The wailing was louder and angrier on the subsequent journey. I let it follow me in a vague aural meander while considering what to do.
The Rein had to go back to the war zone. Hopefully soon. I didn’t know whatever ‘the Seven Scions’ were, but it seemed like the kind of local megafauna problem contributing to the end of that world he was destined to fix.
At the same time, Near Miss had sent a clear message by sending me there. And hiding out at the Chapel was just a bad idea. Which left other universes as interim measures where the Rein could heal and replenish.
I tried not to think about all the extra people who would die against the Scions. Wars happened all over the multiverse. Trillions of people died each day. The Chapel couldn’t save them all; we weren’t the gods we pretended to be. At least this way, by rescuing the Rein to battle another day, I could continue to give his universe a chance. These decisions were the responsibility of the House of Fate.
That was what I told myself.
In my travels, I’d earmarked a handful of universes for usefulness. I could drop my follower off at one and come back once my repairs were complete. After some deliberation, I led my howling accompaniment to a strong versal candidate, stepped back, and waited for him to enter.
He did not.
He must have realised it was the wrong one. I couldn’t argue with him in this state, so did my best to entice or compel him in, but he’d learnt since the last instance and frustrated me with evasion. The versal mists weren’t suited for confrontation, the primary language Reins knew how to speak. After the dance had gone on long enough to try my patience, I finally circled him into position and managed to back him in.
At the last second, he pulled me with him.
We came through onto soft, dew-kissed grass sparkling in fresh mountain air. The mountain part mostly came from memory, since everything beyond my furious companion was still cloaked in precarious fog-of-war.
He clamped his hands onto my side mirror as I revved my engine. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
The mirror came off in his hands. I floored it, carefully, all the way to a line of bumpy rocks and stalled, then transformed into this universe's Gear Shift: a beautiful hot-air balloon.
My balloon had holes in it. I leisurely rose about a handspan off the ground, caught on the rocks, and settled back down again unable to move.
“Curses,” I muttered as the Rein paced casually over, wings dragging sharp furrows into the grass, and clamped both hands down on one of my barriers.
“I am,” he enunciated clearly from within his helmet, “going to destroy you.”
Instead of following through, however, he stood there for about another ten seconds and eventually removed his hands.
I lowered my burners to conserve my remaining fuel other than the minimum required to speak. Thankfully Myrd was a highly magical universe, or I would have spent the rest of my days staring down the barrel of gradual decomposition out in the open somewhere on a mountainside.
“Somewhere around here there should be a monastery,” I informed him. “Shining pearlescent towers. Hard to miss. If you head there and claim sanctuary, they’ll be able to restore you to full vitality. It’s important you bring them here so they can also fix me.”
“Can we talk about the part where you didn’t listen and lied to me? Again? I’m aware this isn’t my world. I’m an old hat at this. I’m from Borth, motherfucker.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I declared.
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“Of course you have. Computers. Electricity.” He waved an impatient hand. “Tanks. How did you think I knew what an AI was? I have advanced knowledge and I’ve been around.”
I was in a position of dire vulnerability. I needed to let it go.
“I’m fairly sure the universe you were just in also knew about tanks,” I indicated.
“Because I introduced them to it.”
“How many universes do you think have tanks, exactly?” I pressed, a little more antagonistically than necessary. “They’re big hunks of moving protection; it’s not an unusual concept to come up with.”
“The point is,” he said, “I’m from Borth. I understand everything you’re saying. And if you need further evidence, I’m the fifteenth most intelligent entity on Stabula by official ranking of the Five Heavenly Thrones; slayer of the Mind Scion of the Demon Rifts.”
I wished I had eyes to narrow at him through all those words. “Okay,” I said eventually. “Here’s the situation. I work for the Chapel. We –” I paused for emphasis, “– are an interdimensional organisation tasked with the protection of every world in the multiverse, or at least the ones we can get to in time. You are one of our champions, and we need you to stay alive in order to save yours. That is, the horrific war-torn hellscape I dragged you from, not Borth. Are we on the same page?”
“We are,” he said in a suspicious tone.
“Good start.” Part of my railing fell off onto the grass. “What’s your name? Jay…?”
“Count Jarome Mindslayer, Crown Heir to –”
“Jarome, I need you to go to the monastery and find a repairer. I’m your only way off this world. Tell them the request is from the spirit of balloons.”
“So you make a habit of lying to everyone, then,” he noted with a snort, folding his arms. It set his suit off-balance. He staggered rearwards before manually digging one of the wings into the grass for back support, and tried again. “How noble.”
“Saving the universe is noble. What if I told you the Chapel foresaw your death to the Scions and sent me to put you back on track?”
“Well,” he said, sounding slightly mollified, “that sounds like a more sensible decision. Fine. I suppose I’ll be back.”
Thank Fate for that. I turned off my burners as Jarome turned, adjusted the wings, and backed up until he hit the border of my vision. His footfalls slowly faded.
I waited.
And continued waiting. I didn’t have any sense of how far the monastery was.
More of my railing followed the broken piece where I could watch it among the grass. I didn’t feel pain in my current shape, even though each minor disintegration filled me with a fresh spike of foreboding trepidation.
Myrd was a wonder of passive healing, but its aura didn’t work on the inanimate. It also took time. As I was now, I doubted my human form would last seconds.
Flurries of bright insects buzzed over the grass, walking up and exploring my basket. Light rain started to fall and drove them away. Prolonged, creaking warbles sounded occasionally in the distance. I contented myself with watching a different species of insect crawl parallel to each other along the line of rocks, traversing their terrain in neatly-spaced rows. Motes of visible magic occasionally built between their brush of antennae.
Others welled up from the turf every so often, tiny dots among the blades. Every faint breeze would dislodge more into the air. Several caught on me and attached in softly radiant drops, making me less of a black hole in the landscape.
When I could see it, Myrd glittered with ambient enchantment absorbed and regenerated by every living thing. Stumbling upon it for the first time, I’d been awestruck at its beauty, and every few months took a trip back to commit its location to memory.
Now, I fought with gnawing dread at each millimetre gradually disappearing from my vision, and realised I was just dying. Removing Jarome from the Chapel had been one risk too far, and now my entire continued existence relied on the word, haste and capability of an extremely dubious messenger. Possibly the Chapel would come for me, but it would be a first. Nor had I received a mission summons to be late from; there were no alarm bells to be rung.
Sunlight faded, highlighting the drifting motes. I waited. Another, heavier bout of rain fell, stayed for a couple of hours, and departed. A cluster of large worms indigenous to the area bumped up against the bottom of my basket, rattled around it a bit, and moved on.
By the time the sun rose, I’d lost another twenty centimetres.
Two more days passed, during which my hope and remaining sight faded. Only a fraction of a perimeter remained around the edge. I struggled to judge even the time of day anymore. Whatever Near Miss wanted from me – if it ever had – seemed doomed to remain opaque. That, or I’d accomplished its goal and it had no more use for me.
I couldn’t muster the will to be angry. If the Chapel had never found me, regardless of accidental status, I would have been sentenced to a probable short life anyway. Most of the multiverse bloomed and died in brief, erratic bursts, and that which didn’t was mostly down to luck and chance. Myrd was one of the few worlds exempt from this pattern, but even here, death was still known.
I wasn’t ready to go. But few people ever were.