Chapter 41

41.

         “My question is,” Prescotte said as he bent down to examine a series of foot-like depressions in the dirt, “what the hell was the kid doing with Valreck? He ran off from us . . . did he run to our new friend?” The impressions looked fairly recent, although with no people in the village anymore, it was hard to tell. If they were more than a day old, presumably the wind would have taken care of them by now. But this place was funny. Worse than Legoflas, in some ways. But at least it wasn’t on fire.
         “Perhaps his mind was affected in some fashion,” Tritan said, standing over Prescotte. At this level Prescotte could see a faint trickle of blood, or whatever flowed inside the Slashtir, still leaking out from the makeshift bandage Prescotte had crafted for the alien. Tritan seemed to be able to walk okay but the Slashtir rarely complained to begin with so it was hard to tell. Prescotte had also noticed that he wasn’t using his injured arm as much either. “Valreck could have implanted a suggestion long ago for the boy to return to him at a certain time.”
         “Yeah, I thought of that,” Prescotte replied, frowning as he rose to his feet. The stiffness in his muscles argued over the motion, reminding him that he wasn’t exactly pristine either. The bruises and batterings of the last few days were beginning to catch up to him. Another fight might incapacitate him completely if it didn’t go well. “From what we saw at that guy’s house, the kid didn’t exactly look all there. I don’t think he recognized any of us.” He realized that in the silence of the village, their low voices probably still carried, but there was little else he could do. They were working blind and some part of Prescotte welcomed the idea of the mindbenders tracking them here. Let them arrive and see what happened. See how it all fell down. “But if that’s the case we could have serious problems, with the kid and his father missing. We might wind up fighting both of them if we’re not careful.” Another grim thought occurred to him and he glanced at Tritan, his mouth drawn in a taut line. “You might wind up fighting me if he gets a hold of my mind, Tritan.”
         “I doubt it will happen, friend Prescotte,” the Slashtir noted. “The boy and his father have had several months to be conditioned to the control. He should not be able to just seize control of your mind without an induction first.”
         “I think we’ve passed the point where should not really doesn’t make a bit of difference anymore,” Prescotte replied, now following the footprints, the Slashtir close behind. He kept himself close to the houses, hoping that the shadows would obscure him somewhat, although the Slashtir’s large mass made that somewhat difficult. He kept his ears attuned to any foreign noises, but the village was oddly quiet. This is not a good thing. “And I think there’s a good chance that he might try, if past experience is anything to go by.”
         “I suspect he might find it hard to-“
         ”Save it, Tritan, and listen,” he snapped, pausing to glance back at the Slashtir. “Because this is important. If he gets me, don’t stick around to try and save me, just get the hell out, try and find Tristian or Ranos, or just hide until we get control of the situation again. I’m serious,” he added, although Tritan’s face didn’t indicate that he found it otherwise. “You’re injured and there’s no reason for you to risk yourself if you don’t have to. Am I clear on that?”
         “Very,” Tritan replied calmly. “But if he gains control of your mind, it may not be a matter of simply hiding. He may send you after me.”
         “Then you do what you have to do and take me down,” Prescotte hissed. A clatter above made him look up sharply, but it was just the wind blowing the dirt off a roof, sending it tumbling down in a sparse shower. He drew his sword anyway, feeling the blade whisper against the leather sheathe. What little moonlight there was caught the blade and glimmered faintly. “I mean it, if I wake up and you’re hurt because you did nothing, so help me I’ll beat your ass myself.”
         “I do not believe it will come to that, friend Prescotte.”
         “Yeah, I don’t either,” Prescotte admitted, “but I’m just setting the ground rules. Always assume the worst, that’s the first rule of fighting. You never know what advantages the other guy is hiding.”
         “Such as the ability to flee every fight through teleporting?” Tritan asked simply.
         “Don’t get me started,” Prescotte shot back with a quick grin. “One day one of those bastards is going to teleport right into a wall and I’m just going to laugh.” His face turned serious again. “Though I think I know what to do the next time we find Valreck to keep him from running.” As they passed the darkened windows of the houses Prescotte kept peeking in, holding his sword close to his body. Each view was almost like a museum exhibit, a snapshot of lives interrupted without warning, the interior of each home kept the same since it was so abruptly abandoned a few days ago. Some places were in worse shape than others, depending on whether animals had been able to find stores of food and ransack the house, but all appeared to be somehow holding their breath, waiting for the owners to return and take up their lives where they had left off. It was more than a little eerie to Prescotte, who had seen his share of strange things in the last few years.
         After cautiously passing maybe ten such houses, Prescotte stopped, crouching down with his back to the wall. “We could be doing this the whole damn night,” he told Tritan, who he noticed was also leaning against the wall slightly. “And if he senses us coming he could keep moving around all night.” He rubbed the lower half of his face, feeling the grit forming there, the rough feel of unshaven skin. Looking up at the Slashtir, he said, “We need to attract his attention somehow that won’t force him to run.”
         “What would cause him to come to us, though?”
         “I know, he doesn’t seem especially brave.” A idea began to form in his mind, and he tried to twist it into a workable shape. “I see two possibilities right away. We could go back to his place and search through his stuff, which might cause him to come back to stop us from finding something damning.”
         “Or he may not care about it either way,” Tritan pointed out.
         “True,” Prescotte responded, pointing at the alien. “Which leads to the second option. One of us turns traitor and attacks the other.”
         “That will draw him out?”
         “It might . . . if only to see what the hell is going on. But it might also bring him out so he can finish off the winner.” He looked over the concept some more, growing to like it more and more with each passing moment. “Yeah, I think we can work with that. If we can make the fight as loud and messy as possible . . .” he frowned, glancing at the Slashtir again, “I think you’re going to have to be the traitor though, he might read my mind and see what’s up.” He flashed Tritan a wild grin. “Please try to be gentle.”
         “I shall try to hurt you in as harmless a manner as possible,” the Slashtir answered graciously.
         “Good, good,” Prescotte said tartly, nodding to himself. “That’s the spirit.” Lifting his head up and arching his back look around better, he added, “And if nothing else, we might find him purely by accident, right? Stranger things have happened.”
         “Indeed, it’s possible that-“
         A rush of frantic footsteps nearby, thumping heavily on the packed dirt ground, alerted both men. Prescotte leapt to his feet, his sword flicking left and right, held at the ready. With narrowed eyes he indicated for the Slashtir to stay back while he crept forward to meet the incoming footsteps. A vague shadow could be seen now, hovering at the edge of the corner, a flat man stretched as if trying to escape something that held him fast. It grew shorter with each approaching second as the person the shadow belonged to came closer to their position.
         “Help! Help!” a voice screamed, one that Prescotte found instantly familiar. Well, look at that, he noted silently, moving into a position near the corner so the person would have to run past him.
         That occurred a few seconds later as a lanky form dashed past the corner. Prescotte leapt out shortly afterwards, tackling the body and sending them spiraling into the opposite walls in a series of grunts and yells.
         “Hey, hey!” he shouted, using both hands to pin the person against the wall, trying not to cut him into pieces with his still unsheathed sword in the process. “Calm down there, I said calm down,” he snarled in his best authoritative bark.
         The struggles ceased immediately following his words and in the semi-darkness Prescotte saw his suspicions confirmed. Well, one of you escaped at least.
         Jaymes blinked at him, swallowed, his breathing still rapid, his face flushed and some of his hair pasted to forehead with perspiration. He appeared to have been running for some time. His eyes were wild, his gaze darting constantly back and forth, resting first on Prescotte, then on Tritan for only scant seconds. Prescotte could feel the boy’s muscles jumping, tense, under his hands.
         “It’s us,” he said, insistent. “Calm down, it’s just us. Prescotte and Tritan, remember? We’re with you.”
         “Yeah, yeah,” Jaymes said after a moment, his body still tense. He appeared ready to back through the wall itself, judging by his posture. “I remember,” he said and his gaze dove to regard Prescotte’s sword before glancing sharply away again. “Yeah, I remember.” His voice was still reaching for the upper registers and there was a fidgetiness about him, as if he was ready to bolt at any moment.
         “Good to hear,” Prescotte said brusquely, taking his hands off the lad. “How’d you manage to get away from Valreck?”
