Feet slapping on wet concrete. This was the sound that filled the night air, deep in the urban labyrinth of Chicago. Footsteps slapping rhythmically one after the other at a pace that might make an Olympic runner gasp. If you approached the source of the treads, you would begin to hear other noises - a panting, loud, harsh. A heartbeat thumping, the swish of cloth against cloth. Nothing that special. The sounds of a fleeing footpad, the sounds of a child leaving home in a veil of tears, the sounds of someone escaping from some enraged murderer. A loud bark rips through the pattern. The bark is a hoarse cough, tapering into a throaty wheeze. Another bark follows it, and then a howl - an unearthly, echoing howl, bouncing off the walls of the alleys and out into the streets, into the open windows of apartments and the confines of the occasional passing car. The occupants and passengers who hear this noise think of a dog, or a drunk, or a demon, depending on their age and what sparks of life still live within them. Ciaran McGowan heard the howl and knew it meant his death. He rounded a corner, slamming into the traffic signal in his haste. He rebounded off of it and careened into a grate, which blocked the entrance to a long-closed bar. Rearranging his grip on the leather-bound book he held, he shook his head, trying to clear some of the residual fog from the drugs they'd given him. He knew he had to get to someplace far, and get there reasonably fast as well. The beasts tracking him would certainly pick up his trail again. Even if he did manage to escape death at the jaws of a Grendel tonight, his escape would be short-lived, at best. Suddenly realizing he'd slowed his pace, Ciaran began a new burst of speed, fueled by the quite vivid image of what the Grendels had done to his friend not fifteen minutes earlier. And it would surely be in bad taste to give up the lead that their impromptu meal had given him - Sean, for one, would mock him endlessly in Heaven or the bowels of Hades, if either one actually existed. Although in light of recent events, Ciaran was almost certain that the latter did indeed exist, that it had kicked the all-holy crap out of the former, and proceeded to usurp all its functions. He clutched his bundle tighter. His burst of speed finally brought him to Garfield Street. Chancing his lead, he glanced back over his shoulder to see if his pursuers had gained ground. As he did so, the first of the pair chasing him hove into sight around the corner Ciaran had just passed. The beast was massive. It was vaguely dog shaped, although well larger than any dog could ever hope to be. It, in fact, bordered on the size of a small cow, and was the very picture of hell. Its amphibious skin was clammy pale grey-green, the color of avocado pits mashed into a pulp and served raw. Atop its bulbous head and running down its neck like a horse's mane sat a greasy-looking mop of black wire that passed for hair. Its eyes glowed a faint sickly yellow, which was caused by microscopic organisms living in the eye's fluid. Of course, the Grendel's most notable attribute was its teeth. They were massive things, jutting out at odd angles and in no seeming pattern. Indeed, legend had it that no two Grendel's teeth were the same. Ciaran knew it all, of course. It was all in the book. The damned book. "Bloody HELL, but those things are ugly," Ciaran panted. The outburst was almost a reflex. The things were indeed incredibly ugly, but that made them no less lethal than Nature's most beautiful predator. Not, of course, that Nature had crafted these beasts. No, something far more sinister had. Ciaran noted headlights as he turned his head back to the front. He made an inner sigh of relief, almost laughing out loud. He took a quick sidestep, and spun around into the path of the oncoming vehicle. On purpose, naturally. The car screeched to a halt at a skewed angle, and the driver leaned his head out the window. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you crazy bastard? I could'a run your ass over! I should have! I mean, Jesus, it's four'na morning!" He continued ranting as Ciaran swiftly scanned the car. Checkered sides, light on top... Shi'iana was with him this damned early morning: it was a Checker Cab. He opened the front passenger's side door and slipped in. As soon as he realized what was happening, the cabdriver swiftly reached up to his visor and came down with a fairly large handgun. Ciaran wasn't sure of the type. "Oh, no you don't. My shift's OVER, and I don't carry freeloaders anyways." Ciaran reached into his coat and tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie as he heard himself saying, "Midway Airport. Now, if you want to live." The driver picked up one of the bills, looking at it incredulously as it revealed two zeroes and a one. His eyes gleamed, although his mouth said, "I told you, my shift's over, man. And besides, I got my gun." He waved it in the air. The effect was less than menacing. "How're you going to kill me 'fore I can shoot you?" Sighing, Ciaran pointed his finger out the side window, where the hulking mass of the first Grendel was beginning to make itself visible through the cab's tinted windows. "Don't have to, friend. They'll do a right good job on their own." The Grendel's subsequent bark caused those same windows to shudder violently. The cabbie's eyes widened. "Holy sh-" "Indeed." The Grendel bounded up to the corner near the cab, looked both ways down the street, and then raised its snub nose to the air, sniffing cautiously. "You have about seven seconds until it scents me, Mr..." Ciaran's eyes scanned the cab driver's nameplate, mounted on the dash, "... Baker. At that time, it will proceed to tear this cab to shreds to get at me. That will likely include your death in the bargain." The Grendel's eyes gleamed as it snapped its gaze to the cab. It growled. "I suggest you drive now, since we only have about... three seconds left." The cab driver seemed to be unable to argue with this logic, likely because his brain had devoted itself to making some sense of this situation. Despite this difficulty, he managed to slam the cab into drive and lay his foot on the ignition as if it had been turned to stone by the Grendel's stare. The cab lurched like it had been bitten, and this, in fact, was the only thing that saved it from that horrible fate. The Grendel's misshapen jaws closed about the empty space once inhabited by the cab only a split second after it left the aforementioned location, causing a massive crunch of splintering bone as teeth met teeth with incredible force. Ciaran let out his breath slowly. That had been too close. He turned his head to look back at the Grendel just in time to see the second Grendel finally catch up to the first one. They stood staring after the cab for a moment, as if pondering the effect chasing it might have. After a too-brief pause, they began bounding up the street. They were gaining. "Fuck," said Ciaran. _______________________________________________________________________________ Trans-Dimensional Llama Productions Is Proud to Present * The Book of the Wyrd * by Chamelaeon Wombatowski (chamelaeon@hotmail.com) First Chapter - The One-Way Door _______________________________________________________________________________ Branwen was sitting in an airport terminal. He wasn't quite sure which one it was, nor really where in the mass of corridors he'd been left at. At this point, he was sure of only a few things. One, he couldn't see the terminal sign, nor the arrival/departure monitors, so he didn't know when he was leaving. Two, he was sick and tired of being ferried around, guided by a string of condescending old women who smelled like lilacs and B-vitamins, from baggage to security gate to terminal to terminal, in a seemingly chaotic traversal of the entire airport, only to end up here and told to wait until they called his name. Three, he had to go to the bathroom. Quite badly. "Welcome to Midway Airport!" screamed a poster across the corridor. Next to that, in official-looking letters, was a sign saying "Restrooms" and an arrow pointing to the right. "Surely they won't mind if I run and go quickly," he thought. "Everybody here's gone through security." He looked swiftly left and right. He could faintly see the latest old woman around a pillar. She looked incredibly occupied taking tickets and soothing a red-faced bald man who was shouting about something. "She won't care. Besides, she only helped me because Mother paid her. I'm sure of it." He slipped off his backpack and laid it beside his other carry-on bag. Moving slowly at first, and then running when he got out of the gate area, he made it to the bathroom with little time to spare. ______________________________________________________________________________ The cab driver stared as Ciaran produced another wad of bills from his pocket. "Thank you for your help," Ciaran said. He wondered briefly if the driver's eyes were forced wide from the amount of cash he'd just been handed, or if they were wide because they'd just spent an incredible half hour careening around corners and over medians, nearly dying at least a dozen times as the Grendels got close enough to smell. "Foul odious beasts," muttered Ciaran. He readjusted his grip on the book, studiously not looking at its leather-bound cover. "I've GOT to get out of this city." With that, he strode toward the entrance of the newly-remodeled front of Midway Airport. On the way in, he happened to catch his reflection in one of the doors. He paused for a moment to look himself over, trying to see if anything would set him apart from the average person in the airport. Starting at the top, then, he thought to himself. Reddish-brown hair, uncombed for days, lay in a tangled weave atop his head. His eyes were a disconcerting pale blue, almost as if they had been frozen at one point, and never returned to their natural color. His face was at best marginally handsome, and at worst simply not ugly. A day or two of unshaven growth lay heavy on his cheeks. His brown trenchcoat fell to his ankles and was unbuttoned to reveal merely jeans and a t-shirt. And to close up, his twenty-two year old body was just starting to lose the hard edges of exercise and had begun slowly rounding. It was very hard to tell he was Scottish, even with his slight accent, and impossible to tell he spent most of his waking days in a hell most humans never dreamed of. Good. "Hey, man, were you planning on moving, or were you gonna stare at yourself in the glass all night?" "Yeah, some of us have places to be." Ciaran, startled, looked behind him. A young couple, younger than nineteen, surely, waited behind the door for him to move through. He shook his head a little to clear it, and murmured, "Sure." He'd spaced out - the drugs must still be affecting him. He entered through the door and faced a line in front of the ticket counter that snaked back on itself at least five times. