devoured him whole. It was not the reavers face he saw when he fired a kinetic burst of mana at the abomination, but Petras’.

The reaver jumped nimbly to the side. Its companion behind it was not so lucky. Crowe’s spell slammed into it like an invisible fist of steel. The impact crushed the front of the creature inward with an audible crunch. Its brethren spilled over it without a second glance, clearly intent on pursuing their prey.

Crowe fired twice more. Both times he missed.

The leader closest to the shed launched through the air like a spring. The sled cleared the space a second before the creature could land atop it. Still it pursued, its progress unimpeded by its landing. Its mouth opened. Crowe thumbed back the hammers of the revolver. All he could see was the inner lining of the reaver’s throat.

With each pull of the trigger, the pistol bucked in the practitioner’s hand. Three bullets hit their mark, blasting holes in the reaver’s thick hide. Another blast from Crowe’s rod knocked the creature down.

In the seconds since the chase had begun, the gale had picked up force. It closed in on the parade, another adversary intent on keeping the herald from reaching his destination. A black magnet pulled his attention to something behind the reavers - a new and terrible mystery. Another shape. A smaller shape. It moved through the growing gloom with a broken pace, as if its twisted limbs were all wrong. At the speed with which the sled was moving, it should have long since fallen behind. Somehow it stayed ahead of the draft.

A thought struck Crowe like a hot iron: The reavers aren’t chasing us. They’re running!

Running from the shadow. Running from the shadow that was no doubt following them. Crowe threw a desperate glance over his shoulder. He tried not to feel relieved. They were almost at the temple. Monad help us. Will we safe inside?

Another shriek pulled his attention back in the direction of the reavers. This time the sound was pained. Fearful. The sound a predator makes when it becomes prey. The mysterious shadow stood behind it, dragging it back into the gloom by its tail. The creature pawed helplessly at the frozen snow. When Crowe blinked it was gone as if it had never been there at all.

Crowe was so focused on the commotion, he didn’t realize a reaver was closing in until it was too late. It slammed into the side of the sled. The practitioner had just enough time to scream the lycan’s name and then his feet left the sled. His world spun. He landed on his back, the snow cushioning the impact of his fall. A thousand alarms rang inside his head.

Already he could feel the earth shaking beneath him. He raised his head. A reaver charged at him, hissing. Up close it loomed larger and larger, rivaling the size of a carriage. The practitioner jumped to his feet. He had mere seconds before the creature was on top of him. Before Crowe could pull on his mana, the reaver veered to the right, loping towards the Western horizon.

The practitioner blinked. He squinted. It was impossible to see in the thickening gloom. He strained, listening with his ears. Beneath the wail of the wind he could detect the small crunch of feet on ice. He blinked. The shadow he’d glimpsed earlier staggered towards him. Dread creeped up the back of his throat, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of fear. The movements of the figure were wrong. One arm was longer than the other, cocking its body at an angle that was anything but natural. A thousand insects crawled over the practitioner’s skin. The sense of wrongness followed the figure’s every disfigured movement. Crowe’s bladder felt heavy. With all the will he could muster, he freed himself from the spell of paralysis that kept his boots rooted knee-deep in the snow.

Before it could emerge from the mist, before he could see its terrible visage, Crowe turned and fled in the direction of the sled.

In the collision with the reaver, the sled had overturned upside down. Barghast’s claws slashed through the air, severing the ties that bound the dogs to the sled. Freed from their restraints, the dogs bounded for the temple. The terror in their yips and howls only reflected the terror that made the practitioner feel as if the world was closing in around him. Only when he reached the Okanavian did he stop. Still the shadow figure pursued, its face hidden in shadow.

“We have to go.” Crowe tugged at the lycan’s arm. Tried to tug at his arm. Merely lifting his paw was like trying to pull a hefty rock out of the ground. He looked into the Okanavian’s eyes. Eyes wide and frozen with fear. The hot yellow smell of the barbarian’s piss colored the frigid air.

“Come on, damn you! Move it!”

It was too late.