         “I, ah, I . . .” he swallowed again, pressed both his hands to the wall. “He, he got distracted and I just . . . I took off when he wasn’t looking. He’s . . . he’s probably still looking for me though.”
         “Really?” Prescotte asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s fantastic news!”
         “Yeah, you should . . . what?” Jaymes replied, breaking off whatever he was about to say.
         “We were spending all this time looking for him, but if he follows you, he’ll come right to us. Good thing you found us,” Prescotte told him with a cheer he hadn’t felt in a while. Finally an end to running around this place like a bunch of nuts. Now they were getting somewhere. Looking down the rows of houses, he said, “How far away do you think he is?”
         “What, what are you . . .” Jaymes’ lips moved without speaking for a few seconds. Regaining his voice, he added forcefully, “No, we can’t stay here! We can’t . . . we just can’t, are you nuts? There’s no way . . .”
         “No, this is perfect, we can set up a trap for him and when he gets here finally nail him . . .” Prescotte said, swinging his sword, causing Jaymes to flinch away. “You won’t have a thing to worry about, kid, me and Tritan here will have the entire situation completely under control. You can hide and let us do the heavy lifting.”
         “Indeed,” Tritan said reassuringly. “Prescotte and I are trained professionals. Is that not true?”
         “Exactly,” Prescotte said with a flourish, gesturing with the sword. Turning toward Tritan he continued, “Now we’re going to have to improvise here, but I think if we set ourselves up . . .”
         “No!” Jaymes shouted, his voice echoing through the vaultless hallways of the village. Stepping forward, he grabbed Prescotte by the arm with both hands, forcing the man to face him. “I mean it, we can’t stay here. We can’t.”
         “Why not?” Prescotte asked, mentally giving the kid ten seconds to let go of his arm.
         He did it in two. “He, ah . . . Valreck’s, he’s not going to chase me . . . he’s not coming right away, he’s, you see he’s . . . he’s got my father.” The words were nearly forced out of his throat, emerging as a strangled whisper. His eyes glanced back the way he came, as if expecting Valreck to come charging out, his body on fire, at any moment. “I don’t know what he’s going to do to him. We have to rescue him.”
         “Oh,” was all Prescotte said at first. Exchanging a brief glance with Tritan, he said, “Why didn’t you say that? We were looking for your father before. If he’s captured, let’s go get him back. Whether we go to Valreck or he comes to us, it doesn’t really matter.”
         “Yeah, we have to go to him,” Jaymes said quickly. “To get my father back, we have to go to Valreck. He’s got him, so we have to go.”
         “Then let’s go, shall we?” Prescotte said mildly.
         Jaymes stared at him for another second, before abruptly turning on his heel and setting off down the path. “This way,” he said without preamble. “He’s hiding in this direction.”
         “Lead the way,” Prescotte told him, motioning for Tritan to follow along. The Slashtir ambled along behind, his head above the doorways they were passing. Prescotte noticed these houses were empty as well, just like all the others. It was weird how everything in this place was so similar.
         “It’s not far,” Jaymes said over his shoulder, after they had been walking for a few minutes. He kept racing forward a few steps then slowing down to give the others a chance to catch up. He was speaking no quieter than before. “We’re almost there.” He skipped forward a few more feet, “But we have to hurry.”
         “We’re coming, we’re coming,” Prescotte muttered, hunching his shoulders, feeling like eyes were everywhere. That was impossible, of course, since there was no one else in the village. Still. As they reached a gap in between two blocks of houses, Prescotte called out, “Hold up for a second, okay?”
         “What? What?” Jaymes said quickly, spinning rapidly to face them. “What’s wrong? We can’t stop now.” His speech was so rapid his words were stumbling over each other, threatening to become nonsense.
         “We just can’t rush into this without some planning, that’s all,” Prescotte said. “I just want to take a minute and figure out how we’re going to approach this.”
         “Oh . . . o-okay,” Jaymes said slowly, sliding back closer to Prescotte. “But we can’t . . . we can’t waste time . . . he could be doing . . . anything to my father, we don’t know . . .”
         “Don’t worry,” Prescotte said calmly. “This won’t take long at all.” His voice was somber, almost mellow. “We only need a minute. That’s all. Just a minute to do . . .”
         Suddenly he rushed forward, reaching around and hooking Jaymes with one arm, violently slamming him into the wall of the house. “. . . this!” he finished, jamming his forearm into the boy’s stomach, pinning his arms into place and preventing him from escaping.
         A second later his sword was at Jaymes’ chest, the point just touching his worn shirt. At the sight of that his face turned completely pale. “What . . . what are you doing, my father . . .”
         “He can wait a moment,” Prescotte said quietly, never taking his eyes off the boy. “Tritan, be a pal and keep a lookout for us while me and Jaymes here have a brief heart to heart.”
         “Of course,” the Slashtir replied.
         “Oh, and if he gets away from me, you know what to do, right?”
         “Does it involve his entrails? Because I find those are the organs I can get the best grip on.”
         “You got it,” Prescotte said triumphantly. Boy, he’s getting good. He may not be a warrior, but he has the creativity thing down.
         “So with that settled, let’s talk for a minute, eh?” Prescotte said, returning his attention to the now clearly unsettled Jaymes. Without giving him a chance to speak, he continued, “See, me and Tritan were discussing this before, how Valreck and his friends have the ability to play with peoples’ heads a bit and so, seeing how insistent you are to get us to return to Valreck’s . . .”
         “Because he has my father, I told you,” Jaymes said, his voice angry. He tried to struggle against Prescotte’s hold but it was to no avail. “I said to you . . .”
         “And I’m just saying, I wonder how much of that is actually your idea, that’s all . . .” He pressed the point of the sword a little deeper into the Jaymes’ chest, digging into his skin slightly. The boy gasped and bit his lip, clearly about to scream. “Because the two of us clearly saw you with Valreck before and now all of a sudden you’ve escaped . . . now that doesn’t sound right to me . . . how about you, Tritan?”
         “There appear to be some holes in his story, I think,” Tritan noted.
         “Right,” Prescotte agreed. “And you see, Tritan is a lot smarter than me, so if he sees it and I see it, well you know something is bound to be up.”
         “You’re . . . you’re nuts, we have to . . .” Jaymes was unable to take his eyes off the sword poking at his skin.
         “And so I think it’s time you told us everything,” Prescotte warned.
         “I told you everything,” the boy said, his voice becoming shrill. “I told you, I escaped from him, I-“
         ”Why did you run from us in the first place?” Prescotte demanded harshly, clenching his arm and driving it deeper into Jaymes’ stomach, causing the boy to gasp in pain. “Why did you run straight to Valreck . . . that’s what you did, right?
         “N-no, that’s not, it’s not . . .”
         “Ran straight to your old pal Valreck and now that he’s in danger, you’re helping him out again,” Prescotte seethed. “Isn’t that true?” he nearly shouted in Jaymes’ face.
         “It’s not, it’s not true . . .” the boy pleaded.
         “Let’s not play around, kid,” he snarled. “Okay? There’s a lot at stake here and if you don’t come clean we won’t have any other use for you, if you know what I mean. So what’s the story?” The boy didn’t answer and Prescotte shook him violently. “So? Answer me! What the hell is going on here!”
         “Oh . . . oh, it’s not . . .” Jaymes replied, closing his eyes tightly and turning his face away.
         “That’s not useful,” Prescotte said in an almost singsong voice. He dug the blade in just a little more, causing Jaymes to hiss in pain.
         “Oh no oh no oh no . . .” he was whispering quickly and his skin was suddenly hot to the touch.
         “What is he doing?” Prescotte shouted. “Tell me! Or so help me I’ll-“
         “No!” Jaymes screamed, suddenly beginning to thrash around, forcing Prescotte to move the sword to avoid impaling him. He didn’t seem to notice the gesture. “Help me!” he began screaming at the top of his lungs, his voice straining to reach the sky itself. “Help me! Help! Help me!”
         “Shut up-“ Prescotte began to say, bringing the sword up to his throat.
         And then the ground erupted under Prescotte.
         The shower of dirt and mud swallowed him almost instantly, as Jaymes fell forward and to the side, released from his grasp. Prescotte yelled, stumbling away, covering his head with his arms, staggering in a different direction.
         His path took him awkwardly to the opposite wall. Just as his back touched it, the wall behind him exploded, filling the air with a shower of mortar and dust. Prescotte had barely time for one more quick yell before spinning and tumbling to the ground, crumpling under the impact. He lay there, half covered in debris, unmoving.
         A man emerged from the freshly created hole just as Tritan stepped away from his position. The boy was nowhere in sight now.
         “Well, well,” Tolin said, stepping over a pile of rubble, swatting some dust off his shirt sleeves. “That was simple enough,” he said, absently kicking Prescotte.
         Looking up at Tritan, he gave the Slashtir a grim smile. “One down, then. Now how hard do you think two will be?”