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 4:30 AM. He mentally cursed Chicago's Midway airport, the tightened airport security, and the paranoia of people in general. The people behind him merely heard him say "Damn." _______________________________________________________________________________ "Damn," muttered Branwen. He'd thought for sure he would just be able to dash into the bathroom, dash out, and then head back to the gate. Except that there were two entrances to the bathrooms, and he wasn't sure which one he'd entered from. When he finally gotten over his indecision and chosen, he'd caught a whiff of a real Chicago "All-Beef" hot dog, a treat which his mother absolutely forbade. The only time he ever got any hot dogs at all was when he visited his father, like he was doing now. Only, his father lived in Atlanta, and the hot dogs there just couldn't compare, at least in Branwen's opinion. He followed the intoxicating smell out of the terminal and into a small plaza with about three or four food shops. Nearly drooling, he reached into his pocket and produced his Mickey Mouse wallet. He was fairly embarrassed about his current choice of billfolds, but not only did he rarely ever use it, it had been a gift from his mother for his tenth birthday, when she had decided he was finally old enough to learn to "spend responsibly". "Spending responsibly" was, of course, two different things to a ten year old and his mother, although both of them were quite surprised at the amount of candy one could buy for thirty dollars. Opening the plastic coated nylon, Branwen discovered that his mother had apparently decided to up his allowance again, this time to the tidy sum of forty-five dollars a month. Branwen rolled his eyes, once again not understanding his mother at all. It seemed that the less he spent, the more she gave him. Shrugging internally, he moved into line at the hot dog booth. This was going to taste so good... _______________________________________________________________________________ Ciaran strode calmly past the hanging bird sculpture made entirely of little plastic planes and got onto the escalator down. Looking at the eleven other escalators ferrying traffic between the three levels of the Midway entrance, he pondered just how many human hopes and hearts had been broken or granted by the movement of people between these floors. Unbidden, the three- tiered diagram for the Realms floated in his mind. He cursed and mentally banished it from his thoughts. At least one of the people in this crowd was certainly a pawn for Lord Heartrend, or maybe the ShadowKing. One could even possibly be a OnceBeen, one of the ShadowKing's undead servants, cloaked in some sort of spell or shield. It was getting damnably hard to tell the magic from the technology these days, especially when dealing with Lord Heartrend. At least the line for security was moving faster than the line for tickets. He'd had to pick the first available flight, one to Atlanta at 6:45. And he only had the book as a carry on. He uttered a fervent prayer to Shi'iana that none of the security guards knew it for what it was, and one to Hroathgard for protection if one of them did. The line proved to be moving much faster than Ciaran had previously assumed. It was 5 o'clock in the morning, and the security guards knew that as well as the passengers did. He presented his driver's license and his newly purchased ticket to the guard standing before the metal detector, and the guard gave them both a passing glance before waving Ciaran through. As Ciaran was about to step through the square arch, however, the guard motioned to the book and said, "That'll have to go on the belt, sir." Ciaran frowned. He was loath to be separated at all from his burden, but after a bit of looking around, he'd seen that nothing was allowed through the arch but the person. Everything else was put on the belt. Ciaran shrugged. "Sure." He gingerly placed the book on the belt, making sure it would fit through the metal guard of the x-ray machine. He then shut his eyes, clenched his fists, and uttered a mantra against evil, and walked through the metal detector. Nothing happened. Ciaran opened his eyes, exhaled, and let his fists loosen. Uttering up several prayers of thanks, he moved his way around to the end of the x-ray machine belt, and waited for the book to come through. The belt moved forward, and nothing came with it. Ciaran frowned again. The belt moved backwards, then forwards again. Still nothing. Ciaran began to sweat. He made nervous glances, noting the six National Guard personnel stationed around the security area, and the young Asian lady manning the x-ray machine. She was leaning on the machine, staring at the screen with a slightly bored expression, yet managing to look confused at the same time. She was chewing bubble gum, and snapping it loudly. "Um, miss?" Ciaran called. "Gimme a minute. I can't see the damn thing." She pressed a button, and the belt rolled backwards. She glanced at the front end of the belt, where the book had obviously appeared. She frowned, snapped her gum, and then pressed another button. The belt rolled forward. "Sheila! C'mere and look at this! I ain't never seen anything like it." A larger woman, Hispanic in appearance, left her post beside a door to look over the younger woman's shoulder. "Watch this." She repeated the procedure, narrating as she did so. Ciaran heard the line building up in front of the detector start muttering. At this rate, he was going to cause a disturbance, and that would surely catch someone's notice. Be it police or OnceBeen, he was not in the mood to try and escape capture again tonight. He yawned, strangely feeling sleepy. Perhaps the adrenaline rush was wearing off. "Ma'am, could I get my book and go now?" "I said gimme a damn minute, you! Your book ain't showing up on the screen," shouted the younger girl. Sheila nodded, as if her opinion would make things okay for Ciaran. "Can't you hand search it or something? I'm in an awful hurry..." The younger girl looked at Sheila, who nodded and shrugged noncommittally. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Go take care of it, willya? I got people to scan." She leaned forward over the x-ray machine and yelled "Shut up! I'm tryin'a work here!" She resumed her position, and finally the book came out of the machine. Sheila picked it up, and leafed through it idly. Ciaran prayed that she would not actually read the words, because that would make definite trouble for the both of them. Thankfully, Sheila was not the reading type, and she passed the book back to Ciaran. "Here you go." She trundled back to her door and reassumed guard as Ciaran thanked her brusquely and began quickly walking towards the terminals through the larger food court. He checked his ticket, noting that he had exactly forty-five minutes before the flight left. Hoping his luck would get a little better, he moved past a moving walkway, and then down yet another escalator. He walked along the wall, heading towards Terminal B, when he suddenly caught a flicker of black movement out of the corner of his eye. Quick as lightning, he came across with his left hand and smashed it into the wall. He felt a sickening crunch beneath his palm, and his heart sank. Already knowing what he would find, he lifted his hand, oblivious to the stares of passersby, and saw exactly what he expected. A spider, larger than one would expect to find wandering around an airport, was smeared across Ciaran's palm. The remnants of the spider were huge and hairy, but your eyes slipped off it if you really tried to look at it. It was, of course, a Veil Spider, the scrying tools of the horrendous Lord Heartrend, grown in his mountain stronghold. Or more recently, grown in the basement levels of his skyscraper in New York. Which meant that Lord Heartrend knew he was here. And more importantly, that Lord Heartrend knew Ciaran had stolen the book from the ShadowKing. He wiped his hand on the bottom of his shoe and began walking again, quicker this time. Lord Heartrend would be looking for Ciaran, because he had the book. That meant he had to ditch the book, and quickly. The only question was where? Or more correctly, with whom? _______________________________________________________________________________ Meandering around the airport was getting him nowhere, Branwen realized. Berating himself for not paying more attention to which terminal he was coming out of, he decided he was going to have to sit down on a bench in the food court and figure all this out. As he crossed the increasingly busy terminal intersection, he abruptly found himself nose-to-tile with the floor. "Sorry, lad," came a voice. "Must have bumped into ye." Branwen turned his head and propped himself up with his arms, finding a hand thrust at his face. He grasped it, and the stranger pulled Branwen upright. After eyeing Branwen up and down, the stranger nodded to himself and strode away quickly down terminal B, his brown trenchcoat flapping behind him. Branwen stared after him, and absentmindedly wiped his hand on his pants - the stranger had left it covered in goo. ________________________________________________________________________________ "Where the hell is my gate?" wondered Ciaran. "It's got to be around here SOMEWHERE..." He looked up and down the corridor, trying to discern the pattern to the gate numbering system. There appeared to not BE any pattern, excepting that odd numbered gates were always on the left, and even numbered were always on the right. Grumbling, he continued walking, and just when he was sure he had hit the end of the building and missed his gate, there was a subtle turn, and more gates lay beyond. "Whoever designed this place must have been sicker in the head than a Grendel itself. Gods above, where is my GATE?" After another five minutes of hunting, Ciaran finally found the gate, and queued up in line for a boarding pass. He scanned the people scattered about the waiting area; Businessmen off to meetings, families visiting or vacationing, their children asleep on the floor beside them. Normal people, doing normal things, unaware of the shadows lurking around them, of the horrors just out of sight. How long ago had it been since he worried about something normal, like leaving the oven on or forgetting to feed the dog? How long had it been since he had owned a dog at all? He was jolted out of his reverie by someone calling out "Next!" Ciaran found himself standing in front of a grandmotherly type. She was surprisingly efficient, and Ciaran was soon waiting in the gate area, boarding pass in hand. He glanced around furtively. It was 6:00 AM, and the plane left at 6:45. They would begin boarding any moment. It was time for him to ditch the book, and fast. He sat in one of the few open seats, and slowly scanned the room. "Where would it be easiest to slip this?" he thought. "And how easy would it be to get it back?" Nothing immediately caught his eye, but on the third pass of the room, he noticed something odd. Over in a seat by the window, just becoming silhouetted by the growing dawn, sat an abandoned pair of carry ons - a small bag and a backpack leaning against it. Ciaran grinned. Perfect. _______________________________________________________________________________ Heather walked up the plane's aisle, picking up stray blankets and pillows and placing them back in the overhead compartments. Noting a piece of paper lying loose under a seat, she bent down to retrieve it. It was a napkin, covered in near-illegible scribblings. Heather peered at it for a moment. Was it poetry? Prose? She squinted a little, just making out the words "synergistic businessplan". Heather made a face. Eugh, corporatese. She stood