ComeOutTonightVesper’s bell had rung, welcoming the growing darkness. Faerie lights cast the university’s courtyard in cheerful relief, adding to the already festive mood that hovered over the campus. Released from their grueling first day, the student body now explored and celebrated their new home. Musicians and vendors created a carnival spirit, as men and women sampled the assortment of food and drink offered. Even the professors had joined in the merriment, while gaggles of students followed them about like noisy chicks. And yet, the clock tower remained virtually abandoned. A few students passed by, acknowledging Malachi with friendly smiles. But for the most part, he remained alone. Of Swanhild there was no sign. The night grew darker until at last he heard a polite cough from above him. Sitting atop one of the ledges, Swanhild kicked her booted feet happily and stared down at him. She wore a short dress of silk and chiffon that accentuated her long legs and slim waist. Her hair had been tied back to show off her neck. Considering the length of her heels, it seemed impossible for her to have climbed so high. “Guten Abend!” Malachi snorted delightedly. "I don't know how you got up there, but I'm a sight more interested in how you propose to get down in that dress. I'm afraid I'll be scandalized!" Malachi joked. Privately, he suspected he would be scandalized and vowed to hide it. "Best looking gargoyle in the whole place," he added, holding up a hand to aid her in her descent. Excited by both the company and the carnival atmosphere, which was literally worlds apart from anything the young man had ever encountered, Malachi was dressed in his best suit (he had three, all supplied by the Lady Karm's tailor, who wanted to burn Malachi's own clothes.) He was natty in a cravat and dark blue tailcoat over a buff waistcoat and breeches. He carried with him a fine walking stick and on his head was a beaver top hat. If not for his uncomfortable pulls at the cravat, he would have looked every inch the young gentleman. Her eyes wandered over him with interest, her hand soon joining in kind to sample the cut of his jacket. She gave a pleased nod. “You dress up well,” she said, grinning. “May be uncomfortable where we go. But you will catch all girls’ eyes, ja?” "Is my plan so obvious?" he grinned, taking her arm. "So where are we going, exactly?" Swanhild shrugged not-so-innocently, sliding her arm into Malachi's. "Normally, we go to Flaming Duck. But tonight is special, ja? We go to little place in Salacus Fields. Just south of Crow Station." She began to lead him out to the main street, where several carriages were waiting patiently for a possible fare. Malachi hailed a carriage, trying not to count the cost to his small budget and escorted Swanhild into its cab. Giving the driver directions, he then settled in opposite to Swanhild in the cab. "You're not going to tell me what this place is, are you?" he asked. "Well, that's alright. There's hardly a place in the city I would know by name." Swanhild patted his knee and stared out the window. “Surprise,” she reiterated. Settling in, he regarded Swanhild and her glamorous outfit with a grin that was more sheepish than wolfish. "Tell me about the Tree-People," he said. "Who are they and where do they live?" Now alone, Swanhild curled into his side and rested her head against his shoulder. She felt light as a feather, gently bumping into him as the carriage made its way through the city. “Schwarzwald,” she said - the word rolling off her tongue like bird song. “Is a large forest. Many, many leagues of great pines and firs in a valley carved from the rock by Ice Würm. Or so story goes. We were born of the ravens that fed on Würm after it die, so have blood of both. We speak to wind, water, and tree. Settled in city of Windbuchen and live there still. Is my home. Maybe you see one day.” She smiled up at him, as if this possibility brings her great joy "I'd like that," he said, absently, his cheek burning in embarrassment, unseen in the dim light of the carriage. "Wind and trees...do they...do they talk back?" he asked, serious now. “Sometimes,” she replied, wistful. “Not as you or I would. They speak different. Think different. A tree’s thought could last for days. Love in their way. And war too. The winds are like memory. Speak of all they touch. Lands they have seen. I like winds.” She leaned forward and checked the street for a moment. Satisfied with their progress, she rested against him once again. “Tell me of Karm? What home like?” 1. Malachi thought for a time, answering only after thinking in his careful way. "It's lovely country. Lots of good rich clay to the east for farming and rolling hills to the west leading up to the mountains. Five or six good-sized rivers and more streams and creeks and lakes