* * * * *

         Entrance into the past was somehow easier than progressing to the future. Swelling into the mind was no different than putting on a separate set of clothing. After some adjustment, it was like there was no change at all.
         Baress was still on the floor where Valreck had left him. He had managed to get up to his hands and knees but Valreck knew he would be unable to get any further. One of his hands was still clenched into a tight fist, seemingly around a small object. He could make the man release the object, whatever it was, but it really wasn’t worth the effort. There were plenty more pressing matters to be concerned with.
         The house they found themselves in was far smaller than where Valreck had once lived in this village. The room was squat and square, with a small window at each end, opposite each other. The room’s meager light was leaking in through those two passages, rendering the two men faint shadows, their actual shadows seemingly more substantial. Furniture was sparse, just one small chair which nobody was currently using. The door was slightly ajar, allowing for a small breeze, dissipating some of the room’s implied oppressiveness. Valreck found it cold, personally, but couldn’t bring himself to bother closing it.
         He was facing one of the windows now, but he wasn’t gazing into the night shrouded outdoors, with its half-seen houses and beautifully clear sky. Instead his eyes were searching his reflection, probing his own translucent image and seeing something else entirely in the spaces. The image that looked back at him was of a desert landscape, dotted with closely packed tents, people stepping across the sand like ghosts, robes whispering in the darkness, features obscured by light’s absence. The figures moved slowly and smoothly, some passing by in pairs, their lips moving and clearly gesturing, although no sound could be heard.
         Gently, without even realizing it at first, Valreck reached out to touch the window. A hairbreadth away from the clouded glass, Valreck jerked his hand away, spinning from the window as he did so, his face pained. “Gods . . .” he whispered, looking down at Baress, who had noticed none of his actions. The other man gave a sick cough but didn’t move or otherwise speak. Valreck took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing his hands together nervously. He hadn’t expected it to affect him this much. But he couldn’t stop now, if he wished to see this through, he would be seeing much worse before the time was over.
         “Are you still there, Baress?” he said softly, stepping back from the other man. In response, the other man stiffened and then slumped forward onto his face again. Seen like this, he appeared so much older. Valreck wondered if the man would forgive him for this, when it was all over. Somehow, he felt past those concerns now. “Baress?” he asked, more insistently this time.
         “They . . . all . . . dead . . .” the man said, his voice slurred, barely distinct. Valreck couldn’t read the words from his mind. It was filled with other times. There was no room for anything else anymore.
         “Yes, I know,” Valreck said gently, flatly. “I know.” Those others he saw were beyond saving, each and every one of them. But perhaps he could avenge one. “But we need to look at them anyway, Baress. We do. I need you to stay focused for me, all right?”
         “You . . .” Baress murmured, trying to pick his head up off the floor and failing. “You . . . why are you . . . doing . . . this . . .”
         “I have no choice, I’m afraid,” Valreck explained, not sure how much the other man even understood anymore. “Your son’s dreams are a portal only to the future, and an imperfect one at that. Your dreams, on the other hand, are my gateway into the past. I had been refining your son’s dreams in the belief that it was the direction I wished to go in . . . I realize now that you were the person I should have been focusing on all along. But I do not have the time I once had to properly condition you for this.”
         “Ah . . . you,” Baress raged incoherently, his back spasming. Valreck wondered if he even truly knew where he was, or if he was lost in the same desert scene Valreck had just witnessed, wandering around in it like the time was the present. “I . . . I . . . this you . . .”
         “The necessary rush has probably made the dreaming process far more unpleasant than it should be,” Valreck told him, his voice deadened. So many conflicting emotions were swirling about inside of him, he did not wish to open himself up to any of them, for fear he might be consumed. He was close to possibly finding the solution of a mystery that he had never suspected existed. The proximity to the truth was scaring him, but also its implication. It was possible the truth might require further action. And if the action was what he suspected it might have to be, he didn’t know what to do at all. “For this I am truly sorry, but my needs are great. When this is over, I shall make amends as best I can.” He had never wanted to be this kind of person, using his mind as a prying bar, forcing his will upon others, bending events irrevocably to fit his vision. Using his abilities to his advantage had never been a problem for him before, but this, what he was doing now, it disturbed him. It reminded him too much of Mandras’ conditioning, the results of his attempt to emulate lay around him in the form of this bare and empty village. It reminded him too much of Mandras and his single-minded zeal, his disregard for others and their conflicting views. Valreck had become the kind of person he had never wanted to become. He prayed that the cause, and the results, were worth it in the end.
         “But I . . . I can’t . . . you . . .” the man gagged on his words, barely managing to eject them from his throat. “You . . . why . . .”
         “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Valreck said, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. “Just focus the same way I showed you. Just like . . .” Valreck closed his eyes, let himself slide into the man’s mind, still surprised at how easy it was. He felt a nauseating wrench and a brief blur of absolute darkness before the opaque surroundings began to become wavery and dissolve, with new colors and sensations emerging slowly. “Yes, you . . . that’s right.” The scent of the wind came to him first, dry and with just a hint of grittiness. It felt real, but just barely, a picture lacking a dimension, missing a depth that you wouldn’t notice unless you saw the entire scheme from the side. He was in a dream now, but it wasn’t his own. Sounds came, voices warped, heard through an imperfect membrane, bent by time and distance. Some of the voices he swore he recognized. Splashes of old light were breaking through the environment, opening a gift to find that it was the world around you. His palms were slick, his heart racing, he wanted to rush Baress but was afraid to push him, afraid that it would disrupt the whole affair.
         This is the time. I know what to look for now. On some level Valreck realized that it was possible that Baress was only coming up with these images to please Valreck, coaxed by some subconscious impulse. He had to admit it was possible, especially the scenes that Valreck himself was involved in. But other scenes had featured people Baress had never met, in conversations that Valreck had never heard, speaking words that fit those people. If those were fake, then his delusion was so deep as to be insurmountable. He would have to assume that everything he saw was authentic and decide the consequences of what he saw later.
         While he was lost in thought the surroundings gradually resolved themselves into the familiar. Sand stretched to all the horizons, the wan light of the stars washed down to blanket the whole area with a pale glow and distorted, almost gem-like shadows. It was late in the night, but there were still some mindbenders wandering about, their footprints leaving no tracks upon the sand, voices speaking in hushed whispers. A pair who looked vaguely familiar stalked right past him, the edge of the woman’s cloak passing right through his shoulder, causing him to briefly flinch away.
         “Yes,” he said, to no one in particular. His nervousness returned, nibbling at the edges of his resolve. Would he see himself? It didn’t matter. He hadn’t come to find his mirror image, even if it was younger by several months. He prayed that Baress had focused on the proper time, he had spent quite a while delineating the period to be viewed within a narrow window, almost to the exact date. But Baress’ mind was not fully compliant and it was questionable whether that had occurred.
         The next person who dashed past destroyed all those questions. It took Valreck a second to recognize that man and when he did a chill shuddered through him.
         “Kilun,” he murmured, rising to his feet. It was definitely his friend, even from behind he could tell. The shape of his body, the motions of his strides, he knew it all. Time had not diluted the memories of his friend and now they were all flooding back, carried by a wave of melancholy. Before he could assume he was watching the actions of the deceased as more of an academic exercise. The man that just passed he had known better than almost any other. The man that just passed was dead.
         But was this the night? The question echoed in his mind as he raced to catch up with Kilun. The man’s swift footsteps led him to nearly stumble, his arms swinging madly. Valreck was not yet close enough to see his face but he did his best. Kilun appeared to be extremely agitated judging by his posture. Valreck tried to remember the last time he had seen his friend that way. The answer sent a fresh chill down his spine. Trying to suppress his trepidation, he continued to follow.
         Closer now, he could hear Kilun muttering to himself, his words spat out in fast, tense bursts. “Don’t see . . . not like they say . . . if they want it, why not . . . don’t care what they say, I can’t . . . why don’t they see, oh . . . why can’t I see . . .”
         Only a few others were walking around in this area of the camp and they all stared at Kilun without speaking. Later they spoke of his mannerisms on that night, his awkward mutterings and overall lack of composure. But reports were not the event. Before him, he was watching it unfold. The last time. His last steps. Valreck had to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing his departed friend, from stopping him from taking those final actions that would result in his disappearance from this world, and from life itself. But his fingers would only have clutched the emptiness itself if he had done so. This was no better than a recording, he had to remind himself of that. Briefly he concentrated and Kilun stepped backwards, reversing all motions from the last few seconds. All else around him followed suit. A moment later he stopped and then proceeded forward again. Only a recording. He could not lose sight of that, no matter what he saw. He was not here to change things but to observe and discover. If there was truth to be found here, he would see it soon.
         His tent loomed ahead, familiar to Valreck even though he had only been there several times. After Kilun’s disappearance he had found himself wandering to it more and more often, sometimes looking for any sort of clues, sometimes simply hoping that by some miracle his friend would be there, wondering what all the fuss was about. Neither ever happened. On the last night before they departed, Valreck had gone and said a silent prayer at the tent before taking the simple structure down, erasing the last physical memory of Kilun from the camp. It had felt like burying him, but Valreck had needed to do that before he left, he needed to finally admit to himself that his friend was gone, that he was not coming back. He wondered if it was still there now, fallen and scattered, or if the elements had destroyed what little had remained. No doubt the bodies of the others were strewn around it now, decaying as much as it was disintegrating, an incomprehensible tableau to anyone passing through and even the most meticulous research would never piece it all back together again. Far from being remembered for all time, their quest was discarded to the wind, no more than fine sand sifting through loose fingers, unable to hold its form, lost with the slightest breeze. Unless you were there, you would never know. Valreck had been there, but he didn’t know anymore. And his fumbling attempts at discovery would tell him nothing, or perhaps everything.
         Lost in thought, he watched with a detached eye as Kilun clambered into his tent almost clumsily. A sharp breath was expelled from his lips as it happened. That was it, then. The last time anyone would ever see him. Nothing portentous about it at all. Just a man finding shelter. But what did he really find? Valreck had to know. That’s why he was here.
         Passerbys strolling through suddenly stopped again. Valreck moved closer to the tent, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. The opaque flaps mocked him, said nothing. But was it possible for him to . . . gingerly he pressed his hand against the tent, not surprised at all to see his hand pass completely through the cloth. Yes. It was. It was.
         Time frozen around him, Valreck hesitated. His face attempted to keep from betraying any emotion, but it was impossible at this moment. He would know, perhaps. The final fate. Perhaps. A twitch behind his eyes said nothing, conveyed everything there was to say. With the Time Patrol at his heels, did he truly need to waste time on this, an event dead and finished?
         But he knew the answer, even before the question was asked.
         “. . . ah, why are you . . . why . . . what . . .” came Baress’ voice, from nowhere and everywhere, curled in every grain of sand, suspended in each molecule of the air.
         “Sh . . . sh . . . do not fret . . .” Valreck murmured, never taking his eyes off the tent. His lips parted, as if he were about to say something else. Then his mouth formed a tight line and his shoulders slumped slightly. Oddly, it occurred to him suddenly that he was casting no shadow. How appropriate.
         Then, taking a single certain step, he moved into the side of the tent, passed through, and was in.
         A moment later, time rolled forward again.