The creature stopped three meters away. Its cracked blue-gray lips spread across its moldering face in the twisted imitation of a grin. The stitches that held flaps of its patchwork flesh together strained as if fighting to break free. Crowe’s gaze slowly drifted down the length of its misshapen body. It wore no clothes. A long trail of stitches trailed from the top of its neck all the way down to its groin where its genitalia should have been. Patches of flesh were completely missing, showing the bone underneath. One half of a female body fused to the body of a male to make something new.

Another one of Inferno’s twisted experiments.

“Herald,” the abomination said in a raspy voice. “We meet at last. Officially.”

“Hamon,” Crowe breathed. He couldn’t stop his legs from shaking.

Hamon spread its - his? - arms, a showman on stage catering to the whims of his audience. “You called for me and so I came. Do you like my body? You should recognize it.”

Crowe did recognize it. He remembered Barghast throwing the limbs through the portal into Inferno. You idiot! You gave him exactly what he needed to make a vessel…A body that can walk the earth…

“It suits you,” the practitioner heard himself say in a voice that sounded steadier than he felt. He jabbed his elbow into Barghast’s belly with all his strength. It was like hitting a wall made of mortar, but it was enough to get the lycan moving. He backed towards the cave with a whimper. “Move!” Crowe pushed at him again.

“Run all you want. Run to the Vaylin Ruins if you think it will keep you safe.” The undead creature laughed. The smell of fecund meat hit Crowe like a freight train. He gagged, his eyes watering. “There’s no where you can go that I will not find you. Even if you were to destroy this vessel - good luck with that - I can always make another. Believe me when I tell you, herald, there is no version of this in which you win. You failed in the first two Iterations, and you’ll fail in this one.”

The Black King’s clawed hand rose into the air. Prisms of crimson light erupted from his blackened fingers. They streaked towards Crowe, leaving trails of light behind them. Before they could strike their target, Crowe raised a wall of kinetic energy with his rod. The prisms shattered on impact.

Hamon laughed. “You’re a fool if you think you can stand against me! You’re nothing more than a child. What chance do you have against the Black King of Inferno?”

A comet of fire streaked from Crowe’s rod. Hamon stepped back, encasing himself in a sphere of black smoke. Crowe’s spell struck the sphere and rebounded off it. It struck the sled. The sled burst apart in a smoking cloud of wood splinters that caught in the practitioner’s hair. Tendril of the black smoke twisted away from the sphere. They slithered across the snow towards the practitioner like snakes. The herald braced himself, gathering his mana in anticipation of the attack.

Before the black smoke could strike him, Barghast was pulling at his arm, shoving him towards the temple. It seemed he’d broken from his spell of paralysis. Crowe snagged his saddlebag. He slipped and staggered after the barbarian who had no trouble traversing the treacherous landscape. If anything he was made for it. Before he could lose his footing, the Okanavian seized him around the waist and slung him over his shoulder. Hamon’s cruel laughter followed him as he receded into the gloom.

The barbarian lunged up the steps of the temple. Once he stopped before the entrance of the temple, he set Crowe down on his feet. He peered into the darkness with a whine.

“Get inside!” Crowe snapped breathlessly. Already he could feel the beginnings of a migraine building behind his eyes. “We don’t have time for your superstitions! If anything awaits us inside, it can be worse than Hamon himself.”

Speak the name of the king Down Under and he shall appear. Sure enough Hamon mounted the steps. He did not hurry. Why would he hurry when he had all the time in the world? Why would he worry when he’d been playing this came century after century, Iteration after Iteration?

There was no where else to go. There was no where else that could offer them safety. He led Barghast into the temple.

Crowe had the sense he was stumbling from one time into another. The dusty air was electric, dancing with an energy that made his skin tingle. He whirled around to face the entrance. The Okanavian reached to pull him after him, but the practitioner stepped back. “Wait!” he hissed. He held up his palm. “Wait!”

Hamon reached the top of the steps. The practitioner found he could not look away from the walking corpse: the mismatched limbs stitched together to make a doll of disproportionate scraps. The design, while grisly, was not without its carnal appeal. It took the talent of a true surgeon to fit two unseemly parts together so seamlessly. The Black King sneered, watching him through the eyes of what had been the older necromancer.