than a man could ever name. Arnon's Bridge, that's the little place I'm from, is in the northwest hills. They call it horse country, but most of it is still wild. The streams are full of fish and the Old People still live in the woods near the mountains, or so they say." "In the summertime, you can go up into the mountains where it's cool and look down on the world and see it like the birds do. The rivers look like silver wire and the fields look like a quilted carpet at the fair." For a moment, a wistfulness entered Swanhild’s eyes. She touched his chest, her hand hovering over his heart. It remained there as the silence deepened between them. “It sound beautiful,” she whispered. “I very much like to see someday. Someday.” "Good," he says, feeling on safer conversational ground. "It's best to see it in the summer, I think. You can come during one of our summer breaks. Do you like to fish?" In his heart, Malachi pictured this beautiful creature seeing the tiny hamlet of Arnon's Bridge and being thoroughly repelled by its ordinariness and poverty, not to mention his own humble origins. Still, he thinks she'll never see it, so why not sound more confident than he really is? Another hushed moment. Outside, the streetlights became brighter, sneaking through the rocking curtains. A distant steam whistle cut through the night, lonely and alien. Upon hearing it, Swanhild sat up in her seat and drew back the curtains. “We close now.” A monstrosity of cold metal and dark glass filled most of their view. Trusses of wrought iron rose from the ground like the immaculately polished ribs of some long-dead beast. Sea birds roosted amongst the building gargoyles and statuary, outlined in the flicker of a thousand coal-gas lamps. A multitude of mismatched people filed in and out of the structure, as if members of some insanely-choreographed ballet. “Crow Station,” Swanhild explained. "We're eating at a train station?" he asks, confused. She thumped his chest, “No. But does have nice café, ja?” She waited until they’d passed the main entrance before rapping on the cab’s ceiling. “We get off here,” she yelled to the driver. The carriage came to a halt and the driver came to let them out. The streets were lined with people of all cultures and creeds. Beggars and barkers alike vied for attention, but most of the passers by paid them heed, far too involved in their own lives. A solitary magewright tipped his hat to Malachi and then returned to his business. Swanhild took his arm and pointed down an alleyway, the narrow stone path winding into the distance. Coal-lamps gave the bricks an orange and lemon sheen. People - couples mostly - populated the alley, but certainly nothing like the crush of the main street. “We go, ja?” She tugged his arm in that direction. He allowed himself to be tugged, oblivious to anything but her closeness and her smile. "Certainly," he said. "So...'Crow Station'... It sounds like the sort of place your people might like! Do you have any relatives in this part of the city?" Swanhild chuckled, but shook her head. “Nein. Am here alone. Only one of family to travel after war in Eregnor. Schwarzwald only hurt a little. Der Vater and schwestern stay home to rebuild forest. Make trade. Make fortune. I come to learn ways of the Golden Circle. Will make family stronger.” She led them down another alley - the narrow space between the two buildings forcing them to walk single file. A plain green door stood at the end of this passage. She pushed it open and immediately they were greeted with music, laughter, and the thick smell of pipe smoke and old ale. A burning hearth with Celtic knotwork carved into its granite framework illuminated most of the room. In front of this, an old satyr with chipped horns played a wild tune upon a fiddle. Beside him, a Sylvan woman kept time with a skin drum. Dancers and singers filled most of the space in front of them, lost in their celebration. Meanwhile, a large wooden table dominated the room’s heart with a myriad of humanoids of every description sitting around it, apparently involved in some heated debated. Around the room, others were engaged in darts, Gateway, and something with colored tiles. The other side of the room had a long bar with a brass bar that ran its length. Above this three words - caed mille failte - were painted in gold lettering. People barked orders at an unflappable man with a broad forehead and hatchet-blade hair. He took note of the new arrivals, jerking a nod in welcome. “Welcome to Fool’s Gambit,” Swanhild said over the noise. The warm atmosphere of the place reminded Malachi of a country inn back home; even the music was very nearly familiar. "I like it," he said with a smile, removing his hat and casting about for a seat someplace far enough from the bar where he'd be able to hear Swanhild