* * * * *

         “What kind of alien are you?” Tolin asked, regarding without fear the creature looming over him. It was shaped like a man but much larger, covered in weird red and grey scales or armor, with a face that had to be ripped from a nightmare, or at least a demented reverie. He suspected killing it would be no different than anything else. Generally, once you hit something enough times, it died. If the Universe had one law, that was it. All his defenses were up, the air around him humming with a summer haze. Beneath him, he could sense the man, Prescotte, still breathing, although he was unconscious. His demise would come easily enough, but he didn’t know what this alien could do and didn’t want to give it a chance to try anything fancy.
         “My people are known as the Slashtir,” the alien said, the phrase sounding somehow rehearsed. The intonations of the voice were utterly foreign, it could recite its diary to him and not let on that it meant anything. “And my name is Tritan.” It was sheets of muted thunder, the alien’s voice, heard late at night with the bedcovers pressed tightly over your head. Tolin blinked, not expecting that kind of reaction. Weird. He had to end this soon.
         “Pleased to meet you,” Tolin said sarcastically, angling to the side, trying to flank the alien. Turning invisible was an option but maintaining that and the shield would be too taxing. And right now, he needed protection more than anything else.
         The alien only pivoted slightly to continue facing Tolin. “You understand, I hope, that I will not let you harm Prescotte.” There was a vague menace attached to the words, as well as a strange honesty. “It is not something I’ll allow to happen.”
         Tolin risked a glance at the prone Prescotte and barked out a brief laugh. “You’re a bit too late for that I’m afraid.” His attention focused on the crude bandage that was wrapped around the alien’s thigh. It was tinted an odd greenish color. I wonder. Concentrating, Tolin increased the air pressure around the bandage, twisting and squeezing until he felt something begin to give.
         At the last moment the alien appeared to suspect something and tried to take a step toward him, but it was too late by then. The bandage suddenly turned a bright green color as the wound reopened, forcing the alien down to one knee and nearly sending him toppling down onto his face. It made an exhalation that might have been an expression of pain but he didn’t know for sure, nor did he find himself caring all that much. His mind raced with the possibilities. Tolin wasn’t a man interested in proving how creative he could be, he generally left such exercises for other people. But he wasn’t exactly sure what was going to work here. Waiting for the alien to bleed to death wasn’t really feasible. For all he knew, it could regenerate like any Time Patrol soldier. Hell, perhaps it even was Time Patrol. What rule said they all had to be human?
         Ripping apart its mind would be too difficult, if it wasn’t careful its alien thought processes might infect him. He’d heard of such things before, although it had never been confirmed. Tolin was about to discover for himself that all the rumors were true, however. He could try to shut down some of its organ systems, but even a cursory scan showed its biology to be too confusing to perceive properly. Vessels snaked through its body like a lattice, forming a net, without structure, without centering on any coherent point. He had no idea where to even start.
         Keep it simple, then. It was the slogan his life was based on. “The reason I’m here, the reason you’re fighting me instead of any of the others . . .” and he realized then that he had an entire empty village to play with and nothing to impede him. “. . . is because all my life I’ve only had one job, I’ve only been taught to do one thing really well.”
         Perhaps the alien noticed the action. It was definitely heavier than it looked, as if it were denser somehow. It had managed to regain its feet, rivulets of thick blood running down its leg, striping its skin, giving it a glistening, moistened look.
         It looked at him, then, with those unblinking blue eyes. There was an endless sky in there, cloudless, its depths penetrating perhaps to infinity. Tolin could care less.
         “How to break things,” he concluded, a grin slowly grabbing at his face. “That’s all I know.”
         It reached for him suddenly, futilely, with surprising speed.
         Concentrating, Tolin flung it through the wall of the nearest house, through the opposite wall, and into the houses beyond that.
         The crash was deafening, the holes created, massive. Tolin grabbed air, pulled it forward, let the world shift and suddenly he was at the scene of a demolition, reaching it just in time for the house to collapse, the alien’s legs sighted briefly before the entire affair became a miasma of rubble and dust. Debris peppered the air, striking Tolin’s thin shield and disintegrating instantly. Already he could sense the pile shifting, the alien somehow wriggling out. Oh no, I don’t think so, Tolin thought with a smirk. Reaching out again, he ripped it through the debris, tearing it through the one wall still standing, not even wincing as that structure exploded outward before his eyes, tendrils of billowing dust stretching out into the otherwise still air. The alien emerged like a bud ejected from a dying flower, achieving some measure of an arc and slamming into the ground hard, bouncing and rolling as it did, legs and arms scraping the soil, trying to find some purchase, succeeding only in leaving damp tracks of blood in the dirt.
         No movement was apparent from its body when it finally stopped rolling. Tolin strode up to it carefully, his feet making no sounds, hushed by the still trembling waves of the multiple explosions. The darkness was growing more absolute now, the sun’s light already long forgotten, dusk gradually becoming a fond memory. The alien was curled into a ball, as if its skin might protect it, as if it might be some sort of armor. But armor was useless if the insides could be destroyed, if the important stuff was still fragile. Then all the protection in the world was worth nothing. He had learned that a long time ago. Even the most secure box couldn’t stop its contents from being reduced to so many shards. From the beginning they had taught him that, to the point where he didn’t think he knew how to put anything back together anymore. Just discard the whole charade and start over. Once something was broken, it never became quite whole again.
         Trying to find the heartbeat was useless, it might not have one. When he tried to listen, all he could hear was a muted throbbing, but that might have been the background of nature itself, the pulse of water through the roots of plants, the murmur of things growing. The trick to being a mindbender, he had discovered, was not perfecting the act of listening so much as figuring out how to filter ninety percent of the crap that kept reaching your senses. Once you did that, what was left had to be important.
         Tolin wasn’t hearing anything. A voice nagging him in the back of his head said not to get any closer. Curiosity tugged at him, moreso than usual. It was probably faking, if it were alive at all. He should just drop a house on it just to be sure, drop a house and be done with it. He had far more important things to be doing than wasting time here. Prescotte might wake up at any moment and come looking for him as well. The situation was still all too fluid. He had no desire to focus on more than one battle at once. This had to be ended now. He couldn’t let it get out of control, not when he clearly had the upper hand.
         He had been venturing forward only slightly as these thoughts ran through his head. By this point he was perhaps four feet away. A safe distance, he figured. Plenty of time to react. The alien wasn’t moving anyway. Even the blood had appeared to have ceased flowing from its wounds. Covered in dust, it seemed more of a sculpture, carved and abandoned by an uncaring artist, its true meaning forever lost, if it ever had any to begin with. Time destroyed all the monuments, all the works of man. Tolin would destroy this being and it would trouble him no more.
         In the midst of pondering this, a strange thing happened.
         In a sudden, gracefully ungainly motion, the alien uncurled and lunged for him, one hand outstretched.
         It took didn’t occur to Tolin for almost an entire second what exactly was happening. When it did, his first instinct was to step back. He tried to reach out for something, but there was nothing around. They were in a clearing, perhaps the town square. All around him were quiet houses, all too distant, windows like blank eyes staring without mockery or judgement. The alien’s hand was around his head now, thick fingers wrapping around his face.
         How the hell did it-
         Its eyes were stained with grey now and there was a cut slashed diagonally across its face, the vibrant violence of its color standing out in contrast to the muted hues of the rest of its face. The seconds were passing by in a slow blur. With a grimace of pain Tolin felt a crushing pressure catching hold of his head. It forced him to his knees, his hands clutching helplessly at the creature’s massive arm. It loomed over him like a malevolent satellite, come to ground from the heavens with a purpose all its own. Tolin stared right into those eyes and found nothing human there at all. It was not comforting.
         “I . . . am not a . . . fighter . . . a warrior . . .” it said, its voice a bell buried far underground, tuned to the wrong key. It smelled of exotic blood and the thinning air on the edge of space. “I do not . . . know of . . . these things.” Tolin’s vision was broken by organic bars, flares of purest red dotting his vision, fading into a deeper black. How long had this taken? Why couldn’t he breathe? “But I know of . . . mindbenders and . . . I know how . . .” it paused, seeming to gasp for air. It may have been laughing. Or crying. Or none of those things. It may not have made any such noise at all.
         Let me go. What are you going to do? Let me go. The words couldn’t reach his lips. Somewhere there was a disconnect. Something was wrong.
         “I know . . . that no . . . matter what your . . . abilities . . . it all . . . derives from the same . . . place . . .” the pressure increased again, splashing streaks of jagged color across Tolin’s now diminishing vision. Why couldn’t he think straight? What was going on? “And since . . . I am . . . no . . . warrior, perhaps . . .” it paused again and Tolin’s head trembled in time with the alien’s arm. “Perhaps you . . . you can tell . . . me what . . . what will happen . . . when I . . . close my . . . fist.”
         It’s going to kill me. The thought was a dagger to his growing confusion and the world snapped abruptly back into focus. All too well, Tolin understood what was about to happen. Suddenly it became even harder to breathe and his arms began to flail even more violently, trying to push away the alien before it was able to complete its task of killing him. The pressure on his head was unrelenting now and darkness was beginning to eat away at the edges of his awareness, taking larger bites with each passing second. Perhaps the alien was still speaking. The roaring in his ears might be its voice. But he couldn’t tell.
         I won’t die . . . not here, not while-
         There was always a defense. Even this thing managed to crack open his skull and lay out his brains to the cool night air, he would not be defenseless. Silently, involuntarily, Tolin opened his mouth to scream, doing his best not to clutch at the thing’s hand, trying not to pry it off. He had more dignity than that. His hands were inches away from its fingers now. He was failing. He would not die like this. Its skin was rough, a dry and dirty kind of scaly. It felt like nothing else. It was going to kill him. Not here. His wife would never know. I will not die here.
         He had nothing else left. He had nothing.
         There was only one thing for Tolin to do.
         I . . . will not . . .
         He pressed his hands into the alien’s skin and, with a mad surge of strength, set its entire arm on fire.
         It released him with barely a sound as the air in front of him became suddenly superheated. His lungs protested every welcome breath as a mix of cold and hot air rushed into his face, singeing his skin, laying seeds for future blisters. The huge appendage whipped ahead of him, coming inches from striking him in the face, a casual blow that had the potential to break every bone it touched. Tolin tumbled backwards, coughing a haze of smoke out of his chest, a headache hammering at the edges of his brain. He landed on his side, facing away from it, not wanting to move. His head ached. He couldn’t hear the crackling of a fire anymore. It might be coming for him. He had to move.
         Rolling to his feet, his vision doubled, cleared and he became aware of the alien again. It had barely moved. There were some stray licks of flame still dancing here and there on its arm. Of course. If there is nothing to burn, a fire has nothing to feed on. The arm was still dangling limply, fingers nearly brushing the soil. Char marks decorated it like decadent traces of soot lipstick. It was just staring at him now, back on one knee. If it was casting shadows, the tip would have nearly reached Tolin. He wished it had a human face. He wanted to know what it was thinking. He wanted to know that it understood despair, and loss, and futility, just like any other human. He wanted it to know it was going to lose, without a doubt.
         But the alien only looked at him again, with its opaque gaze. The clinging night was no buffer here. “It occurs to me . . .” the alien said, sounding almost puzzled, “that to prevent further . . . harm to myself and others . . . I will have to . . . kill you.” The voice carried effortlessly across the gap, striking him right in the base of his spine, sending chills up the vertebrae in a fashion he thought he had long outgrown.
         “Come and get me,” Tolin said carelessly, his sudden mad grin a perfect match. He could feel a subtle vibration through his fingertips where they barely made contact with the ground. Stay right there, pal. Just stay right there. Keeping it all together, that was the hardest part.
         The alien cocked his insect-like head to the side, as if Tolin had said nothing. “But I must confess . . . I do not think . . . I know how to . . . accomplish . . . that.”
         The night turned a darker shade of black.
         “Pity,” Tolin spat out as he flung himself backwards, releasing an invisible grip, already hearing the whistle split the air.
         From its place hovering directly above Tritan’s head, the house plummeted with devastating speed to earth.