up, stuffing the paper into the plastic trashbag she carried, then brushed a stray hair out of her face. She looked around the plane, suddenly annoyed. Worthless linguistics degree. How the hell had she ended up here? A string of bad offers and worse luck. Nothing more cruel in the world than fate, she thought. "Gonna board soon, Heather," said Rebecca, who was standing at the fore of the plane, ready to greet incoming passengers. Heather looked up and nodded. Have to focus on the present. She put on a smile and went to go help the restockers load the drinks into the galley. _______________________________________________________________________________ "Finally!" exclaimed Branwen, seeing the familiar look of the terminal he'd been told to sit and wait at an hour ago. He damned his mother mentally, using one of the few curse words he knew. This was her fault - if he hadn't been dropped off at the airport at three in the morning, none of this would have happened, he was sure of it. But of course, she had some state dinner or fancy party, as usual. His father would wait with him on the way back, he bet. Returning his mind to the present, he began to fervently hope that the old lady hadn't noticed his absence... "Branwen! Where the devil have you been!" Branwen winced. So much for that. "Your mother gave us explicit instructions to take perfect care of you. If you'd gotten hurt, she would have been very upset, and a lot of us might have lost our jobs! You wouldn't want that, would you?" Branwen felt the urge to mention that the lady could care less about him and was more worried about his mother's hefty tip, but he'd learned a little bit of etiquette, and saying things like that was certainly not polite. "No." "There's a good boy. Now, come on and grab your things, it's time to preboard." A little surge of excitement ran through Branwen. It was finally time to board! With all the fear and adventure of getting lost, he'd forgotten that it was going to be his first time on an airplane! At least, the first time he could remember. Supposedly his mother had taken him everywhere with her until he was three and could finally be foisted off onto nannies and relatives who were all too happy to take care of him. He walked over and picked up his backpack. He frowned. It was fairly heavy - he must have packed more than he thought. Grabbing his other bag, Branwen made his way to the front of the line, at the insistence of a woman whose coiffured blonde hair looked like it might collapse her skull inward at any moment. The woman smiled at Branwen, and he almost recoiled instinctively. He'd seen smiles like that before. They belonged on wolverines in those Zoobook magazines. "Hello! You must be... " she checked a clipboard she held and then clutched it to her bosom again. "...Branwen Reaney." Branwen winced at the mention of his last name, and then nodded. "Wonderful!" she squeaked. Branwen idly wondered if she took the same pills his mom did sometimes. "And you're flying to..." She checked her board again. "...Atlanta! Oh, how wonderful. It has such lovely weather." Finally, it clicked, and Brandon realized exactly what this woman reminded him of. She sounded like one of those phone recordings, always pausing before saying anything pertaining to you. "Well, it's time for you to get onboard, Branwen. Head through this door, and then up the stairs, okay?" She plucked his boarding pass from his fingers and made the wolverine smile again. Branwen stared at the door, and then at the woman. She made the smile a little wider, as if to reassure him. All this served to do was make a shudder run up Branwen's spine. He hurried through the door, and as he climbed the steps, wondered if he'd really seen fangs on the woman, or if it had just been his imagination. ______________________________________________________________________________ Ciaran managed to follow the child who owned the backpack without turning his head. The child was roughly 12 or 13. Pale. Very pale. Freckled. Brown hair. Quick, try to note as much as you can before he gets done talking with that woman... Blue and red light jacket, jeans, baseball cap, can't tell which team, but it's green and white... The child finally made it through the door, and Ciaran let his eyes relax. That woman was OnceBeen, he was sure of it. Luckily it hadn't sensed the book. Damn, he was tired. They'd done something to him, some drug... Had to be Spirefloater venom. He absentmindedly recalled it from the book; squeezed from the base of the quill, took about five hours to take effect, induced a heavy sleep. Obviously they'd expected to catch him by surprise. But he was going to be long gone before he finally succumbed. At least now he knew who had the book. All he had to do now was stumble onto the plane, and sleep this off. And that was easy. _____________________________________________________________________________ Branwen slowly walked along the jetway towards the plane. He felt excited - it had been a while since butterflies had danced in his stomach like this. The wind whistled through the cracks in the corridor like a chorus of banshees. It was a cold wind, and the cold started to seep through Branwen's jacket. He shivered again, and increased his pace, until he turned a slight corner and was confronted with the door. The captain stood outside it, in the traditional position for welcoming passengers. "You must be Branwen. Well, if you hurry up and get aboard, you can be the first one on the plane. Just go ahead and pick any seat you want, it's open seating." Branwen stared at the man. For the love of god, how much had his mother paid these people? Internally shrugging, he turned back to the plane. If he'd been of a more poetic nature, Branwen almost would have said it looked back at him. Which was still the impression he got - that the plane was looking back at him, resenting him for making it spend even a few minutes on the ground instead of soaring through the clouds where it belonged. He lay his hand on its metal flesh, and jerked back. The plane was ice cold, unearthly cold. Colder than anything he could have thought existed before. The captain cleared his throat in the manner that Branwen had learned meant he was dawdling again. He stepped through the doorway and onto the plane, wondering how adults managed to do things so fast and still be alive. Once on board, a stewardess took his bag and followed him down the aisle until he got to a seat about midway back. Branwen looked up at the woman, noticing that she had only very light makeup on, and an incredibly long braid. She looked, to Branwen's young eyes, more real than anyone he'd had help him today. "Is this where you want to sit?" She smiled, a nice, genuine smile. Branwen nodded, suddenly struck shy. She placed his bag in the overhead bin, and stood there waiting for him to sit. "It should be a nice flight. If you keep the window open, you might even see the sunrise." Branwen nodded again. She seemed really nice. And people being nice to Branwen for reasons other than his mother's money made him uncomfortable. He really wished she would go away... she kept staring at him like she was waiting for him to say something. Branwen finally managed to croak out a strangled "Thank you, I'm fine." Satisfied, the woman moved back up to the fore of the craft, and Branwen sighed with relief. People were rarely nice to him, he reflected. He wondered if he should have said more to her, and then decided to drop it, since it was all in the past now. Maybe she would come around again, he thought, buckling his seatbelt. He went digging into his backpack, resigned to having to read for the flight, since it wasn't all that long and there weren't going to be any meals. He lifted his backpack from the seat beside him. It WAS heavier than before, he was sure of it. Wondering what was in it to make it weigh this much, he undid the zipper and reached inside. The first thing to meet his questing fingers felt like a book, bound in a very soft leather. He hadn't packed this. Drawing it out, he discovered it indeed was a book. A very thick one, with strange letters done in ink on the leather cover. As he looked closer at the letters, they began to shiver, and the edges began to blur. Within a few seconds the strange characters had become the familiar alphabet, and the book's title was revealed to be The Wyrd of the Three Realms. People had begun to filter onto the plane, but Branwen was entirely absorbed with the book. How the hell had it done that? He was sure it had been different text. Maybe he was just looking at it from the wrong angle. That had to be it. He set the book in his lap, and opened the cover to the first page. The effect which this opening had upon the first page was akin to a thousand spiders rushing away from a sudden source of light. The page was black, and then became parchment colored so swiftly that Branwen would have jumped to his feet had he not been buckled in. A few of the passengers already seated turned their heads, but Branwen paid them no heed. He was positive he hadn't imagined that. Something about this book was beyond anything he'd known before. He had to find out what it said inside. Branwen turned the page, noticing that though the pages of the book were yellowing, they seemed stronger than cardboard. The text that greeted his eyes was surprisingly modern, yet with an archaic feel to it. "Dedicated to the Dreamer," read the single line on the page. He flipped to the next page, and began to read. _______________________________________________________________________________ "The Realms of Existence are threefold, and each is a World in its own right; infinitely both large and small. Such is the ordering of the Universe, that each Realm shall exist in a manner separate from each other. The Realm of Heartsbane, the Frozen Realm, and the Mundane Realm, once known as Liochllaighna in ages past and perhaps ages yet to come - each has a history all its own. Yet when the Gods set forth the Three Realms, all of them, even mad and blind Skyrlas, knew that the time would come when the Realms would blossom and open unto each other like flowers in the warm summers. "The Realms shall weave together, and the grand tapestry of the Universe shall become a vibrant story. For within these pages shall the stories be written, and bound beyond the grasping claws of time, that men and Gods alike shall know what is knowable, and see what can be seen even with an eye that views all. The Story shall be set forth, and it is foreseen that it will cause strife and wars among all the people of the Realms, and that no man shall possess it for long, lest he be driven mad with knowledge men should never own. No RealmLord shall mar the Story, for it must survive to seek the Dreamer. And no God shall touch the Story, for the Wyrd of the Gods is unknowable, and when crossed with the Wyrd of Man, it causes untold destruction, ripping threads from the tapestry like an untamed fire. "None shall molest the Story, and it shall wander its way across the Realms until it is in the hands of the Dreamer, who it will know upon his touch. The Dreamer shall wield a power untold, and shall once again grace the Mundane Realm with the touch of what it has not known for millennia. "This is the Story of All, the Wyrd of the Three Realms. Whether you who read these words are