over the noise of the bar. "Especially the name." Because I am a fool to think that a creature like this will remain interested in country lummox from Karm for long, said one part of his mind, a part he quickly hushed. Finding a snug near the back, he escorted Swanhild to their seats and signaled the barmaid for a round of drinks. "So how did you ever find this place?" he asked. "I could have wandered the streets for a semester and never found it." When the barmaid approached, Swanhild ordered an apple cider and biscuits with jam. “By chance, ja?” she replied to Malachi. “Classmate from rhetoric class mention this place. Work here before she find husband. She say some nights have very heated discussions. So I come test my skills. Test my Thari. Even see Prince Bleys here once!” A dreamy look came over her face. “He handsome. And sing well. Sing of the Patternfall War and how he defeat the Usurper, Eric. Very funny man.” She remembered something and cocked her head, “Have you meet the Royals?” "Me?" He shook his head. "No. I think I saw Princess Florimel from a long way off once. Everyone was talking at once and pointing, but all I saw was a mess of guards clearing someone's way and a glimpse of a blonde woman going into a shop." "Um...How come Prince Corwin's bad for attacking Amber, but Prince Bleys is good for doing the same thing?" “Because he not bring the Demons to Amber,” she replied. “It Corwin who cause the Scar. It Corwin who bring guns to Amber. He cause much death and pain. All for crown. All because he hate brother. He lacked honor. And where is he now, ja? He make big mess and leave. Prince Bleys stay and help rebuild. He help our good King Random. Not hide in shame. He may joke about war with Eric, but people know he exaggerate. Is his way.” Her voice had enough of an edge to be heard by those near the table. However, rather than jump to the Prince’s defense, they simply nodded or muttered in agreement. "Well, they tell the story a bit differently in Karm," said Malachi. "And the way I heard it, good king Random was working with Prince Corwin much of the time. They say that Corwin followed the...Scar...the Black Road, we call it, not the other way 'round." He shrugs. "I was just a boy. I barely remember any of it. My father drove supplies to King Eric's army, and to Prince Caine's fleet, I think. Other than that, it pretty much passed us by in Arnon's Bridge." Swanhild stared in amazement, “You in fast shadow then, ja? Was fifty 1. years ago to my people. So strange history is in Creation. For some, it but eye-blink. For others, an eternity. To know that worlds rise and fall in our lifetime fills me with both wonder and dread.” She grew quiet as their drinks arrived. She sipped from her flagon, a dainty bird dipping its beak. She set it down and then smiled faintly. “How many students will never see their homes again? At least, not as they were, ja? Entire families now dust and memory.” Malachi set down his glass. "I never thought of that. It is sad, when you put it that way. I guess it never occurred to me that I'm lucky to be able to go home. The whole idea of time hurts my head when I get to thinking of it. More than one sort of time is too much for a country boy like me." He brightened up rapidly, however. "But just think. I guess that means they can go home and see how things turned out. I sure would like to know how my kids and grandkids turned out. See how folks change and how they don't. Sort of like a history book, without all the boring parts." Swanhild laughed affectionately, “You are man of traditions, ja? Talk of family and history. This is a good thing.” She reached over and stroked his hand. “I am sure you have wonderful family soon. Patriarch Malachi. Has nice sounding to it.” Her fingertips sent fiery tingles through his wrist, “Enough dark thoughts. I wish play darts. Who win, buy next round, ja?” He stood up and offered her his hand, then walked over to an open dart board. He smiled broadly at the two young men betting on the game already in progress on the next board, then returned his attention to Swanhild. "Ladies first," he said. He handed her a trio of darts and wiped the scoreboard clean. The defeats that followed lightened Malachi’s change purse considerably, as well as attracted attention from their fellow patrons. Swanhild possessed an unerring - almost supernatural - accuracy, scoring near perfect sets. After a few rounds, she began to offer him helpful advice, warmly pressing into his back and guiding his hand. The tables began to turn in Malachi’s favor. Cheers went up as the competition intensified, the scores going back and forth in nail-biting closeness. Yet, after a few more drinks, she finally began throwing off target and grew increasingly dangerous until eventually retiring from the field of battle