Crowe brandished his rod at the ceiling. A stream of yellow light lashed from its tip, latching onto the stone as if it were a hook. In just a few moments Hamon would be through the entrance and there was nowhere to run.

The thought, the fear lent Crowe strength. He screamed, pulling at the rod with all his might, every muscle in his body screaming with him. He felt the floor beneath his feet crack. The ceiling groaned.

A large paw seized him by the back of the robes and yanked him out of the path of the falling rock. Dust smothered him. He coughed, waving it out of his face. Dead silence greeted him. He looked up, expecting Hamon to close the distance between them. Instead the entrance was blocked off by a wall of falling rock. His plan, though desperate, had worked. Time, he thought. That's all you've bought yourself is time. And not much of it because now you're trapped. What if there isn't another way out?

There has to be!

The lycan cowered against the wall. He hugged himself, tail tucked around his knees. Crowe stepped towards him only to falter. He'd never seen the barbarian look so afraid. So obviously frightened. You were so busy taunting the enemy out of pettiness. you completely forgot who truly matters.

A voice of caution echoed in his mind, warning him to give the barbarian space.

He's never hurt me before and he won't hurt me now. Crowe dropped to his knees. The frozen tundra outside the temple…the temple itself…the reavers and Hamon fell away. Tucked away in a secret compartment of his mind where he could consider them later. All that mattered was his companion.

“Barghast!” The steel in his voice turned the word into a command.

The Okanavian’s head turned in his directions. Tears borne of terror pricked the corners of his eyes. The practitioner couldn't recall if he'd seen him cry before.

Crowe reached for him cautiously, bridging the distance between them. He released a sigh of relief he didn't realize he'd been holding until the barbarian took his hand. With the warmth and familiarity of the Okanavian's touch, he felt his own racing heart slow.

Though his hand was far smaller than Barghast's dinner-plate sized hand, Crowe squeezed it. He tried to transmit his thoughts to the barbarian. Can you feel me? Can you feel my touch? Can you feel I'm here with you?

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Molten gold eyes met dark blue ones.

“You are safe.” The conviction he heard in his own voice surprised him. “He can't come in here. We're together. You and I are safe.”

“Safe,” Barghast repeated.

“That’s right. It's just you and me.” He wanted to stay with the lycan. He wanted to comfort him. He wanted to feel those strong arms wrap around him like a shield. But there was no time. I got us in this mess. Now I have to find a way to get us out of it. “Barghast,” he said gently.

“Twin o'rre.” Barghast’s paw engulfed his hand. The pads of his palms were clammy with cold sweat.

“I'm going to leave you here for a moment. I'm going to look for a way to get us out of the fresh hell I've gotten us into. Stay here. Catch your breath. Breathe.”

He moved to stand up. Before he could step away, the lycan’s hold tightened on his hand. “Stay. Not safe.” The frightened round globes of his eyes pulled at the practitioner’s heart.

For his formidable size and intimidating appearance, Barghast was childlike when it came to his superstitions. A quality Crowe found frustrating and endearing in equal measures. At the moment he found it frustrating. “If you want to hold my hand that's fine, but we can't just sit here. I have to take a look around so I can try to come up with a plan.”

For the next several minutes, the practitioner continued to coax the barbarian. “It’s just you and me here. Just us chickens. There is nothing else here that can hurt us…defeat us. Do you know why?” Crowe dropped a kiss on the Okanavian’s muzzle. “Because you and I are together, and as long as we're together there's not a thing on this Earth or outside of it that we cannot withstand.”

At last the Okanavian climbed to his full height. In spite of his size, he clung to the practitioner as if he were a lifeline. Crowe lit an aether joint. He took a long drag from it before handing it to the lycan. Once the joint had been passed around a few times, Crowe led him into the center of the chamber. With the joint pinned between his lips, he held up a gas lamp with his good hand. The crippled hand remained trapped in the vice grip of the lycan. One of the dogs ran up to lick his hand. Barghast scared it away with a growl as if to say: I'm the only one who gets to do that.

The herald stopped in the center of the chamber. His skin continued to buzz. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched yet no matter which way he looked, his physical sight revealed nothing.