the Dreamer or not, know that all the Realms are here, and all this awaits his coming. Men, be humble, and seek not a place that is not yours. RealmLords, be wary, and know that the Dreamer will tear you down beneath his feet. Gods, tarry with men only briefly, lest you become one yourself. "Dreamer, take this book as your birthright, and follow your heart." - Excerpt from The Wyrd of the Three Realms, pages 1-3. _______________________________________________________________________________ And so young Branwen set to reading. He read about the Three Realms, and how they are connected in only a few places. He read about the ShadowKing, and his legions of OnceBeen in the garrisons of Castle Blackmoor. He read about Lord Heartrend, and his hideous Breeders, able to create any sort of animal their Lord desired, using magic and technology to build things such as the VeilSpiders. He learned of the creatures inhabiting these two realms; the Spirefloaters of the jagged Camphord mountains, the shadowy Wraiths who drifted on the outskirts of every village just before someone's death, the Ragnarok Creepers, gigantic lizards who prowled the lower levels of Lord Heartrend's lair. He learned, too, of the gentle Springdogs of the Gilaern marshes, the excitable Phlooms who lived in a network of underground caves and who shed when gestating, and the Will'O'Wisps that danced around the rings of the Fae. When he turned the page and came to the section entitled "Mundane Realm", Branwen was surprised. The book set about describing his own world! Indeed, as he read through the pages, he discovered that the book was incredibly up to date. Indeed, the book covered events that had happened only yesterday. And when Branwen flipped back a few pages looking for clarification on something, he discovered something even more impressive. The book updated itself! He flipped back a few more pages to test this theory, and discovered that not only did the book change, but if you stared hard enough at the page, you could catch it doing it. One second there would be only a sentence, and then there would be a paragraph, quick enough to fool your eyes into thinking that there had always been a paragraph there. That made up his mind; Branwen was determined to get as far in the book as he could before someone reported it missing and he had to give it back. Branwen was so focused on the book that he completely forgot he was in a plane, and in fact in a plane for the first remembered time. He did not notice the people filing into the plane, sitting down and preparing to catch up on missed sleep, nor did he notice the people sitting down beside him. He did not notice the safety demonstration, and he didn't even notice the plane taxiing to the runway. And he did not notice the man in a trenchcoat who had staggered in and collapsed in a nearby seat, aided by the long-haired stewardess. He most certainly did not catch the look of shock and desperation the man made when he noticed that Branwen was reading the book. _______________________________________________________________________________ "I'll have a ginger ale," said the aged man. Heather idly noted that his shirt was buttoned wrong as she scribbled GA onto her small pad. "And you, ma'am?" "Oh, um, I'll..." The fizzy-haired blonde tittered idiotically and clutched harder at the shirt of what was presumably her husband. He was a good forty years her senior, Heather noted. Always strange, that. "I'll have uh, a um Coke." She tittered again and leaned her head against the man's shoulder. He smiled and patted her head idly. Heather marked down a CK and moved on. As she looked up to catch the eyes of the people in the next row, she noticed the small boy who was first onto the plane. He was fiercely engrossed in some book or another. She wondered what it was. "Do you serve martinis?" asked the man she stood beside, and his question dragged her back to her job. "Yes, sir. Three dollars, and there's a one drink limit for this flight." She scribbled on her pad as the man went digging in his wallet. She was suddenly thankful it was going to be a short flight. ________________________________________________________________________________ "The Realms are Magick, and of the very stuff of Magick they are built. Yet the flow of power in each Realm differs more than the flow of the seas. "In the Realm of Heartsbane, starkest desert of blood-red sands, magic flows from reagents and solvents, from the careful balance of ingredients and words. Just as a tapestry is woven from threads barely large enough to see, such are the spells of Heartsbane woven, each reagent a strand, and the words a loom to bind them together. The toll upon the caster is often great, and mages of Heartsbane bind together to weave greater tapestries, such as the portal to the Mundane Realm. "In the Frozen Realm, barren wasteland of frozen tundra, magic flows from the hearts of beasts, and is released at the moment of their death. The casting of entrails, the tossing of the bones, the sacrificial pentacle; these are the tools of the mages of the Frozen Realm. Blood brings power, and the mages who wield the most power oft drink the blood of those they have slain. The more intelligent the beast who is slaughtered, the more power gifted to the mage, thus, human or Wyrm sacrifices are the most potent. "The Mundane Realm has no magic, yet this was not always so. Before the hearts of those within the Realm turned to science as the new magic, the world teemed with all manner of magical beasts. Liochllaighna, as it was called then, held the true Magick, not the diluted forms of the other two Realms, for the true stuff of the universe flowed in each person's heart, granting them untold powers. Through the ages, men forgot the power they had once wielded, turning their backs on what they had once known and forging a new path to understanding. Slowly, the beasts became mere shells of their former selves, and the only remnants of the Magick that once roamed free can be found within the heart of a young child who has not yet forgotten how to dream." - Excerpt from The Wyrd of the Three Realms, pages 46-47. ________________________________________________________________________________ The plane was just at cruising altitude when Branwen reached the portion of the book titled "Combined Story of the Realms". Even then, he didn't stop, but plowed on ahead with a 13 year old's single-mindedness. And as Branwen read, he felt his heart grow colder and colder. The book began with the story of Lord Heartrend, in the Realm of Heartsbane, whose elite force of warrior mages discovered a magical means of burrowing through what they called the "ether" to a new place, full of wondrous things, and inhabited by a people who were not as docile as Lord Heartrend's subjects had become over the past four hundred years. He was delighted, and bid them to begin excavation immediately. The task begun that day cost the full resources of one of the mountains in the Camphord range, and a full four thousand beings died in the ritual used to begin the burrowing magicks. The task itself took one dozen years to be completed. On the day the ether was finally to be removed, Lord Heartrend himself killed thirteen of his most devout warrior mages, to complete the magicks and bind the hole in the ether to the immense iron ring they had built. And it was Lord Heartrend who insisted on being the first through the hole. When he came back, he brought with him tales of a fantastic world, with blue skies instead of red, and green things everywhere instead of sparse, scraggly bushes and mud- caked plains. He also brought with him the tales of the technology - of the lenses and balances and equations that the Mundane Realm held. He immediately sent squads of disguised troops back to gather what information they could. As the years ticked by, Lord Heartrend became a master of this technology, and adapted it for use in his magicks. But his Realm, which was already a land of little water and less mercy, grew even more harsh and barren, and it looked as though the time to migrate to the Mundane Realm drew near... The ShadowKing was the ruler of the Frozen Realm, a land where force reigned supreme and only the strong lived. A chance casting of Phloom entrails led his scryers to the knowledge of another place that might be traveled to with the right power. After many months of studying omens and the paths of the stars, they determined that the four moons would align on a certain date, and a mass sacrifice of livestock might open the way to this Realm. The ShadowKing wisely observed that if the gods required livestock, he would do them one better and sacrifice citizens. On the day of the alignment, the ShadowKing gathered the denizens of his city below Castle Blackmoor, bellowed a mighty roar, and with thirty of his finest warriors, leapt into the crowd and killed all that could not or refused to flee. The portal shimmered into being in the midst of the massacre, and the ShadowKing proceeded to lead his troops through. They were routed by Hannibal's troop crossing the Ural mountains, and returned home in shame. The ShadowKing vowed a blood oath to subject the Mundane Realm to his will, and sealed it by removing one of his own eyes with a dagger. For years the ShadowKing trained warriors and tried tactics. His Realm, a frigid place of snow and cruelty, became colder than ever, and it was not uncommon for villages to disappear under snowfalls. It looked like the time for conquering was at hand... "However," Brandon read, "The two RealmLords did not know of each other yet. And the clash of fangs when they finally met would ravage all three Realms more than anyone could imagine." The book seemed alive, seemed to be talking to him. It kept narrating, continuing with "And the writing of the Wyrd of the Three Realms only caused the fighting to escalate. In fact, the book has become the sole focus of the battles between the RealmLords. You know, you can get cold air, if you need it." Branwen blinked. Had he thought he heard it, or had he really heard it? Slowly, he raised his head from the book to meet the concerned eyes of the stewardess from earlier. She looked back, and after a moment, said "You're sweating. You can get cool air from this vent." She reached up and twisted the knob, letting a trickle of cool air waft over Branwen's forehead. He was sweating. Quite a lot. And his heart was pounding. What was it about this book, that it seemed so real, so very magickal? Who had written it? There was no author name on the cover, nor one inside. The stewardess cleared her throat, and Branwen's brain returned to the situation at hand. "I'm... I'm okay. Just an interesting book, is all." He made a querulous smile. "Well, that's good. Would you like anything to drink? We have Coke, Pepsi, and j-" "Can I just get a glass of water?" She nodded. "Sure." Turning to the person sitting next to Branwen, she continued taking orders. Branwen's eyes followed her, for lack of anything better to do while Branwen's mind worked on returning Branwen's pulse rate back to something approaching normal. When satisfied that every process was running as smoothly as it was going to for now, his brain finally relinquished control, and Branwen jerked his head back to the book with an extremely ungraceful lurch. Summoning all his will, Branwen