* * * * *

         “You don’t have to go. You have to realize, child, that there is no force that exists in this Universe that can exert its will upon you. Not without your consent.”
         “You’re wrong. She can make me. She’s doing it now. She’s making her will my consent. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
         “You will find that is not the case. Merely assert yourself and you will see. I beg you to do it sooner rather than later.”
         “It doesn’t matter. No. It doesn’t. I made a promise. I did. And I don’t break those promises, no matter what the reasons.”
         “Even vows made under duress?”
         “It . . . it wasn’t . . . I wasn’t coerced. I wasn’t.”
         “You . . . very well. Very well. You have made your decision then. But please, I advise you, do not go through with it.”
         “That’s not how it is. That’s not how you do it. You taught me that. I won’t be stopped now.”
         “Apparently not. Well, then, I pray I have taught you enough. But not enough for you to succeed.”
         “It’ll be okay. Really. It’ll all be fine.”
         “Do not go.”
         “I have to. Don’t ask me again. Please . . . don’t.”
         “Then go, before I do. Otherwise you will have to silence me.”
         “Please just . . . quiet . . . oh, just . . . don’t say anything . . . just . . . . I’m going. Now. I’m leaving.”
         “Then I cannot stop you.”
         “But I’ll . . . you have a plan, right? You said, once, that you . . .”
         “I thought I did. But I am not so sure, now. I do not know.”
         “Oh . . . oh my God.”

* * * * *

         The structure of the house was no match for gravity’s merciless punch. The house shattered upon impact, the walls folding in upon themselves, the roof still racing for the ground even after the rest of the house had already come to rest. Dirt and shards of rock were thrown into the air like vomit, falling down like a ragged rain upon the abused earth. Tolin felt the sting of a dozen cuts slicing neatly into his skin, the aura of his shield not enough to keep out their dread velocity. He did his best to ignore the pain, propelling himself out of harm’s way as best he could, the ground rushing past in a grainy blur, his feet hardly touching anything solid. A row of houses ahead brought his flight to an abrupt halt and he skidded sideways to stop his passage, throwing up a cloud of dirt as he did, feeling the soil grinding into his skin where it touched the ground.
         Turning around, all he spied was desolation. The night was suffused with dirt, the clouds forming obscure shapes in the air, only broken by the odd shaft of moonlight stabbing down. The aftermath of the fall was only the barest brush of a wave of muted thunder, settling over the area much like the dust itself. Before him, the house was dissolving in slow-motion, folding in upon itself.
         I should have done that earlier, was the first coherent thought that came to Tolin’s mind. He felt physically weary, his shoulder throbbing again, perhaps even bleeding. He had not thought himself capable of such an act. But now that he had proven the point, he felt as if he had someone used ever underdeveloped muscle in his body. His heart still raced, and he was unable to quiet his pulse. All he wished to do was sit down and sleep for an entire day. He needed to get back to his house, to his wife and family, forget about aliens and myths and all this madness that kept threatening to disrupt everything he had ever strived for. He was done breaking things. Was he the only one who saw what kind of madness this was leading everyone into. This village, depopulated, Maleth scheming like an assassin, Valreck withdrawn and perhaps insane. They had never been much of a group to begin with and maybe it had taken these events to show the cracks that had always existed but this went beyond mere fragmentation into an outright schism. But frankly, Tolin didn’t care. All he wanted was to live his life. He was tired of bodies and tired of blood, his and others’. The way out that Mandras had offered was only another trap, one that they had barely escaped. Now he was done with Mandras and done with Valreck and the rest. It was over. The crushed bulk of the house before him was the marker of his last battlefield. His wars were over. No more. No more.
         “Dammit, I’ll probably have to sleep here tonight,” he muttered acidly, not pleased at the thought of spending the night in a dead man’s bed, which is all these houses were, symbolic tombs. But he didn’t have the strength yet for a teleport and there was no telling how long it would take to regain it. Best to sleep it off. It certainly beat walking.
         It occurred to him that he had to take care of Prescotte as well before he could call it a night. The other man was no doubt still unconscious. Slitting his throat would be an easy enough task. Tolin was up to that. It would be good to finally do away with that murderous madman. Tolin remembered how Prescotte had handled the kid in the seconds before his arrival. For a second, Tolin had been fairly sure that Prescotte truly was going to stab him. The man was clearly capable of anything. They’d all be a lot safer with him dead. He would have to deal with him quickly. The quicker the better.
         Various rumblings still punctuated the air as the rubble of the former house settled into its new configuration. It was all about change. If he hadn’t destroyed the house the elements would have done so, in a thousand years, in a million years. Everything ended in nothing, as far as he could tell. It made life a joke, because if you extrapolated everything out far enough, it ended in decay and even decay itself eventually ended when there was nothing left to break down. That was why destiny had appealed to him, when put in Mandras’ terms. The sense that nothing ever really had to end, that it could continue in some fashion forever, stretching toward an infinite point that it would never reach. He couldn’t help but want that in some fashion. And maybe it was possible. But not through Mandras, not through what he represented. He was stagnation as much as anything else and while he may have prolonged the path to the inevitable breakdown, he failed to change the road or alter the outcome one bit. Tolin knew that, as much as he knew anything else.
         “But . . . in the end . . . what you do really . . . know?”
         Eyes wide, Tolin spun around. The voice had come from the air itself, the dense cadence instantly familiar. No. The smoke still boiled and whirled before him, and for a second he thought the maelstrom personified a face. But no, it was a trick of the dark, of his tired eyes. He was hearing things. This day had gone on for too long. He had to get out of here. Just leave.
         “You couldn’t . . . know . . . that my people . . . live in group isolation . . .”
         Staring at something too long caused the brain to concoct images to satisfy the curious spirit. There was a darker shape moving within the darkness. This night was dead. Not all the daggers still left in his possession could further kill it. Why was it still moving?
         “. . . separated by depthless space, clinging to our . . . homes like cowering . . . beasts . . . but communication . . . contact must . . . endure . . .”
         Growing larger now. He should run. This wasn’t happening.
         “. . . and we learned . . . my people . . . we learned how to move between . . . to dance upon the currents . . . of air . . . to find each . . . other across . . . the distances . . .”
         The smoke swirled, parted. It was broken, it had to be. But it was still moving. What were these things coming down upon them tonight? The air was soaked with madness. Tolin didn’t dare blink. When you looked away from the myth, that’s when it found you.
         “. . . and we are . . . taught these things from the . . . earliest moments because . . . it is a way to . . . release and forget the bonds . . . of our prison, our . . . home . . .”
         Are you saying I can’t kill you? Is that it?
         “. . . and no matter where I am . . . the rule to the dance . . . is always . . . always the same . . .”
         Limping heavily, the alien emerged from the wreckage.
         “. . . find the current . . . and step out of the . . . way . . .”
         “Bastard,” Tolin hissed, feeling the latent agony in his muscles even before he started moving. “Stay dead, you bastard . . .” he snarled, starting to run, his feet making rapid thuds upon the hard ground. The alien was clearly hurt, its entire body now covered in dirt and grime, streaked with dried blood. There were marks across its huge eyes that might have been wounds. One arm appeared to be completely useless and its footsteps were heavy, lacking any sort of grace. It never had any. It was no warrior. It had said so itself. But it survived. And that was no good at all.
         The alien was still moving when he reached it. Leaping into the air, he concentrated, hardening his hand, imagining his fingers as a single sharp brick. His feet left the ground and he flung himself at the creature, flying over its shoulder. His right hand darted out, catching it right at the throat. The too dry sandpaper of its skin sliced into his hand, but he felt something buckle under the blow. The alien staggered, a hand flailing out to grab him, catching nothing even as Tolin landed none too delicately behind it. He staggered too, aware of how heavily he was breathing, of the weakness in his limbs.
         “This is how we do it, then,” he rasped. “If tricks don’t work, we’ll do it this way. Bit by bit.”
         He darted forward again, his fist streaking in far too fast to be seen properly, catching it right in the chest, again feeling a crunch, his hand coming streaked in blood that wasn’t his. No, some of it was. The fire of the strike lanced up his arm. Some of his knuckles were broken. But he couldn’t stop. The alien was still speaking to him. Its words might as well have been smoke, floating away and dissolving, unable to cling to him. He circled around again, trying to pick the next spot. A knee this time, to bring it down. Right where the wound was. With a weakness there he could break the leg completely. Then the fight was his.
         Tolin moved in again, the rattle of his ragged breathing sounding loud in his ears, overpowering all other noise. Around him, the night was a dark smear, the alien a mobile pillar falling out of solution, precipitating into something he could destroy. Solidity appealed to him immensely, of all the states of matter. Liquids and gases couldn’t be broken, only dispersed. But solids could be changed and in that changing alter them forever. Life into death. Such a fragile switch. The barest motion can bring it all crashing down. He would kill this thing and that was all that mattered. He raced forward, his hand a dagger, a rapier, an instrument designed to pierce right to the heart, to find the soft insides and poison it all.
         Focused, he never saw the hand coming.
         It was a glancing shot, merely a swat, done out of desperation. The alien was swaying, barely standing, moving its one good arm around in an attempt to keep Tolin back. But it connected. Once. That’s all it needed. The world twisted sideways in a haze of red and black. Tolin heard more than felt part of his face break, and his shoulder burst into an explosion of agony as he bounced off the alien’s side, his momentum awry, all his direction gone. The ground beckoned, met him and he rolled for some distance, aware that the world was now nothing more than constantly descending glittering fragments of pain. The alien was somewhere, coming for him. He had to get to his feet. He had to move. It was just a lucky shot. That’s all it was. That’s all. He had to get up.
         “Move, move,” he demanded of himself. He couldn’t sense the alien anywhere around. But it didn’t matter. It would find him. All it needed to do was step on his damn head if he didn’t get up. “Come on,” he nearly screamed at his unwilling limbs. “Come on . . .”
         It was then that he heard it.
         “Tritan!”
         That voice.
         Oh damn. Oh no.
         Prescotte had woken up.
         He managed to pick his head up just in time to see Prescotte dashing out of the darkness, his sword already drawn. He was clearly running, growing closer with each second. Any moment and he would be upon them. His anger was a flare in the night, staining everything it touched. Perhaps he was shouting other things, but Tolin couldn’t hear properly. Looking down, he tried to blend into the dirt, to avoid being seen. The smoke would cover him. He was invisible. Prescotte would go to the alien and leave him be. He would. There was just no point.
         Footsteps sounded nearer, all too close. The air suddenly smelled of something coarse and raw, of human sweat and the sick stench of anger. It was being filtered through his brain and he couldn’t keep it out. Tolin’s face felt misshapen, swelling with each pulse of his heart. He was invisible. It was all a state of mind.
         Someone drew in a sharp breath, right above him. It might have been a laugh.
         Tolin looked up just in time for Prescotte’s boot to slam into his face.