Hieroglyphs resembling the ones carved staff marked the wall. A shiver crawled up the practitioner’s spine. He did not feel the same superstitious fear of the dark the way the Okanavian did. Why would I? This used to be our home before the plague of madness came and took it away from us. A plague that would allow the Theocracy to bring his people down to their knees and enslave them.

The echoes of the past pulled Crowe deeper into the chamber. Barghast followed along beside him, holding onto Crowe’s hand as if afraid the darkness would swallow him whole. Not for the first time the sorcerer wondered if the Okanavian could see spirits he himself could not see. With a language barrier that kept them apart, it was impossible to ask.

Near the center of the temple, they walked around a tall statue that once could have once been a fountain. Carved into the shape of a man, Crowe felt his breath catch in his throat when the front of the statue fell into the light.

Crowe looked into its marble face. A face carved in such intricate detail, it could have been alive. He gasped in recognition. The eyes, closed in thought, the mouth downturned in contemplation. A face that very much resembled his own face. A restless sigh blew through the temple, stirring the dust at his feet. He wanted to walk away from it. He wanted to deny it, to destroy it until it was nothing, but no state of denial made it impossible to ignore the fact it was his face he looked into. Other statues surrounded the room. Winged creatures who forever stood with their hands forever placed on the ceiling to keep the heavens from falling.

That's not me, he thought. It might look like me, but there's no way it could be me because I have no memory of coming to this place. Didn't he? Only when he was close enough to the statue he could reach out and touch it did he notice the door. Had the light from his lamp not bounced off its reflective surface, he wouldn't have noticed it all.

He reached for it.

A voice in the back of his mind warned him to be careful…a tiny echo he could barely hear against the buzzing that filled the inner chambers of his skull. Unlike the stone walls around it, the door was in the shape of a half circle and made of a thick steel no blade could penetrate. It drew him like a copper coin to a magnet. He reached out to touch it.

The steel felt ice-cold beneath his hand. Voices stirred around him, churning a darkness that had not known the touch of light for many centuries. He pressed against the crack of the door. He felt the slightest draft of air. If there's a way in here, there to be a way out. I just have to find it. He glanced hastily at the statue in the center of the chamber to make sure it hadn’t moved from its position. You’re every bit as spooked by this place as the Okanavian is.

“Twin o’orre… look!”

Barghast had released his hand long enough to point at a new discovery: a pedestal made of the same steel as the door. The bottom rose up out of the stone floor like a steel stem before spanning out into a bulbous shape at the top. The practitioner approached the pedestal cautiously. He held the lamp up to get a better look. Runes matching the hieroglyphs on the wall had been carved into tiles two inches wide.

Crowe poked a tile with his finger. The moment his skin made contact with the tile a shock struck him. He jumped back with a yelp.

Barghast moved to pull him back. He growled at the pedestal.

The practitioner waved his hand. “I'm fine. It just surprised me, is all.” This time he let his hand hover over the tiles but did not touch them. The runes began to glow. Glowed with the same white light that burned in all of Monad’s children. The warmth was faint…so faint he could barely feel it. After a few uneven pulses, the light flickered before dying completely.

Another obstacle to overcome. Another riddle to solve. Monad, you never make anything easy, do you?

Crowe stepped back from the pedestal, blowing a hiss of frustration through his teeth. He went to the wall with the hieroglyphs. Surely the answer was there, carved into the ancient stone. When he touched it, nothing happened. The air inside the chamber did not stir, phantom voices did not whisper revelations in his ears.

“Another test of faith.” He backed up several steps until he looked up into the impassive face of the statue. The resemblance to his mentor…and to himself…was uncanny. The high cheekbones, the long, hooked curve of the nose. The lips a straight line of contemplation. He could have been sleeping. Or praying.

Which is what I should be doing.

His mind had slowed down to a sluggish crawl. The race to the temple had taken more out of him than he thought. Or maybe the cold was zapping his strength. All their things…their blankets, their tents, everything they needed to keep themselves warm…was outside. Out of reach.

I've gone and done it this time. I've damned us both to the Void.