closed the book, and felt his gut unclench. He didn't think he could handle much more of that - the two RealmLords had looked so real in his mind that he was sure he heard the sounds of fierce battle; of weapons and shields clashing, of spells being cast and chants being spoken. Shuddering, he opened his bag and carefully placed the book inside. If anyone had come up to him and asked for its return now, he would have gladly given it back. But for now he'd have to hold it. Someone had misplaced it, and they were sure to ask about it later. Maybe he should take it up with the stewardess. And in a flash, Branwen suddenly realized where he was, and what he was missing. He was on a plane, for the first time, and he hadn't even taken a look out the window yet because he'd been so preoccupied with the book! He turned to the window and pulled up the shade, fully expecting to see a glorious sunrise vista, bordered by a massive frame of clouds, like he'd seen so many times in movies and on TV. When he finally saw outside, he was not disappointed. In fact, his glimpse was greeted by all that, as well as by something wholly unexpected - an added bonus, if you will. There was something on the wing. And as Branwen's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw it was not so much a something as a someone. A someone in an oddly shaped rocking chair, and holding a teacup with perfect posture. And a wave of absolute and sheer terror rose up from deep within Branwen when he noticed that the rocking chair was assembled from various bones - they would be Ragnarok Creeper bones, he had read that in the book - and that the person enjoying his morning cup of tea on the left wing of a Boeing 767 was the RealmLord of the Realm of Heartsbane himself - Lord Heartrend. He smiled cheerily, with a wide toothy grin, and lifted his teacup in salute. Branwen slammed the window shade down, heart thumping faster than it had before. The businessman sitting next to Branwen jumped a little, then turned to the boy and smiled. "First time on an airplane, son?" Branwen ignored him completely. The man frowned and turned back to his PalmPilot with a disgruntled air. Branwen's mind raced. Had he really seen Lord Heartrend sitting on the wing of the plane? How could he have? It was a story, nothing more! An incredibly real story, he was willing to admit, but it was still a story. And whatever tricks the book might use - LCD panels, wireless updating... it was still just a book. He took a few deep breaths, and opened the window shade again. Nothing but the beginnings of a clear blue sky, and a very bright sun mostly over the horizon. There was nothing on the wing, and nothing to signify that anything had ever been there at all. Branwen's brain reasserted its control over Branwen's body once again, and he suddenly realized that with all the excitement of the airport and getting lost and the plane and the strange book, he had become very tired. Thinking about it a little more, he determined that being up since two in the morning probably was another factor as well. He closed the shutter. Pressing the button to recline his seat, he wondered just how much longer he had until the plane landed. Maybe just enough time for a nap. He lay his head back, and fatigue dragged him down into sleep. ________________________________________________________________________________ He began to dream almost immediately. Branwen found himself in a roughly circular room, tastefully decorated in earthy tones - what little was visible, that is. The outskirts were fairly dark and shadowy, mostly due to a lack of lighting. A large pentacle sat in the center of the room, carefully laid out in strings of miniature Christmas tree bulbs. At each point of the pentacle, an electric candle was carefully set. They flickered fretfully, as if a wind of ether were flowing through the room. This would have seemed fairly odd to Branwen had not his attention been riveted elsewhere. The elsewhere that he was so fixed upon lay between two cabinets of tiny little jars, and behind a low workbench littered with mortars and pestles, knives, and small presses. The elsewhere contained a teapot, tastefully decorated with visages of screaming creatures. But more importantly, the elsewhere also contained Lord Heartrend. He did not look up right away, which gave Branwen's eyes ample time to observe the RealmLord while the rest of him tried to reconcile his mental assertion that this was only a dream with the screamings of his flight instinct. Lord Heartrend was a tall, gaunt man, with a sharply angled face and a deep, furrowed brow. His eyes were sunken into his head, and with the flickering shadows of the room, his head looked more like a bare skull than a real face. He was writing something with a bone pen, and devoting quite a bit of attention to the task. However, just as Branwen finally decided that, dream or not, he was damned if he was going to remain here a minute longer, the RealmLord looked up. "Ah, Branwen my lad. I wasn't expecting you quite so soon." He had a polite, cordial British accent, which sounded more like that of a an aged grandfather than that of the cruel ruler of a barren Realm. He replaced his pen in the inkwell, and stood. "I formally welcome you to my lair, under the Camphor mountains, in the Realm of Heartsbane. But then, you likely know that already. It's fairly early in the Book." The capital letter was obvious in the way he pronounced it. Branwen noted this, as much as he noted that he was paralyzed from fear. Dream or not, this WAS Lord Heartrend. And he was everything the book - the Book - had said he was. He began pacing. "Now, I'm sure you're wondering just what happened, my lad. Why am I dreaming this, why am I seeing characters from books on the wings of airplanes, why is this doddering old man-" Lord Heartrend was anything but doddering, thought Branwen briefly, "-narrating endlessly in my head?" The mage stopped pacing and face Branwen squarely. "My dear Branwen, you honestly had no clue what you were getting into, did you? Someone slipped that book into your bag, and you just started reading it... well, lad, you've fallen into a bigger hole than you've ever..." He paused, suddenly noting Branwen's stiff posture and slight trembling. "By the heart of Linaln, lad, I'm not going to kill you. I don't even plan on harming you." He looked heavenward and waved his hands. "Yes, yes, I know all about what the Book says of me. Slaughtered innocents, killed my own mages, and all that." He sat on the edge of the desk, and gestured to a stool nearby. "And you do know how the media loves to exaggerate, my dear boy. Please, please, have a seat. I promise I'm not going to do anything untoward." Branwen's muscles unlocked, and he almost spilled to the floor with the sudden ability to move. He stumbled to the stool and collapsed onto it. Lord Heartrend paused a moment to make sure the boy wouldn't fall off, and then nodded. "As I was saying, you've dug yourself into a deeper hole than you've ever imagined existed, my boy! For you see, the Book has magick to it. Oh, more than just the revisions and the occasional moving picture - it has a real magick. A deadly magick. It is the nature of the Book, Branwen, to draw in those who read it. In other words, what you read in the Book becomes real." He chuckled suddenly. "Or perhaps it is you that becomes real to the Book. No matter. The point is that before you began to read, all you could sense was the Mundane Realm. That was all you knew, for the spark of Magick has long since been dead where you live. But the Book changes a person, Branwen my boy. Changes you the more you read it, the more you learn about what is really happening. A change for the worse, as the man who gave you the Book in first place could tell you. " Branwen was in full mental panic mode, and despite knowing it was a dream, he found himself unable to speak, and barely able to form a coherent thought. Lord Heartrend's soothing voice had taken center stage in Branwen's world at the moment, and the boy's eyes followed the stick-like mage as he stood up again. "Inside the back cover of the Book, there is a single phrase, scribbled in a language which no man here had ever seen before. I have possessed the Book off and on for over three hundred years, Branwen, and it was mere decades ago that I finally found the spell that would translate this phrase into something I could read." He plucked a small piece of parchment off his workbench, and showed it to Brandon. It was carefully inked, written in a flowing script composed of many whorls and spirals. After a moment, Lord Heartrend placed it back on the desk. "In a dialect of what you call English, this script reads 'An' ne'er again shall ye ken which wyrd ye need, an' which world ye gang in.' Marvelous, isn't it? Almost like a poem." He stopped speaking for a moment, and stared towards the wall, attention elsewhere. In the silence, Branwen finally managed to drag his voice from the depths of his stomach. "What..." he croaked, and then paused to try again. "What does that mean?" "Hmm?" Lord Heartrend turned his head back to Branwen. "Oh, yes. I forget that not everyone knows the particular curiosities of the old Scottish accent. Well, to put it simply, lad, it means 'And never again shall you know which lore you need, and which world you travel in.' Whoever wrote it had obviously just read the Book, and discovered its dark secret." The mage sat back down on the workbench, and sighed. "But all this is folderol, Branwen. My true goal is thus - I would like to strike a deal with you." Branwen blinked at the RealmLord, surprised enough to speak again. "What sort of deal?" "An exchange, my lad, an exchange. It's all very simple... when you get off the plane, I want you to leave the Book on a seat in the gate." He smiled broadly, spreading his hands wide. "That's all." Frowning, Branwen thought. What harm could there be? After all, it wasn't his book... "And what do I get out of it?" he asked. Lord Heartrend placed his hands on his knees and bent slightly to stare into Branwen's eyes. "A way out, lad. A way out." His tone grew cold. "The more you touch that Book, the more you read it, the darker your world will become, and the less you will know what is really real. And the less likely it is that you will live to reach any sort of maturity, boy." He snapped the last word off with a force that made Branwen cringe. The tall man straightened, and the room seemed to darken. "I shall expect the Book on the closest empty seat to the terminal." He paused. "I would highly suggest you do it, Branwen. It's not wise to disappoint me." Branwen felt a tugging inside him, and his vision began to blur and fade out. Lord Heartrend stared directly into his eyes as the world faded to darkness, and Branwen heard him say, "And remember, boy, if you fail in this, you will surely see me again..." ________________________________________________________________________________ Lord Heartrend collapsed back in his seat, fingers compressing the bridge of his nose. "Chkal's eyes, how I despise children. So wide eyed and innocent, so capable of deception without knowing it, so ready to perform treachery. A blank slate, just ready for the thousands of mistakes that will inevitably fill their lives. Dirty, wretched, impolite, uncultured, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid..." There