* * * * *

         In the tent he would find the end of the story, but not the story itself. This cramped interior could not contain the entire sprawl of a life, of the events and decisions that led up to a certain event, even if that event itself was marked with a grim finality.
         It was smaller than he remembered. Perhaps the dream made it that way. How much it truly reflected reality was up for debate. But Valreck had no time for philosophical musings. He had no time at all anymore. His stomach was churning with a dry growl and if he didn’t focus properly his vision would begin to blur and threaten to go out of focus completely. He suspected Baress was beginning to slip. There was no telling how much longer he would last in this state.
         Kilun sat before him. He tried to meet his friend’s gaze, not caring how useless the gesture was. Perhaps somehow, if Time was nothing more than a series of overlapping events, all occurring simultaneously, his friend would sense his presence, so far from his last moments and draw some measure of comfort. It was unlikely, but Valreck pretended it was possible anyway. His head felt light, as he tried to brace himself to witness an execution. But maybe it didn’t happen that way. Perhaps there was a different explanation. Perhaps.
         Before him, Time snarled forward. With a detached eye, desperately trying not to feel anything, he watched his friend drop to his knees, his shoulders shaking and covering his face with his hands.
         “Lords,” he whispered, his voice a broken, whispery thing, “what do I do? I know what he wants . . .” and Valreck winced at the naked regret in those words, “but I cannot do it. I cannot. What am I to do? What?”
         The words would never reach the outside of the tent. Valreck remembered the last night clearly now, the last discussion, the last argument. The last time he had tried to cajole his friend into joining them, reminding him that time ran short, that every second they remained only hastened the chance of something terrible happening. But Kilun had refused again, and the two of them replayed the same old points, neither gaining any new ground, too entrenched in their respective positions to truly hope to convince the other. Kilun had laughed and said Valreck worried too much, that the cause was sound and in the end a thing of beauty would be created, a thing that would emanate from the center of them all.
         And Valreck had said to him, less a plea than a pronouncement, Then you shall die here, if you stay. But I will not give up the lives of the others because you continue to blind yourself. We leave tomorrow.
         With that he had turned away and by the time he had looked again, Kilun had departed, already beginning his fateful walk to his tent. At the time his friend had given no indication that Valreck’s words had affected him so but Valreck had meant them. More and more he had become convinced that events were about to implode and that staying exposing themselves to a danger they might not survive. He had prayed that Kilun might make it safely through whatever was about to transpire, but Valreck knew that there was no more he could do. That night he had been ready. Kilun’s disappearance had only reinforced it.
         But now he needed to see.
         Kilun sat only inches away from him, silent now, lost in his own emotions. What truly went through your mind, in those last moments, Valreck wondered. Did you doubt just a bit, even then? Finally isolated, would you have come? Less than an arm’s length away, Valreck restrained himself from touching his friend, reminding himself that nothing was truly real here, only a reflection, less than a copy, a vision seen backwards in a lake, having no more substance, no more viability than a sketch done blind. It was a painting of a picture half remembered by a mind that had not been there. Whatever Baress was tapped into, it was not Time itself, but a flickering collective memory, jackknifing through the quiet unconscious, replaying the event over and over without even coming to a resolution.
         “I don’t know what to do . . .” Kilun whispered, sounding lost. He hugged himself loosely, shivering as if cold. Something about the voice didn’t sound right. It had to be his imagination. “I don’t know what to . . .”
         Kilun stopped.
         Memory rippled.
         “You-“ he mouthed, hardly saying the word, his eyes widening suddenly. For a moment Valreck thought the other man was staring directly at him. But no, his gaze was reaching past and upwards. Someone was behind Valreck. Someone else was there.
         Kilun had fallen silent now, eyes not as wide. His stance had relaxed slightly as he rocked back on his heels. There might have been another shadow inside the tent but in this desolate darkness it was impossible to tell for certain.
         “I will not die here,” came a whisper.
         “No, I will,” Kilun replied, and it wasn’t his voice.
         A shadow reached out, a hand glittered, sharp as gauzy diamonds. Nothing ever touched. Valreck felt his pulse quicken, clench, threaten to stop completely. No. No! He tore his eyes away, unable to watch. Who was here? Who was it? He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, to confirm what he had always suspected. Murder was not a word that came easily to him.
         It happened so quickly that it might have been nothing at all.
         Before him, Kilun sighed, his eyes losing focus. His body relaxed deeper and with a sickness stabbing into his gut, Valreck saw the light go out in his friend’s face, the slow motion slumping of his shoulders, the way his body flopped forward, a tree sliding down, its insides liquified.
         No. His throat was dry. It’s already happened. The statement meant nothing.
         The descent was unimpeded. Kilun made no effort to resist. He had no ability to anymore.
         No. Valreck tried to back away, horrified by the spectacle. Who did this to you? Who did this?
         Face down, Kilun hit the floor heavily, all strength in his body departed. He did not move. Valreck knew he would not again. It didn’t matter. It was over. The deed was done.
         Who did this?
         The presence stepped past him, stepped over and in him, until their bodies were overlapping. Valreck needed to see the face. He needed to know who.
         Valreck swore he heard laughter, soft and sibilant, barely vibrating the air.
         “Who are you?” he whispered, backing up, involuntarily stepping on his friend’s body, trying not to notice how his foot went completely through. This is not real. But it did happen.
         The laughter burst, broke up, scattering like dry leaves all over the tent floor. Somehow it seemed louder in his head.
         “Who are you!” he screamed, finally spinning around completely and seeing the man crouching there in the tent for the first time. “Who are . . .”
         His sentence ended in a sharp intake of breath.
         “Why?” was the only word that came to his lips.
         But the word was a lie. Because he knew.
         He knew.