He could feel Barghast watching him intently. Waiting. Believing Crowe would find a solution to get them out of this new predicament. I don’t have enough fingers to tell him I've completely fucked us.

Hysterical laughter boiled inside Crowe. He searched the blank-faced statues, the face of the statue who resembled his mentor. He waited for the temple ceiling to become porous. For the Eternal City's holy light to shine right through and enlighten him. It wasn’t going to be that simple. The only time I've gotten answers is when I've gone looking for them.

Barghast was already seated on the ice-covered steps of the fountain. Wagging his tail, he patted his thighs excitedly in anticipation of his next opportunity to make bodily contact with his next twin o’rre. Two of the dogs circled Crowe only to be scared off by a warning growl from the Okanavian. The dogs scampered away with mingled yelps, tucking their tails between their legs. No sooner had the practitioner started to lower himself, the lycan seized him around the middle. He glared at the dozen dogs huddled together in the middle of the temple for warmth. “Mine,” he snarled. To further his claim he licked Crowe’s cheek, whining.

“You’re going to have to learn to share.” The practitioner scratched at the fur between the barbarian’s ears.

Barghast leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Mine,” he said again.

“Yours,” the herald agreed. “All yours. There's only one way I can think of to find the answers I need…”

The lycan pressed his ears back against his head. “Away,” he rumbled with another whine. “Stay.”

“I can't.” Crowe twisted around so that he faced his companion. “I know you’re afraid of the dark. I am too. But there's not a thing in here you need to be afraid of. Everything you need to be afraid of is out there.” He pointed at the chamber's only exit. “We're in more danger of freezing to death. At least I am.”

He lit a joint, rolling the smoke around his mouth. Why am I not panicking? Why do I feel so calm? Outside the temple the wind wailed and whispered. He listened for the reaver’s screams, for the scrape of Hamon’s bare feet against the ice. “This place used to belong to my people,” he told the Okanavian for the simple fact he was tired of hearing his own thoughts. “Back before we were slaves. Back before we were relegated to building railroads.” He shook his head as if to disentangle the knotted threads in his mind. “Why? At the start of every Iteration we start off powerful…a force to be reckoned with. And then we end up being nothing more than dust. A tombstone that sticks out of the ice.”

Barghast watched him intently, listening. It never matters if he can understand me or not. When I talk he stops to listen. When I'm hurt he stops to soothe me. When I'm afraid he stops to let me know I'm not alone. When I leave he waits for me…

Crowe took a long drag from his joint before passing it back to the barbarian. For the next several minutes they passed the joint back and forth without speaking. With each drag, Crowe felt his lycan companion relax. Felt the tension beneath his fur fall away. He wasn't the only one. When the sorcerer closed his eyes, he imagined himself falling back. Imagined himself falling back until he landed in a pool of welcoming sun-dappled water. He rested his cheek against the lycan’s chest, lulled into complacency by the powerful kick of his heart.

He stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by robed figures. Their faces were obscured by hoods. They chanted in unison so that a dozen voices came together to form one. They raised their hands towards the ceiling while the lights of the Eternal City flooded the temple. One such figure approached him, holding a jeweled dagger.

“You have returned just as you always promised you would,” the figure told him in a woman's voice breathless with wonder. The other disciples had stopped chanting and watched him - waiting for his response. She turned to face the ancient steel door. “Only you can open the way to the city of Vaylin. Only you can lead us to safety.”

He placed his hand over the pedestal. The tiles glowed on contact with his skin as he fed his mana into it. The glow filled the temple, eclipsing it.

“Twin o'rre!”

Barghast was shaking him. Whimpering. Afraid. Crowe lifted his head from the past, his thoughts spinning. The dream (memory?) had felt so real. Now the temple was shaking all around them as if it wanted to come apart. Barghast had risen to his feet, hoisting the practitioner off the ground. Now he set him down, clinging to them. Silky whispers filled the cave, sifting through the dust. Shadows took shape, forming a circle in the center of the chamber around the fountain where the herald had stood in his vision.

“Herald, you have returned at last…We have been waiting for you for so very long.” The longing in their mingled voices pulled at something inside him. Something that had been locked away unbeknownst to him.