in a laughing surrender. Swanhild's ability to be better at apparently everything annoyed Malachi. He expected her to be cleverer than he. Most people were, and he had long since stopped noticing. But faster, stronger and more accurate, too? This was a thing outside his experience in man or woman. He didn't like it. She was the most beautiful, most charming woman he'd ever met. A creature whose like he had not suspected until coming to Amber and whose actual existence he would have doubted even then until he met her. She made him feel pleasantly drunk, and slightly off-center. But he also felt jealousy towards her, knew it for what it was and disliked himself for it. As the hour grew late, she gave him a tender kiss on the cheek and headed to the powder room. The crowd returned to their own conversations and drinks. As the people parted, Malachi noticed two figures entered the room - standing in the doorway. The first was a tall, lanky youth wearing a white suit - pale-faced and stringy-haired. Besides him stood his polar opposite - a dark-haired woman wearing black lace and burgundy dress. She tugged and twirled her long hair, giggling at some private joke. The boy scanned the faces of the crowd - as if looking for someone in particular. Malachi barely noticed the newcomers, his gaze running over them with little more interest than in deer's head mounted over the door. And with a good deal less interest than in the food being served at the nearest table. He signaled the serving girl and ordered a pair of quail. Then, remembering Swanhild's affinity for birds, changed his order to venison. He tried to think what Swanhild might like to eat, but couldn't and lamely ordered some bread and cheese. He drummed absently on the tabletop while awaiting her return. After a moment, Malachi’s perceptions registered something… decidedly odd. In the pub’s riotous din, the drumming of his fingers became more distinct. Louder. But as he considered this, an impossible truth became apparent. It wasn’t the sound of his fingers that had increased. The celebratory sounds around him had begun to dim, as if fading into the distance. As he glanced around the room, he noticed a sickly grayness settling over every surface. The pleasant smells of food and ale were replaced with the sharp stink of corruption and rot. The fire in the hearth transformed into a black inferno - ghastly flames writhing and twitching like a nest of weevils. Wooden furniture moldered and glasses became encrusted with filth. But worse yet were the people. They appeared frozen in their revelry - locked in place like silent statues. Their skin darkened and bubbled, oozing clotted shadows that encased their bodies in cocoons of obsidian. This transformation soon ended, leaving him alone in a claustrophobic graveyard of coffins. Well, not completely alone… The eerie pair remained behind and stared hungrily at him. The girl giggled and then glanced up at her companion, “I told you there was a dolly here.” Malachi was shocked, unable to conceive of what was happening. Amber was always strange to the big man and he had long since gotten used to ignoring things that confused him. But not this. Something about the two people he could still see was creepier to Malachi than the disgusting transformation all around him. He stood up, unknown slime sliding from his palm where he touched the table. He looked around, wondering where Swanhild was gone and whether she was in danger. "What in the name of the Unicorn is all this?" he cried, addressing the man and women. "What's happened?" He remained wary, holding his walking stick like a club. The woman clapped her hands, “Look at his face. Heh heh. Dolly is confused.” The man sighed and picked some lint from his immaculate outfit. “Indeed, Mistress. Indeed.” They descended the stairs, skirting around the forest of coffins, drawing invariably closer. The man offered a greasy smile, “We’ve come to give you a gift, my friend.” “A gift! A gift!” The girl parroted. "I don't think so," said Malachi in a low lupine growl. "Stay where you are." His normally deliberate mind moved at unaccustomed speed, trying to work out what he was seeing and come up with a smart response. Unfortunately, faster is not cleverer and Malachi could think of no stratagem but the one that had served him so well his whole life. He attacked. He waited until the man was within lunging distance and then charged, shoulder low as in countless ball games and wrestling matches. He knew the man might be quick; in his experience thin men often were. So he led with the walking stick, just as he had in games of hurling, and forced the man directly into his path so that Malachi's greater bulk and strength (he presumed) would catch him at the waist and bowl him over. The Man in White’s overconfidence had lulled