was a soft knock on the door, and it slowly creaked open enough for a small man in Lord Heartrend's silver and black livery to peek his head through. "Lord, the Countess is here to-" With a speed belying his apparent age, Lord Heartrend sprang from his chair, grabbed an ornate letter opener from his workbench, and thrust it sideways through the skull of his steward. The unfortunate servant emitted a few choice gurgles, then dropped to the floor. Lord Heartrend grinned. There, that felt much better. He stepped forward and through the door, ignoring the body and the other two servants who stepped forward from niches in the wall to retrieve it. A plump middle-aged woman stood there, in a red sequined dinner dress with a long train of black lace down the back, which puddled on the floor behind her. Two small Thrulls stood at her heels, vainly trying to keep control over the massive amount of fabric. As Lord Heartrend walked into the room, she was busy cursing at them. "Damnable things, I have told you time and time again that none of this is to touch the ground! Why, a yard of this costs more than you do! By the bones of Skelaxin, I don't know why I bother..." She looked up, and noticed the RealmLord, her sharp eyes also noting the departing corpse. "Oh, good afternoon, Lord Heartrend." Smirking, she added, "Having a bad day?" "That, my dear Countess Llyrn, is quite the understatement." "I presume, then, that your meeting with the new possessor of the Book did not go as well as you'd hoped?" Lord Heartrend frowned. "And how did you learn of that, I wonder?" A chuckle escaped the Countess' lips. "You underestimate the power of a woman, Maolmórdha. Or should I say Myles, as you've taken to calling yourself in the Mundane Realm?" "You may call me what you will, Rhiannon. All my names are open to my friends. And, of course, I have forgotten that it is indeed you who runs your county, and not the simpering idiot with whom I hold council. His biggest problem of late seems to be which young court lady to take to bed each night." At that, the Countess' brows furrowed, and a hint of a smile teased at the corners of Lord Heartrend's mouth. He turned around, and walked back into his chambers, carefully stepping over the blood spot. The Countess started after him, and one of the Thrulls failed to anticipate this movement. It earned a swift kick to the midsection for its error. Coughing, it spat silvery blood, and scrambled to retain its position. Lord Heartrend sat behind his workbench. "In answer to your question, the negotiations went poorly. The lad has an imagination on overdrive, and a curiousity to boot. Just the sort the Book is drawn to, and I am positive it was drawn to Branwen. It will not let go of him easily. I fear that we'll have to resort to more... drastic measures." He grinned. "You are incorrigible, Myles. You don't plan on killing him, I hope?" "No, no. You know me better than that. It will be so much more fun to torture him first. If the Book refuses to leave his presence, then he will wish to all the gods that it had." "Wonderful, simply splendid. Shall I help you prepare the ritual, just in case?" Lord Heartrend broke into a full grin. His teeth gleamed in the light of the electric candles. "But of course, my dearest Countess. I've told you before that you've helped make these spells so much more fun than they used to be." He eyed the digital clock positioned in one corner of the room. "But we'd best get to it. His time to choose swiftly approaches, and we should act quickly after that. Now, go to those shelves and get me the ink and the NyQuil. I'll prepare the other reagents here." The Countess nodded and hurried off to the shelves. Lord Heartrend turned to his workbench, grabbed a few vials, and began pouring. His heart pounded as fast as it could manage anymore - the promise of pain always excited him. This was going to be fun. ________________________________________________________________________________ Branwen jerked awake, and found himself sitting bolt upright. It was a dream, only a dream. There was no RealmLord about to kill him - he was on a plane, headed to Atlanta, where his father waited to pick him up from the airport. Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings, and one at a time things became apparent. The people who'd been sitting next to him were mysteriously gone. The Book was mysteriously open in his lap. And the long-haired stewardess was sitting next to him, idly looking at the Book. Coming finally to full awareness, Branwen realized exactly what was going on, and the meaning of it. He slammed the book shut, and quickly moved it against the wall, staring at the stewardess to see if she'd read anything that might have given the Book's secret away. The young woman (and as Branwen looked at her more closely, it was really quite obvious that she was barely over twenty...) jerked back, startled. Then she smiled. "So you're awake now. You were thrashing about and mumbling in your sleep - it was disturbing the other passengers, so we moved them to other seats. Are you all right?" Branwen relaxed a little. Nothing was wrong after all - with the dream he'd just had, he was surprised he hadn't done more than mumble. "I'm okay, thank you. Just a ... a bad dream, is all." She nodded. "I came back to check on you and give you your water, and you'd gotten that book out." She frowned. "It seemed an awfully funny book for such a young kid to be reading, though." Branwen's mind froze. What had she seen? "Funny?" "Yeah. It's quite large, and the tone was so serious. Is that a new Harry Potter book?" The stewardess received a blank stare in reply, before Branwen finally said, "No, no.. it's not. A... school assignment. I'm ahead a grade." He bowed his head and tried to look as embarrassed about his mother forcing him ahead as he usually felt. Inside, though, he silently prayed that he had not brought these dreams and visions of someplace entirely fictitious on someone else. Smiling again, the stewardess stood up. "I see. Well, drink your water and try to relax a little. We'll be landing in about half an hour." She moved off towards the rear of the plane, and Branwen finally relaxed all the way. He pulled the book out from beside him and stared at the front cover for a while. What was he going to do? ________________________________________________________________________________ Someone had stuffed Ciaran's mouth full of gauze. And placed him in a really uncomfortable chair. And... put a pillow behind his head? Wait, that couldn't be right. Sighing, he decided he was going to have to open his eyes and sort all this out. After a brief struggle, he finally managed to open his lids enough to get a clear view of his surroundings, and the fog in his brain cleared a little. He'd made it on to the plane, and was heading to... where was it again? Well, it was academic at this point. But it was strange - the plane didn't feel like it was moving at all. The speakers crackled. "Ladies and Gentlemen, as your captain, I'd like to be the first to welcome you to sunny Atlanta, Georgia. If you'll give the stewardesses a minute to open the doors, we'll have you out and into the comparatively warm February air, which is now at a balmy 74 degrees. There'll be chances of rain later on today, but the meteorologists have assured us that this morning will be glorious." People had already begun to stand up and collect their bags, but Ciaran ignored them. He had to find that kid. Peering over and around people, he tried to remember just where the kid had been sitting, but nothing came back, and he certainly couldn't see anything through the throng of people now filing off the plane. Ciaran cursed. Just his luck - now he was going to have to comb the airport for him. He stood up, and craned his neck around, hoping beyond hope he could catch a glimpse of a white and green baseball cap. "Excuse me, but are you looking for someone?" Ciaran wheeled around, expecting OnceBeen or worse, but relaxed when he saw that it was merely a stewardess. "Oh it's you, sir. Are you feeling better?" Ciaran stood there for a moment, until he suddenly remembered her as the stewardess who had helped him to his seat after he'd collapsed. He scanned the front of her uniform, finding the nametag. "Um, I'm fine, Heather. Thank you for asking, but I'm a wee disoriented. Which way's the exit, now?" She smiled at him, and pointed towards where the people were filing out of the plane. Ciaran grinned and nodded, then joined the line. The gods were against him today, he just knew it. ________________________________________________________________________________ The cold wind slammed open the doors to the throne room as soon as the Scryer touched them. The wind forced its way inside, and ruffled the banners hanging high on the wooden paneled walls. The Scryer shuddered. It was a cold cold night, even colder than usual in the Frozen Realm. He ignored the half-Luparn servants who struggled to close the door, and instead strode towards the far end of the room, which was lit by three roaring fireplaces. As he approached the stepped dais, a booming voice met him. "Have you found it yet, Scryer?" The Scryer looked up at the ShadowKing. Clad in black steel armor and clutching a sword larger than the Scryer was, the RealmLord cut an impressive figure. "Yes, milord. We have found the current location and possessor of the Book." The armored figure stood, his plate mail catching the flickering firelight and rippling it towards the rest of the room. "Excellent. We will prepare the ceremony now. Ciaran McGowan shall pay for stealing what I have claimed through the arts of war. That damn Resistance of the Mundane's has been a thorn in my side for far too long, and I will have it no more! If only that insipid coward Lord Heartrend had played his hand earlier, all this would be done and over, and we'd have none of their mincing about and spying." He growled from deep within his throat. "For two hundred and twenty six years they've been fighting to keep both of the other Realms from invading. Fighting a double front and succeeding. With every day my frozen Realm grows colder, Scryer. It is time to put a stop to this foolish Resistance. Now. Let us go and summon a Beast to slit the throat of that damnable Ciaran." Wincing, the Scryer bent his head. "Milord, the Resister known as Ciaran no longer holds claim to the Book of the Wyrd." He nervously twisted his hands. The ShadowKing froze in place, glaring at the Scryer with a look of rage. His one good eye matched the scowling red one painted on the eyepatch which covered a dagger-scarred empty socket. Idly, almost out of reflex, he pulled a belt knife from its sheath and began to scratch small whorls into his other hand. After a moment, he spoke. "Who, then, holds that which is mine?" "A young one, my lord, who unwittingly read the Book, and is now tied to it. Rather tightly, it would appear. He is strong of will, and has a mighty imagination, much like milord. Removing the Book from him will be difficult." The knife slammed into its sheath, and the ShadowKing picked up his helm from the armrest of his throne. The horns of a Great Wyrm shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow as he settled it on his head. "Boy or not, he will not have what is mine. We shall