* * * * *

         Tolin’s shield had fallen down, his concentration had lapsed. That was the only possible reason. The impact of Prescotte’s foot created a crunch that he felt all the way at the base of his spine, sending him toppling backwards, deeper into the clouds of dust still lingering like silent spectators, watching the bloody melee unfold. His shoulders hit the ground first, jarring him, returning some of his senses to the present. Before him, Prescotte was a torch, searing the night, threatening to bring a fate down on him heavier than any simple home.
         It felt so comforting, to lie here on the ground, letting the blood leak out of him, wash over his skin, strangely cool in the night air. Distantly he heard footsteps again, and a nagging sense in the back of his head was telling him to do something.
         The whisper of the sword cutting the air was his only warning. Twisting away, he threw up his arm automatically, crafting a shield designed to blunt the sword’s impact. It only partially succeeded and the blade bit into his arm, sending a wave of pain snaking to his shoulder. He nearly bit his lip to keep from screaming and shoved Prescotte away with his free hand, turning away as he did so.
         But the other man did not relent. He was shouting at Tolin, but the words were indistinct, impossible to make out clearly. Through the dust encompassing the two of them now, Prescotte’s shape was hazy, his sword a dull shimmer in the dark. He was moving toward Tolin again, and Tolin wondered if this time Prescotte might actually kill him.
         Tolin didn’t want to let that happen. He had no intention of dying today. In the future, perhaps, but not today and not now. Leaping to his feet, ignoring the protests of his battered body, the numbness in his face, he flung himself at Prescotte, twisting his body and dancing inside the arc of the sword. His fingers tightened, lunged for Prescotte’s throat. The man managed to dance back a step, and the blow caught him squarely in the chest. He coughed and nearly dropped the sword, bringing his other arm up in a clumsy counterattack. Even so, Tolin was barely able to block it, the fist glancing off his injured shoulder and forcing him to fall toward Prescotte. The tip of the sword snapped up again, the point whipping across, landing a cut across his stomach, tracing a line of fire. Prescotte had moved back again, put some distance between them. His mouth was moving but Tolin couldn’t hear anything. There was no space for words. The sword stabbed out again, nearly impaling him. He dodged to the side, but Prescotte jumped out of reach, keeping the blade between them.
         Too much of an advantage, came his weary thought. Have to even it up. With what remained of his concentration, he pulled strands together, tied them up and flung them as far as he could.
         Prescotte’s arm jerked to the side and suddenly the sword went sailing some distance away, torn from his hand.
         But he only wasted a second, before barreling toward Tolin again, not giving the other man a chance to adjust to the new situation. Prescotte simply tackled Tolin this time, sending both of them crashing to the ground, Tolin coughing as the breath was knocked out of him. Up close he could see Prescotte clearer now, and the other man didn’t look good at all. His face was cut and bleeding and the purple tinge of a bruise was beginning to touch the side of his head, an infection slowly gaining hold. His breath rattled in Tolin’s head, uneven and labored and there was a definite stiffness in his movements. But it was his eyes that caught the majority of Tolin’s attention. His eyes were bloodshot and pained, but held tightly in there was a vicious kind of stamina, the type that walked hand in hand with death. The kind was that easily capable of murder.
         “I’m not so hard to kill, am I?” Prescotte screamed in his face, his voice a lumpy, gravelly thing. There was blood decorating the lower part of his face. Some of it was fresh. He tried to punch Tolin but his angle was poor and it had little effect. Even so, Tolin couldn’t wriggle out of the way. He needed a few seconds to get his mind together but it was trying to grab rainclouds, when you opened your hand all you had was moisture. “Not as easy as some farmer, or a kid, or a whole bunch of defenseless people, huh?” He tried to wrap his hands around Tolin’s throat, his fingers blunt and deadly. Tolin managed to get his hands and in between them and shove him away. Prescotte stumbled back and Tolin rolled to his feet.
         Breathing heavily, Prescotte stared back at him from one knee. “Not so easy . . .” he repeated again. “You’re fighting one of your own now . . . a soldier and . . .” he gave a ragged laugh, spitting as he did so. “We don’t die so quietly, or quickly. Right? You know that.” Then, getting to his feet, the motion clearly an effort, he added, “But it’s probably been a long time since you had a fight like this. Probably a long time since you had to work this hard.” Tolin didn’t even know where the alien was anymore. Somehow it didn’t distress him.
         “The hell . . . the hell with you people,” Tolin barked back, stumbling sideways and nearly falling down again. A few seconds. It’s all he needed. “I never wanted any of this . . .” he said, aware that he was shouting at the top of his lungs, shredding his voice. “We just wanted to be left alone, I just wanted to live my damn life! What the hell was wrong with that?”
         Prescotte spread his arms out, indicating the village, perhaps all the villages. “This is living your life?” he yelled in disbelief. “Is that what you call it? Doing whatever the hell you want, hurting anyone who gets in the way?”
         “It was fine!” Tolin shouted back, trying to gather energy to do something, finding himself only able to stir up the dust, even that felt like too much effort. He tried to locate Prescotte’s sword, but it was lost in the confusion. “We were fine! Until you bastards showed up, there was nothing wrong! Once we get rid of you, things will be normal again.” There was little bite in his words, but he believed them. These people had to be destroyed.
         Prescotte returned the taunt with a grin carved from something feral. “Buddy,” he said and somehow his voice carried across the strained distance, “you sure as hell picked the wrong people to screw with.”
         Then he darted forward.
         His hands came down on either side of Tolin’s head, boxing his ears. At the same time his knee came up, driving deep into Tolin’s stomach. He swore he felt a rib shift, even as he brought up an elbow and caught Prescotte square in the face, sending a splash of blood arcing from his mouth. It only made his grin wider somehow. A madman. He’s a madman.
         “You were at that camp,” Prescotte rasped, punching Tolin two, three times in the chest, knocking him backwards, sending them both back to the ground. Tolin gouged at his arms, digging deep, sending rivulets of blood dripping onto his hands, soaking into Tolin’s clothes, marking them both with arcane tattoos. “The camp with the rest of the damn mindbenders, I know you were . . . and you want to know something . . .” he pressed his face uncomfortably close to Tolin, the copper tinted stench of his breath washing over him, “we were the ones chasing you, the ones all you bastards were afraid of. That was us.” Each of his words was punctuated with a grunt as he strove to batter Tolin into oblivion. “We’re . . . we’re not the . . . Time Patrol,” he gasped, shifting his weight and trying to keep his balance as Tolin lifted himself up, sending them both toppling to the side, grappling with each other, each trying to gain advantage over the other. “We’re the guys they send in . . . when the Time Patrol can’t handle it . . .”
         “Shut up!” Tolin snarled, doing his best to snap Prescotte’s neck or burst his heart or anything that would end the fight. But Prescotte resisted all his efforts, hitting Tolin directly in the face, the subsequent wave of agony nearly sending him crashing into unconsciousness. The man’s grin had deepened into a grim smile of determination. He would have to kill Prescotte for certain, Tolin realized, or the man would never let go. “Why don’t you-“
         ”That’s right,” Prescotte said, his voice utterly calm, punching Tolin once, twice, three times in rapid succession, not bothering to stop even as Tolin did his best to defend himself. Blood splattered the air, fine droplets evaporating before they struck the ground, the world becoming a disjointed haze. Prescotte might have still been speaking to him but the words were disconnected from the world itself, not linked to anything, floating aimlessly, looking for a sort of relevance he couldn’t muster anymore. “Any one of us could take you down . . .”
         “Stop . . .” Tolin muttered to no one at all, the world oddly dim. He was aware that he was either floating, or being held up. Prescotte breathing rattled savagely all around, almost a cushion for him to settle into. But all he needed was a second of concentration.
         Prescotte laughed suddenly, a harsh sound, tearing through the otherwise quiet night. “That . . . that guy you just fought, he’s . . . you know what, he’s just a scholar, he’s never . . . he’s never been in a fight in his entire life, he has no . . . idea . . . and he still . . . he . . .” someone was shaking him. But that didn’t make sense. He was already awake. “Just look at you . . . look at what he did to you. Just look at . . .” Prescotte broke off, sighed. “Ah, the hell with it . . .”
         And to his surprise, Tolin found all the ropes holding him up somehow gone and without warning he began the long descent to the ground, the air whistling in his ears. It felt somehow peaceful, the dirt reaching up to kiss his back. Prescotte was gone. Nowhere in sight now. Tolin could rest. He had done what he could and it was over. He was done now. Done.
         The ground was there, looming now. He would barely feel the impact.
         But it was okay. Everything was all right. It was okay. His conscience was clear. No. No, it wasn’t. That was what was bringing him down. The things left unsaid. The things left undone. The things never admitted. He had to tell someone. Because, in the end, it would keep it from hurting as much.
         His cracked lips parted, he tasted blood one last time.
         “I did it,” came a whisper that might have been his. There. Over now. That was all. It was over. “It was me.”
         And he said no more.

* * * * *

         He wouldn’t look at her, of course. How could he look her in the eye, knowing that he’d lost, that no matter how highly he thought of his own skills, he’d been utterly outmaneuvered, his defeat total, his fall absolute.
         “She’s gone now, Ranos,” Maleth said to the man sitting on her couch. Ranos stared straight ahead, not saying anything at all, his face studied and pensive. Perhaps he was trying to think of another futile plan with which to thwart her. Foolish. How very foolish of him. “I’m sure you noticed that she’s left, to do my bidding, to carry out my will.”
         Maleth paced before him, leaning on her cane and staring at him, seeing the tired lines etched into his eyes. It wouldn’t be long now before he broke completely and be hers as well. Soon, Valreck would be gone, and the Time Patrol soldier and Ranos and then she would have no worries.
         “I heard you arguing with her, before she left, Ranos,” Maleth said to him, unable to keep the smile from her face. “I heard you trying to convince her. But you failed, eh? In the end, all the influence you thought you had over her was nothing.” She suppressed the desire to laugh in his face, thinking it lacking in dignity. But it was certainly tempting, especially as he sat there, looking completely shocked, out of his element.
         “She’ll kill him for me, then read the good Commander and when she’s all finished, I’ll have her kill you, dear Ranos . . .” Maleth said smugly. “How does that sound? Is that at all the way you thought this would turn out?”
         The smile threatened to split her face in two. Ranos’ didn’t react at all, so complete was his withdrawal. “Probably not, but you should have seen it coming, Ranos. No matter how much power you think you have, dear, if you lack the proper experience, it means nothing at all. And right from the start, I’ve had things exactly how I want them. Right from the start.”
         Leaning forward, she hissed, “I know how it started and I’ll control how it ends. Can you claim the same, Ranos? I think not. No, I don’t think so at all.”