him and Malachi’s sudden attack caught him off-guard. Even so, striking the willowy man felt like hitting a knot in an oak tree with an axe - the jarring impact numbing Malachi’s arm and fracturing his walking stick. Despite his hidden potency, the man succumbed to Malachi’s bulk and went sprawling backward - knocking over table as he fell in a tangle of gangly limbs. He howled his displeasure in a womanly cry. Malach moved directly towards the ladies’ room where Swanhild had gone. No conscious thought animated him; he was operating now on a purely instinctive level that told him he must not stop moving and must get to the goal first. As Malachi turned the corner, the wood beside his head exploded in a shower of splinters and the pub echoed with a deafening roar - a gunshot. The girl gave a disapproving shriek, “The Master wants him alive! Bad, bad, bad!” A few strides brought Malachi to the women’s powder room. He swung the door open to a grim scene - a befouled chamber rich with inky shadows. Three black coffins stood near the filth-streaked mirror, but of Swanhild there was no sign. Behind him, the Man in White bellowed, “I’ll kill him. I don’t care what the Master wants! No one does that to me!” Malachi skidded to a halt in the powder room. Contrary to both appearances and his own belief, Malachi was neither stupid nor particularly slow-minded. He was simply careful of speech and thought. The same quick reflexes and capacity to swiftly assess options and reach a decision that had carried him to victory on so many Karmish ball fields now animated his responses. Looking around the room, he spied a sideboard table surmounted by a mirror and hand towels. He sprang across the room, swept the table clear and heaved, wedging the table against the door. Then he ran to the smallish window and heaved on the sash, throwing it upwards and began wriggling through it to the alley outside. Almost immediately, a loud pounding echoed through the room as a heavy hand struck the door. The Man in White cursed and growled unintelligibly, his words obscured by rage. The wood began to crack and splinter under the assault. Malachi realized, on an instinctive level, that Swanhild was trapped in one of the coffins and was probably not in immediate danger. His mind focused on his own danger for a moment. That fop in the white coat had been a lot stronger and tougher than he looked. Still, thumping him hard might cause him to explain what is happening. Malachi looked forward to giving the man a proper thumping. He looked for a weapon in the alley. The dark alley resembled the gutter of an abattoir - caked in gore and rancid meat. Despite the revolting butchery, the air lacked any smell beyond a faint mustiness. It also lacked any form of weaponry that Malachi could see. From beyond the window, a loud crash announced the bathroom door’s final surrender. At the other end of the alleyway, Malachi could see greenish light flickering and the main street - a possible escape. Escape never entered Malachi's mind. Swanhild might be safe for the moment, but even that wasn't assured. If she really was in one of those coffins, what might the Man in White do to her if left to his own devices? No, Malachi decided that he needed to arm himself. He wished, and not for the first time, that he knew how to use a sword. Fat lot of good that would do him, though, in the complete absence of swords. What he needed was something harder than his broken cane. An iron bar would do nicely. Would they have a lever or crowbar for opening crates around back of the tavern? Perhaps just a shovel. He decided to look and ran towards the rear of the building. His best coat and britches, gifts of the Lady of Karm, were soiled with the offal and gore covering the window ledge and alleyway. Malachi's mind tried to come to grips with what was happening. It was magic, obviously, and dark magic at that. Amber had no shortage of sorcerers. But those two people had come for him personally. Why would a sorcerer be interested in a farm boy and struggling student? In all the tales, sorcerers were defeated by honest, forthright lads who were terribly clever when the moment came. As he ran through the squalid filth of the alley, Malachi knew that no one was ever going to call him clever. But he wasn't a lad anymore, either. Whoever that Man in White was, he might be cleverer than Malachi, but by the Unicorn he was going to know he'd been in a fight before this was over. And if he touched Swanhild, Malachi swore, he would die. Malachi found what he desired in the inky darkness of farthest end of the alley. Someone - or ‘thing’ - had built what could only be called a wind-chime. A collection of dried rib bones and rusty daggers had been hung from a bent drain pipe by strings of sinew. The blades were wicked and meant for foul