Chapter 49 – Teller of Fate

Teller of Fate

Fifth Movement: The Power Under Glyph

Chapter Forty-Nine

* * *

They returned by ways none of them had used getting down, for which Dævara was relieved. The caves of the Underdwellers eventually gave way to the smooth, grey walls of the cellars of Glyph. There wasn’t any of the hand waving and incanting that Elian had done, either.

Dæv looked back just after they’d transitioned to more familiar stone and found no sign of the Orichalc the Underdwellers’ tunnels were made of, though they had been walking through them only steps before.

Ascending a final set of stairs, the group found themselves facing an ancient iron-strapped metal door.

Brad cranked a large wheel in the middle of the door. With a grinding of rusted metal, it creaked open.

A wave of shouts and the clash of metal on metal hammered Dævara’s ears. Brad reached around and pulled the leather thong, securing his axe to his back. Once free, he pulled it over his shoulder and gripped it in both hands. Dæv gripped her staff tightly, holding it across her chest.

The Templar led them through the small portico and into bedlam.

The alley was no more than eight feet wide and jammed with people. Dævara had thought the crowd would be fighting, but they were running to the right. After forcing a small space—an armed party usually had an advantage in that regard—the Templar led the group in the opposite direction.

By sticking close to the left side of the alley, they were able to make steady progress to an opening ahead, the beginning of a large street.

The rushing crowd thinned as they neared the mouth of the alley, Wyndham by name. The street was Culinaria Avenue, one of several in the Merchants Quarter famed for its al fresco dining. Some of the best cafés and bistros in Glyph lined this wide boulevard.

It looked to have been thoroughly trashed. Normally tables and chairs were filled with patrons of the finer street side foods to be had. Wreckage was all that could be seen. Windows were smashed, furniture in pieces. The whole mess scattered along the street. In neither direction could any sign of life be seen.

The sound of conflict could be heard in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the Plaza of Dying Suns.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Brad said. “This—” he swept his arm in an arc encompassing the street—“can’t happen.”

The woman Jane asked, “Why not?” She seemed not to be troubled by the sight. But she was a stranger here, Dæv reminded herself. The Pax Glyphica was not something with which she would be familiar.

Besides, most of Jane’s attention was still on her brother, John. Supported by the Miu, he was semi-conscious, still naked, and seemed only vaguely aware of anything.

It was her father who answered, “The Garda prevent conflict and keep the peace of this city. This riot has to mean something has happened to them.” He stopped for a moment, eyes on the air above where the Plaza had to lie. The Nonspace spheres were a deep blue for the most part; the air had a sense of twilight to it. For the first time in months, Dævara saw that the glowing strips along the sides of the building were alight.

“Considering this”—he waved at the mess of the street— “and that you were not probed before entering the city, I think we can assume the Garda are gone. That means the defense of the city must fall to the Guilds. Let’s see what they’ve made of the situation. Come.”

With that, he led them toward the Plaza.

The closer they got to it, the denser the crowds were. “These aren’t natives,” muttered Elian, beside her just then.

“I know,” Dæv answered. “They’re more refugees, I vow. How many more worlds destroyed?”

A flash of green to Dævara’s left drew her gaze. Three green heads clustered together on a side street.

One thought flashed in her mind. ‘Midgard? Ah, no!’ She reached out to Brad, ahead of her and grabbed his arm.

Turning, he asked, “What?”

She pointed to the three natives.

The rest of the group had stopped. “What’s wrong?” asked the Templar.

“We have to check something, we do.”  With no further explanation, she and Brad headed for the trio.

It took little time to force a path. None on this street were moving.

Dæv spoke a greeting in the language of Midgard’s natives. Only one head swivelled to look. The misery in their eyes confirmed the elf’s fears.

She came up on them and asked anyway.

She didn’t know them. They hadn’t known either Brad’s or her friends. Very few had escaped the planet’s death.

There was nothing to be done.

After futile expressions of grief and promises of help, should it be needed, Brad and Dæv left them to their sorrow.

Slowly, hand in hand, Dæv and Brad made their way back to the group, refusing all queries as to the meaning of their detour.

Dævara’s eyes weren’t the only pair shiny with tears.

* * *

By the time the low walls of the Plaza came in sight, the group was having to shove their way forward again.

Progress was slow now; they weren’t the only ones armed. It took half an hour to get to the edge of the plaza itself. The noise of conflict had stilled.

The crowds in the open space were noisier, smellier; many in the square seemed to have decided to live there. Tents and shacks made from junk that had to have been brought into the city made a ring around the edge of the plaza.

There were less people in the middle. A clear space around the Blaxstone statue contained only a few individuals. They were well-dressed and well-protected by the look of the heavily armed fighters surrounding them.

The troupe stopped moving just at the Merchant’s Entrance to the Plaza. The crowd was dense and unmoving in front of them. No matter the effort, the elf saw that only violence would get them any farther. The smell of unwashed bodies was eye-watering.

She saw her father, suddenly a foot taller than Brad, looking at the figures in the middle, then at the people in his way, then up into the middle heights of the city.

There was no mistaking those glows. Flame in the Magsmens Quarter. Someone was trying to fire the city.

The Templar seemed to lose patience. A white penumbra enveloped him. He leaned his body back and faced the sky. A low, howling scream blanketed the noise. There was a word in it, Dævara was sure, but she couldn’t identify it. The air itself pulsed to the rhythm of that cry; Dæv could feel it in her chest. After ten seconds, it was all that could be heard.

The silence that followed its cessation was so loud it buzzed in Dævara’s ears.

The Templar was the focus of every eye. Still bathed in white, he began to walk forward, now towering over the crowd.

Those in front of him moved aside, in some cases making sure no part of them, not even their clothing, touched him. The rest of the group followed, keeping to the aisle formed by his passage.

As he cleared the last of the refugees, Dæv’s father shrank until he as her height again, his glow fading.

A group of twenty or so people at the empty center of the Plaza of Dying Suns locked eyes with the members of the Templar’s approaching group. Expressions varied from gape-mouthed to scowling. By their dress, four of them were senior members of Glyph’s four guilds.

Into the stillness of the troupe’s approach, Dævara heard a Magsmens Guild leader say, “—right now. I want those fires out. Tell the section leaders: any who attempt to start more are to be killed on sight. Go.” Three thieves left at a run in the direction of the flickering glows.

Glyph’s other leaders were still staring at them.

Father spoke. “What’s happened to the Garda?”

Dæv recognized by reputation Trevorsayn the Black of the Mages Guild, the seniormost guild leader and de facto mayor of Glyph. It was he who responded, “We would know who addresses us, before we take him into our confidence.” At almost two centuries of age, he was the oldest Mage in guild history. His lean, tall body was not bent by time. Deep violet eyes gave one the impression they saw more than others could. Trevorsayn had neither hair nor beard. Both his robe and staff were black as night.

“You have only to look, mage, to know me.”

The taller man met the black-on-black eyes of Dæv’s father. In only took a moment. The archmage answered the Templar in a deferential tone, “The Garda vanished a day ago. We’ve not been able to determine why.”

“Was there any communication from them?”

“None has been reported. It’s possible, but we’re no longer seeking it.”

“Why? Knowing why the Garda abandoned their posts might give us a chance of repairing whatever damage has been caused. It could mean the salvation of the city.”

“There is the larger problem of survival to consider, now.”

“How is the problem bigger now?”

“I am sorry, I thought you were aware.” Trevorsayn pointed over the heads of the party.

They had all been caught up in the anarchy of the moment else they would have seen for themselves. The crowds extended along both the Street and the Avenue right to the gates.

Those gates were tightly shut.

— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026

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