have the Book tonight, and if it requires great power to separate the two, then we shall use a great Beast. The sacrifice awaits, Scryer. Lead on." ________________________________________________________________________________ Branwen stood in terminal C, in front of the first row of empty seats he'd come across. He looked left and right, hoping that no one would see him leave the Book behind and think to ask him about it. He had to get rid of it, he had to. He didn't think he could stand more of Lord Heartrend's company. Steeling his nerve, he unzipped his backpack and reached for the book. His hand had just closed around the soft leather cover when he realized just how silly he was being. It had only been a dream. Well, a dream and a hallucination from sleep deprivation. That was all. He was sincerely grateful his mother was not around; she would have called him a shiftless dreamer again, and then given a lecture on how the real world was so much more important than anything he could imagine. Blushing at the thought of it, Branwen zippered up the backpack again, and prepared to move towards the terminal tram, when he found himself suddenly contemplating a tiled floor for the second time this trip. "Oh, damn - I mean drat - drat, I'm so sorry..." Branwen rolled over to meet the worried face of the stewardess from the plane. Her nametag read Heather - why hadn't he noticed that earlier? He climbed to his feet, and Heather brushed him off. "Are you okay, Branwen?" Drat, he thought, just when he'd thought she was being nice on her own. "How did you know my name?" "The boarding pass attendant told me." Heather pointed over to the desk by the gate. A madly grinning man waved, and Heather turned back to Branwen. "He said you looked kind of lost, and that you're apparently a kind of VIP." She smiled. "This was my last flight of the day. Well, morning," she amended, looking out the windows. "I'll probably be flying again tonight. Anyway, would you like to come with me back through security? I'd enjoy the company." Branwen looked at the empty seats, then back to Heather. He nodded. "Sure, I'd like that." ________________________________________________________________________________ After waving to Heather, Branwen headed through the ticketing area. His father had said he would meet him at the baggage claim, and to hurry there. This would be the first time since the divorce that Branwen had gotten to see his father, and he was extremely excited. He moved into the atrium, which doubled as a food court. The smell of donuts and coffee made his stomach grumble, and reminded him that he'd only eaten a hot dog since dinner last night. Maybe he could con his dad into buying him something for breakfast. Branwen crossed the atrium center, mind racing as he contemplated all the things he was going to do once he saw his dad again. He was almost to the baggage claim area when he saw something that froze both his thoughts and his muscles dead in place. A small blue creature cavorted near the base of a pillar. It was winged, and rather reminded Branwen of a miniature llama. Nobody else seemed aware of it, though a few people were looking right at the beast. This didn't surprise Branwen. It was a Maienaide, he knew, one of the rarer colors. His heart thumped in his chest, and he knew exactly why he was so scared. Maienaides were found only one place on the Earth - between the two covers of the Book he was carrying in his backpack. A hand came down on Branwen's shoulder. His mind reeled with fright, and his bladder control came perilously close to escaping him. It was Lord Heartrend, come to exact punishment for not leaving the book! He couldn't move. Any second now, the RealmLord would snap his neck, or slit his throat, or - "She's a pretty beastie, nae?" came a soft voice in his ear. Branwen gasped, partly in shock, but mostly in relief. The voice did not belong to Lord Heartrend. The hand lifted off Branwen's shoulder, and its owner moved to where Branwen could see him. After a moment of reflection, Branwen recognized him as the man he'd bumped into in Midway. "Who... who are you?" he stammered. "Do you .. work for Lord Heartrend?" The man winced. "Nae so loud, lad. I'm nae one of his eyes, nor one of his hands, but they still may be about." He grabbed a chair, turned it around so the back was towards Branwen, and sat down. "Sit down, look casual. If they see us, we're good as sacrifices." Branwen cautiously looked behind him and picked the closest chair. Sighing, the man ran his hands through his hair. "My name's Ciaran, lad. Ciaran McGowan. And I assume you know you've just made what's going to be the biggest mistake of your life." Branwen blinked. "Not leaving the book behind?" "Nae, lad, nae. 'Tis too late for that, now, anyway. I meant reading it in the first place. Of course, the fault of that lies with me." "But Lord Heartrend told me that if I left it at the gate that I would go back to being a normal kid!" Branwen clenched his fists on his carry-on straps. Ciaran stared at Branwen with wide eyes. "You've already spoken with a RealmLord?" He nervously picked at his ear. "Oh, lad, you're in far more trouble than you think. If the RealmLords think you're worth a personal visit, then you might b- then you ARE in great danger, and I assure you, you will never be normal again. You must come with me. Maybe the Resisters can offer you some protection. What's your name, lad?" "I'm Branwen Reaney. And ... come with you? I CAN'T come with you! My dad's here, and my mom would be worried, and..." Frowning, Ciaran looked as though her was going to speak, but a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. It was the Maienaide, fleeing rather suddenly. Ciaran's frown deepened. He motioned to Branwen for silence, and scanned the room carefully. A sudden shriek had him up and running, Branwen trailing along clumsily at his heels. As he rounded the corner past the atrium area, he was greeted by a horrific sight. Heather, the stewardess, lay flat on her back in the middle of a broad open area. People were clustered around her, trying to find out what had caused her to faint. They milled around in confusion, as nothing seemed apparent. It was perhaps not apparent to them, but Ciaran saw it clearly enough, as did Branwen. The beast was over twenty feet tall, towering over the onlookers on two legs like a shepherd among his flock. It hardly looked the part, however - it was furred with short midnight black hair and had jaws large enough to devour three people at once. It scanned the milling crowds, obviously looking for something. As its head swung towards Branwen, he could see that its right eye had been replaced with a horrifying jumble of welded steel plates and wires, with a gleaming red lens square in the middle of the mess. The eye's gaze fixed on Branwen, and its light flickered sickeningly. The beast grinned. Suddenly, time stopped. The occupants of the airport had frozen in place, as if the very air had solidified around them - all excepting Branwen and Ciaran. Branwen thought this very odd, but had little time to reflect, since the beast chose that very instant to crouch down and pounce at the pair. "A Dreadlynx... Run, lad! Like the wind!" Ciaran spun Branwen around and pushed him forward a little, and then took off in the other direction. The beast slammed into a supporting column with incredible force, but oddly enough left no crack or mark on the plaster. Branwen stumbled forward, looking wildly for someplace he could squeeze into and hide. He heard the beast behind him get to its feet and release an unearthly howl, the sound of which made Branwen's very bones ache. He hunkered down and summoned all his strength into running, trying madly to dodge the immobile people. It was a vain effort, however, for it was barely thirteen strides later that Branwen could hear the Dreadlynx's feet pounding and almost feel the hot, damp breath on the back of his neck. He was going to die, he just knew it. He'd pulled himself into something far beyond anything he could ever have imagined, something so much more dangerous and horrible than the fantasy he'd read. A paw slamming down beside him jolted him out of his reverie and sent him flying off his feet into a row of lockers. Coughing blood, Branwen staggered to his feet. The Dreadlynx couldn't have been more than a foot from his face, wet nose sniffing at him, waiting for something. It slowly dawned on Branwen that it was waiting for him to move, so it could continue its deadly chase. It was playing with him. And he had no choice but to comply. ~There be always a choice, lad.~ It was like a chorus of voices had suddenly spoken, soft and far away - but Ciaran was nowhere in sight, and the rest of the people in the airport were still frozen. He was hearing things - he was close to death and he was going insane. His mother was right; dreaming would kill him in the end. The Dreadlynx, tired of waiting for its prey to move, decided to help it, and swiped a massive paw at Branwen's head. Branwen barely dodged it, and went running back towards the atrium. Ciaran would know what to do, how to get away from this horrid creature. The beast, delighted that its prey had decided to move again, gave chase. Relentless as time itself, the Dreadlynx chased Branwen back across the atrium and towards the other end of the building, occasionally swiping a paw at its prey. In his peripheral vision, Branwen could see Ciaran waving a makeshift torch, trying to catch the feline's attention, but it remained focused only on Branwen. It seemed like only mere seconds later that the beast apparently tired of its sport, and batted Branwen into a wall, which he met elbow-first. He heard a sickening crunch, and mind-numbing pain shot up his arm, blurring his vision. He was vaguely aware of the Dreadlynx, sniffing him and preparing to finish him off, but all he could see was vague shapes, and the ringing in his ears blocked all other sounds. Branwen squinted his eyes shut and waited for death to come. Nothing happened for a moment. Then, a split second later, Branwen could feel a massive thud resonate through the floor. He opened his eyes, and could just barely make out two huge dark shapes where there had once been only one. He could see the shapes circling each other, like alleycats sizing each other up for a fight. Still dazed by pain, he lay there for a moment. As he did so, his ears slowly ceased their tintinnabulation and he became aware that someone was talking to him. "...Br... ...ry! Get up!" It was Ciaran. Slowly, Branwen put his weight on his left arm. Pain shot up the arm again, and he collapsed back to the floor, eyes squeezed shut. He lay there prone for a moment, and listened to the Dreadlynx and whatever the other thing was howl at each other. "Come on, lad! Hurry, while they're distracted!" Branwen felt himself being lifted to his feet, and pulled towards the wall. His arm hung limply at his side, screaming with pain each time it bumped against a frozen person. As they stopped moving, the pain subsided enough for Branwen to open his eyes. His sight had cleared a little, and Branwen could see the Dreadlynx rake its claws across the face of its opponent. The other beast was on four legs, and called up memories in the back of Branwen's head from the Field Museum back in Chicago. There were no words he could find to describe it, save huge, scaled, and yet somehow furry. Ciaran knelt beside Branwen, poking and prodding at his elbow. Branwen winced each time Ciaran came anywhere close to touching it. Ciaran cursed, and ripped a strip of fabric off his shirt. As he began wrapping it around Branwen's elbow, he started talking. "Look over my shoulder, Branwen. See them? The Dreadlynx is a tool of Lord Heartrend. That eye is infrared, and he can be given instructions remotely from his master." Grabbing two nearby newspapers, Ciaran rolled them up and placed them on either side of Branwen's elbow. He continued wrapping, saying "The other one's a Wusming, and I'll wager you've never seen its like before. Its summoner is the ShadowKing." He finished the wrapping in a knot, yanking it tight. Branwen yelped despite himself. Ciaran stood. "They should keep each other occupied for a while. In the meantime, we should get as far away from here as we -" A horrendous yowl went up from where the two gargantuans were battling. Both Ciaran and Branwen turned to look, only to see the Wusming headbutt the Dreadlynx into a pillar. The Dreadlynx crumpled to the ground and lay still. After a gurgling roar of victory, the Wusming turned around to face them. "Oh, damn and blast," Ciaran muttered. The two backed up against the wall as the Wusming slowly ambled its way from the other side of the airport. It grinned toothily. "This does nae look good, Branwen." Branwen shook his head. His mind raced. There was nothing they could do, no way out this time. ~There be still a way oot, Branwen. Ye ken it!