business - certainly not weapons of honor. Indeed, they remained him of the old blade he’d once found in his father’s steamer truck; his collection of PatternFall memorabilia. His father had been enraged when Malachi revealed his discovery, shaking his son forcibly. Strangely, he’d been more scared than even his young son - the kris-knife stirring some dark memory. They’d never spoken of that day again. As he approached, the chime rustled without the presence of wind, emitting a low, animal sound. Malachi wondered momentarily if the drain pipe wouldn't afford him a weapon 1. itself, but abandoned that idea. It was too flimsy. He cast about for something ordinary and hard, loathe to touch the vile weapons. Seeing nothing else, and thinking of Swanhild, he seized the memory of his father's souvenir. He had held a kris-knife; now his son would. Malachi stepped up to the horrid chime and tore out the largest, least rusted knife he could find there. The construct made another low sound and he could feel resistance as he pulled. The blade eventually came free with a wet sound. A spurt of foul smelling ichor emerged from the torn sinew, but ebbed to a slow trickle in short order. The other blades and the rib bones began to twitch and rustle on their own. He was a farmboy from Karm, not a glittering lord of Amber. He cared not at all for the honor of a weapon, only that it was the best available tool. He would have preferred a lead pipe or a crowbar, something heavy and dull to take advantage of his size and strength. He wanted to best the Man in White, not kill him. But beggars can't be choosers. Thrusting the oversized knife into his now-filthy waistcoat, he tried to scrabble up the drain pipe. He wanted the advantage of altitude and surprise. The pipe held firm and it and the narrow walls, he gained access to the building’s flat rooftop. The rest of the city appeared equally transformed, a twisted, alien landscape stretching out as far as he could see. In particular, where the Castle Amber once stood now loomed a cyclopean tower of maddening design. He had little time to consider this as below him, Malachi heard the Man in White’s voice drawing closer - absolutely no attempt to obfuscate his approach being made. The woman hissed and cursed at him in a futile attempt to calm his rage. The door to the pub slammed opened and the youth emerged, a brutish-looking pistol in his pale hand. He glanced both ways. He did not look upward, remaining unaware of his prey’s location. The blade vibrated anxiously in his hand. Malachi remembered something from his father's tales of the Patternfall War. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight," he had said. He had to find a way to disarm the Man in White. He brushed aside fantasies about leaping on his opponent from above and knocking aside the gun. There was too much uncertainty in such a play. He had to find a way to get the youth to set the gun down voluntarily. He moved silently to the edge of the roof overlooking the empty side alley. He hoped to find a sewer grate, the kind a man could slip through. Failing that, he looked for a narrow area through which the Man in White would have to pass, someplace that afforded him the chance of an ambush. The street below appeared deserted, if somewhat altered in appearance. The cobblestones shone darkly with spilled blood - pools reflecting the greenish sky. Grime and rot covered the buildings, as if they’d turned leprous. But as he’d hoped, the general design remained the same. Wrought iron sewer grates punctuated the street at set intervals. There remained no sign of the duo in either direction. And yet, Malachi had the gnawing sensation of being watched. Watched by something of an alien intelligence. He slid down the wall as silently as he might have left a deer blind in Karm. He lifted the sewer grate and nearly retched at the horrid stench that rose from below. Whatever had happened here in the city, it was far worse down there. He set the grate carefully back down so that it stood slightly ajar. Something a man might do if he fled quickly into the sewers to flee a superior force. Then, Malachi hid himself behind a stack of crates not far away. He envisioned how he hoped the trap would work. The Man in White would see the raised and grate and assume Malachi had fled down into the sewers. He would follow, lowering himself and his clean white suit into the narrow manhole using both hands. In the moment of descent he would set down the gun or hold it in one of the two hands he used to lower himself down. In that instant of vulnerability, Malachi would spring forward and try to seize the gun. At the worst, the Man in White would be half into the ground and Malachi would have a few seconds to get away if the plan failed. An agonizing wait began for Malachi. Shrouded