* * * * *

         His entire body felt misshapen, swollen with pain. Prescotte stumbled away from the scene of the fight, barely to keep his feet, momentum carrying him along as much as anything else. Behind him, Tolin lay unmoving, slowly becoming lost as the dust drifted over him. Prescotte didn’t think he was dead but he didn’t have the strength to kill him. Maybe with his sword. But he didn’t have that now. He barely had the ability to stay conscious. Lot of good you are, he berated himself. First the bastard gets the drop on you, then he nearly kills you and your friend. If not for Tritan-
         He found Tritan then, sprawled limply on the ground. Prescotte nearly tripped over the Slashtir. Tritan was on his hands and knees, head bowed as if he were about to vomit.
         “Tritan, hey, are you-“ he said, kneeling down to get a better look at the Slashtir, the motion sending a wave of dizziness through him. No damn good, he thought angrily, shoving the sensation away, tucking it away with all the other pain, trying to keep himself numb. It was the best way, though he’d pay for it later.
         “Friend Prescotte, I . . .” the Slashtir gasped, his voice strangely distorted and thick. Prescotte tried to stop him from speaking but didn’t know how. Tritan didn’t look well at all, hurt worse than he’d ever seen him. He lifted his hands from the Slashtir’s shoulders. They came away slick with blood. The Slashtir was trembling weakly, constantly shuddering. “I tried to fight him . . . but I . . . I do not think I did . . . very well . . .”
         Prescotte looked at Tritan for a second and laughed. “Tritan,” he said, grabbing the Slashtir’s arm, “he dropped a damn house on you and you still beat the hell out of him. You did all right . . .” Patting the Slashtir gently, he added quietly, rocking back on his heels, “Yeah, you did fine . . .” He couldn’t see Tolin’s body at all now. He wondered if the man was even still there. Damn teleporters. One day I’ll figure out how to do it.
         Tritan lifted his head to look at him, then, and his face was a wreck, one eye indented and bleeding, almost split, the rest of his face a mess of slashes and dried blood. Somehow it made him look more human than before. Probably because he looks uglier, Prescotte thought wryly. “You are . . . kind, friend Prescotte, your words are very . . .” The words were clearly an effort.
         Abruptly, the Slashtir gave a sort of sigh and slumped completely to the ground, his body shuddering one more time before becoming still. Prescotte leaned forward, alarmed, but Tritan sighed again and it was clear he was still breathing. “You’ll be all right, pal,” he whispered to his friend, bowing his head and trying to fight off another wave of weariness. “You’ll see. We’ll be all right. You did good, you saved us both. We’re going to be just fine.” He ran both hands through his hair, tracking blood and sweat through the tangled strands. “It takes more than this to keep us down, right, Tritan. It takes more . . .”
         Looking at Tritan, he appeared about to say something else. Instead he let his hands drop into his lap. He stared at his fallen friend for another long minute, his face unreadable. Then, grunting painfully, he stood up, making his way through the sea of night and haze to find his sword. Beaten and battered as they were, this wasn’t done yet. He found the sword and hefted it, feeling its familiar weight. No, this wasn’t over at all.
         Face set, he went back to finish what he had started.
         In the end, he wasn’t surprised at all to find Tolin gone.

* * * * *

         “So this is how it will go, Ranos,” Maleth told him. Still he refused to look directly at her. “Your friends in disarray, your plans in tatters and with nowhere for any of you to go. I bet you didn’t think you would meet your end in this place, at the hands of one like me, did you?” He didn’t answer her of course. No doubt the question had never occurred to him. No doubt its implications shook him to the very core.
         “But now that it is clear that you will,” she continued, “I want to make sure you know how badly you were defeated here, how effortlessly you were outclassed. Can you do that, Ranos? Can you accept that which you could never conceive of?” The man’s eyes never shifted whatever distant point he was contemplating. It was beginning to get irritating. Time to put a stop to it.
         “Well?” she asked, her voice grating. “Can’t you tell me that one thing at least?” Still nothing. Very well. She would make him look at her at least and acknowledge her presence, acknowledge the one who forever shattered the careful myth he had crafted for himself. For all myths in their way were fiction and give life by belief and it took someone of unnatural strength to pierce them to their heart and discards all the fictions and show the myth for the hollow fabrication it truly was. That was what had done today. Mandras had been right about that at least. There was no longer any need for them. No need at all.
         “Well?” she asked again, louder this time. “You’ve never been silent before. Indulge me in this at least.” Still nothing. She had really had enough of this. “Why don’t you answer me, Ranos-“ One hand snaked out claw-like to grasp his chin and lift his eyes to her face, to look her once and for all in the eyes.
         But her hand passed right through his face.
         A second later Ranos vanished completely.
         Startled, Maleth took a step back, not sure what had just happened. He must have turned invisible. But he hadn’t. She knew that for sure. But what had he done?
         Looking around her big, empty house, Maleth said, “What is this all about, Ranos?”
         There was no answer, of course.
         “Ranos?” she called out, and the only voice she heard was her own.

* * * * *

         Valreck emerged from the tent almost haphazardly, gasping for breath, falling down into the sand and just sinking into it. It wasn’t real, he had to keep telling himself, as if the person in the tent was going to come after him next. Around him were statues, people strewn around randomly, frozen in whatever activity they were about to engage in, no more alive than a museum exhibit.
         Bowing his head, Valreck took several deep breaths, trying to get his bearings, trying to regain his composure. It wasn’t easy. His pulse was thundering in his ears and the world was compressing the edge of his vision. This was mad. What he just saw was mad. It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. Distantly he occurred to him that he should go back in the tent and see what happened to the body, since it was never found. It must have disposed of somehow. But it really didn’t matter anymore, somehow. He knew enough. He didn’t wish to know anymore.
         I have to speak with him, for certain, Valreck thought darkly. And he will tell me, whether he wishes to or not. He will tell me everything he knows.
         He was about to stand up when the world suddenly bucked, the scenery splitting, falling apart in different directions, nearly taking him with it. Gritting his teeth, Valreck kept himself together, aware of a groaning roar rattling in the center of his bones. Something was wrong. He had been in here too long, let himself get distracted.
         The world jumped again, the figures become wavery, almost liquid. Behind him the tent turned into a neutral splotch of color. All its secrets were going to go with it. But Valreck couldn’t stay. This place, this dream was coming apart at the seams. If he lingered any more, the strands might strangle him before him he could make use of what he had learned. And that would do him no good at all.
         Relaxing, Valreck let himself slip back into the real world, letting the empty desert dissolve around him, feeling a tug of regret even as he did so. It was not real, but it was perhaps the last reminder he would have of the place he had once called home, of the cause he had once held dear, and the people who were alive no longer. Perhaps, for that brief time, some of them had lived again, in Baress’ head. Perhaps, that was enough. Maybe. But he couldn’t say. It wasn’t his place.
         His vision blurred, darkened and a second later the soft borders of the desert was replaced by the sharp contours of the room he was staying in. It took him a precious second to fully extricate himself from the dream and even when he moved a moment later he still felt that there was tatters clinging to him, pulling him back and trying to drag him back in.
         Before him, Baress was coughing, almost convulsing. At some point he had vomited and was nearly drowning in that fetid pool. Valreck quickly reached him, nose wrinkling at the stench. “What is wrong?” he asked the man quietly, a quick glance showing that his mind was nearly on fire, firing randomly, as if he were in a blind panic. “It’s okay,” he said soothingly, lifting the man away from the pool and trying to comfort him. He couldn’t stay here for long though, purpose blazed within him. Baress would have to wait if he didn’t recover soon.
         “Ah . . . ah . . .” the man babbled, his eyes wide and unseeing, his hand grasping at nothing. Valreck’s eyes narrowed. The effect shouldn’t have been this severe, something had gone wrong, something had happened. But what? “Ah . . .”
         “Do not fret,” Valreck said quietly, gently laying the man back on the ground. “You did well, Baress, and I truly do not need your assistance anymore-“
         Suddenly the man screamed, his entire body stiffening. Valreck winced as pain lanced through his head, tearing apart whatever thoughts he had been about to form. “What is . . .” he whispered, looking up sharply, even as Baress shielded his face from something that couldn’t be seen.
         Baress saw her first, actually. His frightened eyes focused on the doorway, and it took a few more seconds for Valreck to realize that someone was there. Slowly his gaze drifted in the direction of Baress’.
         He couldn’t see her face, because of the darkness. She stood in the doorway, and her mind was a sealed wall to him, unassailable and implacable.
         For some reason, Valreck felt distinctly unsettled, his stomach twisting itself into knots. Already it was becoming hard to think, something was exerting a dread pressure on him, an unrelenting force. Everything was becoming scrambled, wires firing out of sequence, making the wrong connections. This wasn’t right.
         “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely, finding the words purely by accident. I have no time for this.
         “Hello, Valreck,” and it was definitely a girl’s voice. There was no emotion in it at all. It wasn’t the oddest thing at all. No, somehow it was fitting. “I’ve come here to kill you,” the petite figure told him, and he had no doubt that it was true.