He wriggled out of the Okanavian's embrace. Or tried to. The lycan held him as tightly as he could without crushing him; he shook so hard it made Crowe's teeth rattle inside his head. “Twin o’rre…stay…”

“Put me down. You have to.”

With great effort, Crowe managed to extricate himself from the barbarian’s steely grip. He staggered towards the pedestal, drawing on his mana. A thousand needles pricked his hand. For over a thousand years this temple had been dormant. Waiting for him. Waiting for this moment. Now he was feeding the temple. The chanting of the spirits rose in pitch; beneath that he could hear the panicked howling of the dogs. The longer he held on the more he could feel the pedestal zapping his strength.

Ancient gears churned behind the door. Slowly it rose until it revealed a dark tunnel way that went back as far as the eye could see. “We did it!” Crowe dragged his hand away from the pedestal. He grinned at the Okanavian in spite of the wave of exhaustion that swept through him. “We got it open!”

Barghast took a few steps towards the tunnel. He sniffed the air wearily. “Safe?”

“I don't know.” The practitioner sniffed. “Right now it's our only way out of here. We don't have a choice.” The smell of dust and age made the herald’s head swim. He tried not to think about the cellar of his old childhood home. Stay focused. Right now Barghast is counting on you. Already he could feel the world begin to shrink around him.

Barghast took his hand. In the absolute darkness of the temple his eyes burned like twin suns. The familiarity of his touch anchored the sorcerer to the present. He let the lycan lead the way. Dust crunched beneath their feet. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the tunnel, blown into motion by cold drafts of air. Nothing else moved. Nothing else breathed. They could have been the only two living beings in existence. Crowe summoned a ball of spinning flame that trailed after them like a rock pulled on a string. Even with the light it was impossible to tell how long the cave continued. What if there isn't an exit? What if it's caved in? What if we're trapped?

This time there was no keeping the panic at bay. Bile rose up the back of his throat. He had just enough time to turn away from the barbarian and lean forward. In the name of Monad…not here, not now! I just need to push on a bit longer.

Wiping at the back of his mouth with his damaged hand, Crowe almost walked straight into Barghast's chest. “I'm fine,” he reassured the lycan. “Let’s just keep going. I don't want to be stuck in this place any longer than we have to.”

But Barghast wasn't looking at him. Or facing him. He'd planted himself in the center of the tunnel with his legs spread slightly. He gripped the rifle in his paws. His growl was low and threatening and directed at something the practitioner could not yet see. His hackles were raised. His tail flicked back and forth. The breadth of his shoulders filled the narrow corridor. Crowe held his dagger in his clammy hand. The thought of using the rod in such a confined space only made his chest feel tighter.

He could hear the steps of the newcomer scraping along the ancient stone beneath their feet. A small dome of light in the shape of an oil lamp coalesced in the gloom. The gleam of silver-white hair trickled through the darkness, revealing the hooded face of the woman who’d led them all this way. She dropped her hood.

Crowe gasped.

Barghast roared, ushering the practitioner back. His lips peeled back from his teeth bared in threat.

The woman's eyes were the unnatural silver of a fox's. “Hello, Crowe,” she said with a welcoming grin. “I was wondering when you would show up. As always you're late.” She looked at the Okanavian. “Ah calm. Y' ephainafl ymg' ngahnah ngnah ymg' beloved mirror orr'e. Llll nog ya if ymg' l' ahmgr'luh escape 'drn pursues ymg.”

Barghast’s growl lowered to a rumble. He pressed his ears back. His hackles fell.

The woman once more turned to look at the practitioner. There was an odd knowing glint in her fox eyes that made the herald want to turn away; he felt as if he was made of glass. He'd only known one other person who could make him feel that way. “You may call me Maeve. You do not know me, but I know you. I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time. I know you've traveled a long way and been through much.” She graced him with a bitter smile that was not without kindness. “I’m afraid it will only get more difficult from here. For now you must come with me and be quick! We don't have much time.”

Without another word, she turned, already disappearing into the shadows.

Barghast took Crowe’s hand. “I keep you safe.”

Together they followed Maeve deeper into the tunnel.