in shadow and silence, he could see ‘things’ moving in the distance. On rooftops or at theend of the street or deep in an alleyway. Things. Twisted, formless, broken, and indistinct. Only a glimpse or a hint at the corner of his eye, but they were there - moving about with unknowable purpose. They appeared equally unaware of him, perhaps for the better. The hurried click of heels drew his attention elsewhere. Bold as brass, the Man in White came storming down the street from the direction of the pub. He immediately noticed the misaligned sewer grate and arched toward it like an arrow. He laughed bitterly, “A fitting place for a rat to hide.” Just as Malachi had hoped, the enraged man bent down to peer into the blackness. He set the heavy pistol beside him on the curb, his hand loosely holding its dangerous form. Distracted, the Man in White never saw Malachi come out of his blind spot. A well-paced boot sent him sprawling onto the cobblestones - a gasping cry escaping his pale lips. This provided Malachi more than enough time to retrieve the pistol. Its cold steel handle filled his hand with a deadly weight. His opponent - now recovered - stared up at him hateful. He tensed up, as if preparing to spring at Malachi. Malachi cocked back the pistol's hammer. "Uh uh," he said, pointing the gun straight between his adversary's eyes. "Come up out of there nice and slow, and keep your hands where I can see them. You and me are going to have a talk. And call out your girlfriend. I want her where I can see her, too." The Man in White slowly rose to his feet. Oddly, even though he’d rolled in the pools of blood, his clothing remained flawless and clean as polished bone. His pitiless gaze bore into Malachi. “The time for diplomacy is over, Dragon-kin,” he hissed hatefully. Malachi suddenly felt an odd pressure on his chest. As if he’d been bumped or tapped with a fingertip. Such a slight sensation. But it made him feel… tired. Malachi briefly thought of squeezing the trigger, but then just let his gaze slowly fall towards his own chest. The gun became incredibly heavy in Malachi’s hand - the arduous task of holding it overcoming his leaden fingers. He suspected it had to do with the card now protruding from his chest. A tarot card. The Moon, he realized, as shock numbed his nerves. It pulsed rhythmically. Pulsed with the slowing beat of his bisected heart. His blood pooled around its edges, so dark and shiny in the moonlight. Unable quite to comprehend what had happened, he looked back up at the Man in White as his knees wobbled and gave way. He opened his mouth to reply, but only blood trickled forth. The street reached up to receive him in a motherly embrace. In truth, Malachi’s head cracked on the curb, but he felt nothing. Time slowed around him, light and scent and sound becoming sluggish and muffled. Distantly, he felt the gun yanked from his hand. Spittle struck hisf ace, warm and wet. It eased the coldness now drenching his body. The Man in White cleaned his gun, gazing down at him from an impossible distance. The girl appeared - her face a mask of disgust. “He was going to kill you,” she said. “Couldn’t let him hurt you.” “You could have just wounded him, Medea,” he replied. She touched her face like a scolded child, leaving red marks on herskin. Malachi’s blood. “Oh. But. Oh dear. I thought. . .” “You thought wrong,” another voice said. A voice so utterly devoid ofhumanity that it could turn a rational man’s bowels to water. The Man in White and Medea fell to their knees - disappearing from Malachi’s vision. “Master,” they whispered as one. “Did I not expect my wishes clearly enough for you?” The pair began to protest, but an alien growl drowned them out. For Malachi, even death could not ease the fear this sound elicited. A face hovered over him. A face - in shape at least. Hooded in velvet, the squirming mass possessed the rudimentary structures -nose, mouth, eyes. But rather than flesh and muscle, this face had been shaped from cancerous spillage and bodily effluent. Fat, white worms rained from its cheeks as it spoke, “Such a shame. This one would have been… powerful. He would have helped us bring about the Fall. But now - because of your rash natures - this one belongs to my brother.” Malachi's mind began to retreat. He saw the horrid being as if through a veil of blood. Around him, the doors of his mind flew shut as the world receded into the distance. No word escaped his lips, but into his mind came unbidden the image of the Lady of Karm. Her face was that of the lovely Swanhild. ‘He’ reached toward Malachi’s face with a hand molded from grave dirt and rot. As his pestilent fingertip graced Malachi’s cooling tongue, he vaguely heard the man speak, “But even this empty flesh may be of service to me yet…” The darkness swallowed Malachi. |