~ The voices again, louder this time. Branwen looked up at Ciaran - he was still grimacing at the slowly advancing Wusming, as if wishing he could find its one weak spot. It wasn't his voice... It struck Branwen like a sack of bricks. The Book! Everything about everything was in the Book - even Lord Heartrend had admitted as much. If only he could find the Achilles' Heel of the Wusming, they might get out of this alive. With difficulty, he managed to work his backpack off his shoulders, and down his good arm. He fumbled with the zipper, and finally worked it open. All the while, the Wusming slowly advanced, scaly face grinning like Death itself. Branwen dove into the bag, tossing books and CDs left and right. As his hand grasped the book, he gasped. It was humming - a low inaudible throbbing noise that he could feel all the way up to his shoulder. Ciaran seemed to feel it as well, and he turned to watch Branwen. ~Aye, lad, that's the way, na.~ Feelings of fatigue and depression boiled up from the bottom of Branwen's stomach, and he suddenly realized how pathetic he must look. Arm in a makeshift splint, clothes in disarray, hair disheveled. Soon to be a treat for a creature that should never have existed. He pulled the book fully out of the bag. "Help me," he murmured softly. ~An' so we shall, Branwen o' the clan Reaney.~ The voices took on a singsong quality, as if reciting a poem. The book began to glow white, very faintly, growing as the words went on. ~An the moor and wilds she gang, soft a' velvet, loud a' thunder. Her eye be death, her breath be life, an she be both a' once. She ken ye, she sees ye, and nae a harm shall come te ye, For Carnrir gang upon the Realms.~ The book's glow suddenly grew unbearable, and both Branwen and Ciaran took a step back. The Wusming stopped moving and hunkered down, expecting an attack. The book slowly raised itself out of Ciaran's hands, to float about three feet above the floor. And then, as if disturbed by a sudden breeze, the pages began to turn rapidly, halting on a full page picture of a woman dressed in flowing white robes, and carrying a black double-bladed sword. A sudden peak of intensity blocked the book from view in a wall of white light. When it had finally faded, there was another figure in the room. Branwen recognized her as the woman from the book. She stood as tall as the Dreadlynx had, and her sword was immense. The Book dropped back into Branwen's hands. Ciaran gasped. "Branwen, how... what the hell have you done?" He pointed at the lady. "That's Carnrir, the very goddess of life and death herself! Not even -" He was cut short with a howl from the Wusming, who had apparently decided that he'd become sick of waiting. Lowering his head, he charged Carnrir. The goddess smirked, and aimed a backhand slice at the creature. At the last moment, the Wusming dodged, and the pair circled for a few seconds. Carnrir threw her head back and laughed. Perplexed, the Wusming stepped back a few paces - and the goddess blinked. Her opponent was engulfed in a tremendous white-flamed explosion, which shook the very depths of the building. It shrieked as the fire ate at it from the inside out, eventually quieting to a murmur and then finally just smouldering. The goddess turned to Branwen, made a deep bow, and then disappeared. As she did so, both behemoth corpses melted into a blackness which scuttled away for opposite corners of the building. And as quickly as it had frozen, time began again. Nanoseconds later, the two supporting columns that had been hit exploded in showers of plaster and steel. Infinitesimally later than that, an explosion occurred, and the entire ceiling of Hartsfield International Airport collapsed in on itself in a glorious rain of building materials and fire. Branwen screamed, one voice in a chorus of many. Chunks of concrete embedded themselves in the floor all around him. An I-beam, now free of rivets, swung down and took off the head of an elderly lady, not five feet from Branwen. Just as he was resigning himself to death for the third time this morning, he felt himself being grabbed about the waist. "Hold fast, my lad! We cannae die now!" came Ciaran's voice in his ear. Ciaran ran full speed towards the exit, dodging debris and people with amazing gymnastic feats. Branwen hung limply, watching in utter horror as he saw corpse after corpse, either already dead or being made so. And suddenly Branwen wondered - where was his father? ________________________________________________________________________________ As Ciaran burst through the doors into the sunlight, a loud cry came from his right. "Oh my god, Branwen!" It was the stewardess, Heather. She rushed over and helped Ciaran set the limp boy down. Branwen curled up in a ball, sobbing and coughing. "Is he okay?" "I dinnae know, lass. It's hard to tell. He took in a lot of smoke." Heather knelt beside Branwen. "His father was in there, wasn't he?" Ciaran nodded. Then he frowned. "Heather, I have to ask ye. Why did ye faint earlier?" Blushing, the stewardess answered, "I thought... I saw something. But I must have imagined it. I mean, it couldn't have been-" "Lass," Ciaran said. "What did ye see?" He stared down at her, eyes filled with foreboding. "I ... I saw something like a giant cat..." Ciaran slammed his fist into the wall, making Heather jump. "Shi'iana must have it in for me today." He sighed, and looked at the girl. "Look, lass, ye'll have to come with Branwen and I. There's a place nearby that I need to visit, and they'll have a doctor for the boy." "Me?" heather asked. "Why do I have to come with you? I have a home to go to, even if I won't have a job for a while. I think as long as Branwen-" "Dammit, lass!" Ciaran shouted. "You have no clue what just happened today, and you've seen too much. You're in grave danger, and the only way you can get any safer is to be with me! An' that's the end of it!" Heather jerked back, and her eyes widened. "Oh my god, was this a terrorist attack?" Ciaran nodded, after pausing for a moment. "Aye, and my friends can help us. Now, let's go, before they find out I lived." He stooped to pick up Branwen's backpack. "Wait! Who are your friends? CIA? FBI?" She thought for a second. "NSA?" "None of those, lass. They're called the Resistance, and we're a damn sight more efficient than any of those ye mentioned. Now, I'm going to go flag down a cab. See if ye can get him up and moving." "I'll try." Heather touched Branwen's shoulders. He looked up, eyes still full of tears. "Come on, Branwen. We're going to get you to a doctor." ________________________________________________________________________________ Slowly, Branwen got to his feet. He clutched his elbow tightly, and looked around him. Everything was in ruins - even a few cars were overturned. He looked up. A huge plume of black smoke rose into the sky. Police helicopters already were circling overhead. He knew with the certainty of youth that his father had not survived the cataclysm. Something inside him knew that this was not the end of the horrors he'd become a part of; that this was only the beginning. And he could never go home again. ******************************************************************************** Author's Notes: Fantastic - it's finally finished. I don't have too much to say about this, except that I hope you enjoyed it, and that I think it's probably my best piece of prose to date. This story is "greyfic" - not quite darkfic, but certainly not a little light reading, either. The battles between Good and Evil are supposed to seem a lot more realistic - the Good may triumph, but not without some horrific chaos on the way. For this reason, I tried to make the characters are "real" as possible without turning _all_ of them into sobbing balls of angst, since that makes for dull characters. Some story notes; Yes, there are a lot of dangling mentions here that are not fully explained - it's part of the story's style, and future authors are welcome to pick up on them as they will. I know less about what I've been writing than you probably do, at this point. The frozen people in the airport are due to a spell which stopped time. I'm not entirely sure which one of the two RealmLords cast it. The delayed destruction of the airport was a result of this - the battle between the DreadLynx and the Wusming did some fantastic damage, and Carnrir's explosion did several degrees more than that, but none of the damage actually affected the airport until time started again. Hence, one big boom. The Resistance is a group of people fighting to oppose the invading RealmLords. I don't know how, I don't know who, excepting that Ciaran's one of the more notable members. Isn't this open-ended thing fun? The description of both airports is truly accurate, to the almost every detail. Yes, the gates for Midway Airport are that confusing. The F terminal gate run something like this - F16, F15, F18, F21, F20, F22, F24. It's madness. I play fairly fast and loose with the names of dieties in this story - if it becomes an issue I can whip up a list. That's enough of that. Onto credits. Prereaders include: DamienRoc, Mechalink, Madsman, Sharyna, and Atom. I pray I haven't missed any - you all helped a lot. Thanks to Ard for listening while I bounced ideas off of her, as well as some preliminary prereading and as always, listening while I bitch. And as ever, thanks to Kitty for putting up with mood swings, loss of concentration, late nights, putting up with me having written fanfic in the first place, and everything else I drag her through, including putting the finishing touches on this story while she is actually in the same room as me. Yes, I'm an idiot, yes, I know already. You can all kill me later. Thank you for reading, and have a nice day. -- Chamelaeon b